The Garden Girls by Jessica R. Patch ~ Christian Psychological Thriller ~ @JessicaRPatch @partnersincr1me

THE GARDEN GIRLS

by Jessica R. Patch

June 24 - July 19, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

FBI: Strange Crimes Unit 

On a remote Outer Banks island, a serial killer collects his prized specimens. And to stop him, an FBI agent must confront his own twisted past.

FBI agent Tiberius Granger has seen his share of darkness. But a new case sets him on edge. It’s not just the macabre way both victims—found posed in front of lighthouses—are tattooed with flowers that match their names. There’s also the unsettling connection to the woman Ty once loved and to the shadowy cult they both risked everything to escape.

Bexley Hemmingway’s sister has gone missing, and she’ll do anything to find her—including teaming up with Ty. That may prove a mistake, and not just because Ty doesn’t know he’s the father of her teenaged son. It seems the killer is taunting Ty, drawing everyone close to him into deeper danger.

As the slashing winds and rain of a deadly hurricane approach the coast of North Carolina, the search leads Ty and Bex to an island that hides a grisly secret. But in his quest for the truth, Ty has ignored the fact that this time, he’s not just the hunter. Every move has been orchestrated by a killer into a perfect storm of terror, and they will need all their skills to survive…

Praise for The Garden Girls:

"A perfect storm of thrilling suspense and intricate plot twists that will leave readers breathless!"
~ Nancy Mehl, author of the Ryland & St. Clair series

"The Garden Girls by Jessica R. Patch is a hold-your-breath-and-pray novel full of suspense and unexpected twists. This gritty and compelling story is outstanding in every way. Highly recommended!"
~ Colleen Coble, USA Today bestselling author

"In a word, WOW! The story caught me up and didn’t let go to the final page. Tight action, beautiful pacing. **Highly Recommended**"
~ Carrie Stuart Parks, best-selling, award-winning author

"'Riveting!' Jessica R. Patch has created an immaculate psychological thriller that will leave the reader racing through the pages. Well-written characters and a plot that sizzles and crackles with danger made this story impossible for me to put down, and yet I didn’t want it to end. . .it’s that good. The Garden Girls will leave you breathless from the non-stop suspense filling the pages and wanting more from this amazing author"
~ USA Today Bestselling Author Mary Alford, author of Among the Innocent

"Buckle your seatbelt! Jessica R. Patch is about to blow you off the road with The Garden Girls. The story will grab you on the first page and won’t let go until The End!"
~ Patricia Bradley, USA Today Best-Selling romantic suspense author of Counter Attack Book 1 in the Pearl River Series

Book Details:

Genre: Christian Psychological Thriller
Published by: Love Inspired Trade
Publication Date: April 23, 2024
Number of Pages: 367
ISBN: 9781335463074 (ISBN10: 1335463070)
Series: FBI: Strange Crimes Unit, Book 3 || Each is a Stand-Alone Novel
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Harlequin | JessicaRPatch.com

Read an Excerpt:

Prologue

Sharp claws scrape along my neck.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Buzzing fills the room, and I strain to open my eyes but they’re like molasses, thick and sticky and slow-moving. My stomach jumps and the room shifts as my blurred vision registers red walls and coffee-colored concrete. I inhale a hint of bleach and incense with a spicy note as I shift to survey the rest of the room, but my muscles ripple like languid water.

The air-conditioner kicks on, and the cold air raises chills across my naked body.

I’m…naked. A fist squeezes my lungs as panic rips through my system. My memories are disjointed.

Where am I? How did I arrive here?

What is happening to me? What has already happened? Shoe soles click on the floor and silence my questions.

I am not alone. Or…I wasn’t. The door closes with a quiet click.

Get up. Move. Run!

Gripping the sides of a massage table, I roll off, and my bare feet hit cool flooring. The walls close in and shift, and my stomach roils. Something is wrong. Off.

Floor-to-ceiling mirrors cover an entire wall, and my breath catches as reality comes into view.

Pink flower buds wend through a vine of black along my neck and upper back.

Confusion clouds my senses, and I stand cemented in place gawking at the angry red skin, sore and tender and smeared with glossy petroleum jelly.

A tight knot grows in my throat, and tears stab with heated force against the backs of my eyes.

I have to get out of here.

Behind me, I spot a twin bed with luxurious sheets and a thick white comforter as well as tattooing equipment. My hands tremble. Am I in a tattoo parlor? Why is a bed in here?

Lying on the floor next to the bed is an old iron cuff attached to a thick, heavy chain that is anchored to the wall.

Why is that in here and where are my clothes?

I snatch the downy comforter and drape it over my exposed body.

Run. Run. Run!

I open the door but have no clue which way to go or where he is or how long until he finds and cuffs me to that bed.

I’ve been trapped before at the hands of a vicious predator. Old memories surface and spur me across the carpeted flooring. The hall veers left. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness as I flee to safety—no.

To a dead end.

Defeat leaches like muddy water into my soul, and my chest aches. The only choice is to turn around.

But he’s in that direction.

Sweat slicks down my temples and spine, springing up through my pores like an underground fountain as I return the way I came.

I see what might be a crack in the wall. Light seeps in from the other side. As I approach, I discover it’s a door made to look like part of the wall. I swallow hard and guide my fingers along the smooth wood until I feel a lever. I push it and the door releases, but it takes some grit to open it enough for me to slide through.

I expect some kind of lair or dungeon or God knows what—a wall with torture devices and cages—but it’s not.

It’s a living room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking dark water.

Where is he?

I suck in a breath as creaking registers on the stairs. There’s nowhere to hide, and the comforter is bulky and will easily give me away. I have no option but to ditch it in the corner. I can’t dwell on modesty.

Outside.

I dart toward the sliding glass door, silently slide it open and slip out into the warm night air before scrambling to the edge of the balcony. I crouch to make myself small, like when I was a child and needed to obscure myself.

Maybe he doesn’t realize I’m gone, but then it hits me.

I didn’t shut the secret door concealing the other rooms.

A sob bubbles to the surface as I shake uncontrollably like I’ve woken from anesthesia. The ground is far below me. I’d die or break my legs, maybe my spine. But I’d rather die than go back to that room.

To that chain.

To more tattoo needles.

To him.

I draw up my knees and wait, pray. Hope.

When the door doesn’t open, I scoot across the deck, the raw wood digging into tender flesh, but I need to see if the coast is clear.

What if he’s standing at the door, waiting? Watching?

I hear something and freeze.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi…I count silently until I reach Twenty Mississippi and scoot again.

I can’t be sure if he’s nearby. If he is, deep in the marrow of my bones, I know the kinds of things that await me. I know what evil men can do. I’ve seen it. Experienced it.

Finally, I muster the courage to peep through the door. The room is empty and dimly lit from the one glowing lamp. I creep inside; my brain is fuzzy and spins.

No footsteps. Only bulging shadows in the corners.

I slither across the Berber carpet and inhale the newness. A set of stairs is on the other side of the open living concept. About ten feet of space isn’t occupied with furniture which means when I make a run for it, and he enters the room, I’ll have no cover.

If he doesn’t and I make it downstairs, he could still be waiting for me.

I try to form a defense plan, but my brain might as well be sludge. Making my move, more out of my flight response than logic, I army-crawl across the open space to the stairs.

Two sets of six. I practically roll down the first set and pause.

He’s not there at the small landing.

Six more to go.

This time I move slower, ignoring the adrenaline shouting sprint. I can’t. He could be waiting and I need to listen.

One…two…three…four…five…six. I pause again at the bottom of the stairs.

No light befriends me on the ground floor. Only darkness—and darkness is never a friend. Darkness is deceptive, offering false security. Nothing good transpires in darkness. It’s not a refuge to hide. But a place to be found. In the dark, I can’t see my predator, but I know he’s lurking.

The door is five feet away to freedom, and I sprint for it.

Hope blooms in my chest.

I mutter a prayer as I run. Three feet left.

Two.

Thank God, I’m here. I twist the knob.

It’s locked.

A cry cracks loose inside me, but I hold it down and fumble with the dead bolt.

Shuffling sounds across tile.

Closer. Closer.

I manage to turn the dead bolt and pull on the door, but it sticks.

He’s coming. The clicks are methodic, slow and measured as if he’s in no hurry. Like he knows I can’t escape. It’s a game.

Please. Please. Come on!

The door opens and I slip out, forcing myself to stay calm in case my mind is playing tricks on me and it’s not him. This time, I make sure to close the door behind me. The air is balmy and the wind rustles through the grass.

The briny sea air washes over my tongue and the marsh grass swishes as I dart down a private boardwalk that leads…I don’t know where. I only know to run and eat up the ground and create distance between me and the house of horror. Between me and him.

Thick walls of clouds block the moonlight.

A door slams. Then I hear something.

Thwupt. Thwupt. Thwupt.

He’s dragging something across the boardwalk. I dare not turn to look.

He’s coming.

Slow and methodical. Silent. Only the awful dragging noise.

Nothing comes into view but marshland and water surrounded by clusters of trees. Alligators lie in wait. I can’t remember how I know this. There are snakes and snapping turtles too.

But he’s behind me.

Plopping noises in the water draw my attention, and I freeze. What is it? Will it approach me or prey on me if I enter too?

I can’t risk staying on the boardwalk. I ease myself into the icy depths and it steals my breath. Slime oozes over my feet, and I sink into mire. Murky water reaches my waist, sending a shock along my abdomen, but I can’t gasp. Instead, I push through the grass and hope the stirring due to my movement won’t alert him of my location.

Sharp twigs and rocks gouge into the bottom of my feet, and I crunch my bottom lip to keep from crying. Marsh grass appears soft at a glance, but it’s strong and sharp like knitting needles and stabs into my flesh and tender places where I’ve been tattooed in flowers.

Ahead is a patch of dense trees that would conceal me even in daylight. A huge splash sends ripples only a few feet away, startling resting birds to flight. Now I know what’s been causing the dragging noise.

A canoe.

He’s cutting through the narrow channels and at an advantage.

I can’t stop now. I push through the mud, which tries to hold me captive, and toward the dense thicket of trees. I finagle my way inside, but it’s like camping in a thorn bush, and nettles rip my flesh. A quiet cry escapes my throat, and I cover my mouth.

Did he hear me? Does he know I’m here?

I shiver in the water, my teeth chattering as something lightweight drops onto the crown of my head and skitters into the thick layers before I can catch it.

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw to muffle a scream. What hideous legged creature is creeping through my hair?

What swims unseen below my waist?

Plop. Plop. Plop.

Fish, alligators, snakes…him?

“Daaaah, daaaah, dah daaaah,” his rich buttery tone sings. It echoes through the wetland and sweeps over my skin like icy talons. “I’ve got all night,” he continues singing. “I’ll take my time.” I cup my hands over my mouth to silence my chattering teeth. He’s close. So close. “I’ll find you. There’s nowhere to hide,” he belts out as if we’re in a Broadway show. His voice is magical and terrifying. “You belong to meeeee…You want only meee…”

I can’t stay here. He’ll find me. I work as silently as possible out of the thicket and away from the concentration of his voice. I hoist myself onto the wooden boardwalk because he believes I’m in the water. Rushing is out of the question. He’ll hear my footfalls. Slow and steady is about all I can muster anyway. My legs might as well be licorice sticks.

He’s still singing and slicing an oar through the water as I forge ahead, quickening my steps by a small measure until I finally reach the end of the boardwalk and am on dry ground. In the woods.

The woods mean I’ll find a road at the clearing. Help will drive by, and I’ll flag it down to freedom.

I wait a beat while my eyes adjust to greater darkness. The trees loom overhead, and the ground is mushy and mixed with sand. I stub my toe, tripping over roots jutting out, but press on. There’s a path and I follow it. Bike path maybe?

My feet are cut and bleeding and my head pounds. The path curves, then straightens out, and I halt.

Not a road.

Not freedom.

Before me is a long stretch of beach littered with driftwood and shells that cut into my feet. Beyond the beach is the endless sea. No homes. Only wetland to my back and the sea everywhere else.

I have no boat. No canoe. Nothing to propel me to freedom.

I’m on a private island, and I finally remember how I arrived.

***

Excerpt from The Garden Girls by Jessica R. Patch. Copyright 2024 by Jessica R. Patch. Reproduced with permission from Jessica R. Patch. All rights reserved.

 

 

Meet the Author:

Publishers Weekly Bestselling Author, Jessica R. Patch is known for her dry wit and signature twists whether she’s penned a romantic suspense, a cold case thriller, or a small-town romance. When she’s not getting into fictional mischief with her characters, you can find her cozy on the couch in her mid-south home reading books by some of her favorite authors, watching movies with her family, and collecting recipes to amazing dishes she’ll probably never cook. Sign up for her newsletter "Patched In" at www.jessicarpatch.com and receive a FREE short thriller exclusive to subscribers. Jessica is represented by Rachel Kent of Books & Such Literary Management.

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The Maker of Worlds by David Litwack ~ @DavidLitwack @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #TheMakerofWorlds #DavidLitwack #Fantasy ~ ThereIsAGive@way

 

The Maker of Worlds 

by David Litwack 

Fantasy

Date Published: 05-22-2024

Publisher: Evolved Publishing

 

If you had the chance to remake the world, what kind of world would you choose?

About the Book:

When tragedy strikes Lucas Mack's young life, he desperately yearns to escape its sorrow, and takes an improbable leap through the mythical maelstrom. Rather than splashing down on the far side like his neighbors, he's transported to a magical realm where he has the power to redefine not only who he is, but the world in which he resides.

As he stumbles about trying to find his way, he meets Mia, an equally troubled fellow pilgrim. With the help of a mystical guide and an aging wizard, they navigate the enchanted land while learning to control their newfound powers. Yet this realm is more complex than they expected, with seasoned sorcerers who've been corrupted by the sinister side of magic.

Limited by natural law and seduced by magic's power, they are tested as never before. Will the gift of magic bring renewed hope or drive them to the edge of the void?

 

 

About the Author:

The urge to write first struck at age sixteen when working on a newsletter at a youth encampment in the woods of northern Maine. It may have been the wild night when lightning flashed at sunset followed by the northern lights rippling after dark. Or maybe it was the newsletter's editor, a girl with eyes the color of the ocean. But he was inspired to write about the blurry line between reality and the fantastic.

Using two fingers and lots of white-out, he religiously typed five pages a day throughout college and well into his twenties. Then life intervened. He paused to raise two sons and pursue a career, in the process -- and without prior plan -- becoming a well-known entrepreneur in the software industry, founding several successful companies. When he found time again to daydream, the urge to write returned.

David now lives in the Great Northwest. He no longer limits himself to five pages a day and is thankful every keystroke for the invention of the word processor.

 

Contact Links:

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The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeannette de Beauvoir ~ Sydney Riley Provincetown Mystery ~ Amateur Female Sleuth #CozyMystery @partnersincr1me

THE HONEYMOON HOMICIDES

by Jeannette de Beauvoir

June 17 - July 12, 2024 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

A Sydney Riley Provincetown Mystery

 

Despite an unforeseen disaster ruining her carefully planned wedding reception, hotelier Sydney Riley is undaunted as she and her brand-new husband Ali leave for their honeymoon in the dunes of Cape Cod’s National Seashore. But even in this deserted location, Sydney uncovers clues that might have a bearing on the wedding fiasco. Despite hoping for a new life, she’s drawn into yet another murder investigation—this time to protect Ali, who’s been called away on a secret and dangerous assignment.

Can Sydney find the murderer(s) before Ali is harmed, or will a week in the dunes be her only memory of their married life?

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy with an edge; Amateur Female Sleuth
Published by: Homeport Press
Publication Date: June 13, 2024
Number of Pages: 188
ISBN: 9798986865447
Series: Sydney Riley (Provincetown) Mystery, 10th in a Series of Stand-Alone Books
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Add to Goodreads

Read an Excerpt:

Chapter One

The victim generously waited to be murdered until the final vows had been spoken and we were officially declared married. And that’s pretty much the best thing I can say about my wedding.

Not that it hadn’t begun auspiciously. I used to be wedding coordinator at Provincetown’s Race Point Inn—of which I was now co-owner—and so I had considerable experience wrangling vendors, petulant family members, and weather forecasts. And my partner Ali and I had reached an uneasy compromise with my mother in terms of the size and lavishness of the affair—no small feat, as my mother is abnormally addicted to big weddings. We were in addition juggling two religions and two cultures, as Ali is Muslim and his parents and extended family are all Lebanese. And we had somehow navigated all that.

What we hadn’t reckoned with, of course, was the body falling through the awning onto the terrace and, of course, the screams that followed.

***

“Sydney, you are not going to make this stop you,” was what Mirela said.

“Stop me from doing what?” I probably sounded distracted, mainly because I was distracted. The police, in the persons of a bunch of uniformed officers and my sometimes-sort-of-friend Julie Agassi, who was the head of Provincetown’s small detective unit, were swarming all over the place, putting up tape and directing people away from the immediate area. The rescue squad was there, too, though what they thought they could do to help a man who seemed to have broken every bone in his body and spread a great deal of his viscera around the patio was unknown. The wedding guests, in various stages of shock and occasional hysteria, had allowed themselves to be herded into the inn’s restaurant, already set up for the wedding dinner.

My mother was demanding loudly how such a thing could have been allowed and asking about suing the owners, apparently forgetting for the moment that I was one of them. My newly minted husband, Ali, was dealing with his parents, who’d seen more than enough of this kind of violence before they’d permanently fled Beirut and were dealing with some sort of PTSD shock.

And now my best friend Mirela was giving me… what? A pep talk?

“You should go now,” she said. “Leave for the honeymoon. You and Ali. There is no dinner. There is no dancing.”

“We weren’t doing dancing anyway,” I said blankly. After the initial shock, it was dawning on me that I was standing twenty feet from a corpse, wearing a bloodied wedding gown, and realizing—priorities being priorities—that I was not going to have, after all, a wedding feast catered by Adrienne the diva chef, who kept our restaurant’s Michelin stars intact and who has made P’town a destination for world-class dining. “This,” I said to Mirela, “is the worst wedding I’ve ever planned.”

She tossed the blonde hair escaping from her up-do—not that she looked any less gorgeous a little bedraggled—and peered at me. “Are you feeling all right?”

“No,” I said.

She took my elbow and turned me away from the scene unfolding on the terrace. “What you need,” she said firmly, “is a drink.”

“What I need is fourteen drinks,” I said. “But I should check on my mother—”

“The last thing you do is check on your mother,” she said. Mirela and my mother are not what you might call simpatico, mostly due to my mother’s criticisms of Mirela’s single status and her underappreciation of Mirela’s art (which earned her grudging respect only when she learned that the work routinely sold in the six-figure range).

“It doesn’t look like anything,” was her response to the abstract paintings that were now exhibited worldwide, and, “I don’t understand why she can’t find a husband.”

Mirela steered me to the bar area, already filling up with wedding guests in various stages of shock and all, apparently, requiring alcohol. She caught the bartender’s eye—a skill all the Bulgarians I’ve ever met have perfected—and he uncorked a bottle of wine and handed it across to her. She grabbed it without letting go of my elbow, and pulled me out of the restaurant and over to the small lounge area that had the advantage of having a door, which she closed behind us right away. “Here,” she said, handing me the bottle, and rooting around in a cupboard for a glass.

I was looking at the label in some dismay. “This is Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” I protested.

“Of course it is.” Her voice was brisk. “You need a drink.”

“A deplorable reason to drink this,” I insisted. It’s my favorite wine ever.

“Even more deplorable, sunshine,” said Mirela, “is that your guests will drink it if you do not.”

I sat down on the couch. I was understanding what romance writers were talking about when they used terms like “crumple.” I took a swig of wine straight out of the bottle, heaping blasphemy on blasphemy. “Where’s Ali?”

“He will find us.” She gave up trying to locate a glass and slanted a look over. “You are regaining color,” she informed me.

Which was more than we could say about the fellow out on the inn’s patio.

When the door opened, it wasn’t Ali standing there, but Julie, officious and sharp, her blonde hair and blue eyes making her look, always, like some kind of ice princess. “I thought you might be hiding somewhere,” she said.

I gave a weak gesture with the wine bottle. “Join the party,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you drunk?”

“Not yet.”

“Then hold off.” She half-turned and spoke to someone behind her, and another cop came in, pulling the door closed behind him. He looked around the room, fast, the way cops do when they go anywhere, and found a straight chair and pulled out a notebook.

I know about what cops do. My husband is one of them. “It’s an odd word, isn’t it, husband?” I said. “Sounds sort of like a thump.”

Julie ignored me and said to the uniform, “Interview Sydney Riley, eight-fifteen pm.” She sat on a chair she pulled over close to the couch, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Focus, Sydney,” she said.

I sighed and put the bottle on the floor. Not too far away, just in case.

She still wasn’t sure of me. “Can you go find Ali?” Julie asked Mirela, who nodded and slipped out the door. Even Mirela knows not to argue with her. “Tell us what happened here,” said Julie.

I was having some trouble focusing on her. How can you feel drunk on one swig of wine? “I got married,” I said. “Somebody died.” I paused. “Who was he?”

“Not one of your wedding guests,” Julie said, almost absently. She was looking at a list, probably supplied by Mike, the Race Point Inn’s co-owner. He’s frighteningly competent. “Unless he was a last-minute addition? Do you know someone named Barclay Cargill?”

“That can’t be a real name,” I said automatically, then realized she was serious. “No. No, I’ve never heard of him.”

“He was staying at your inn.”

I stared at her. “We have eighty rooms,” I said. “I’m not the manager. You really think I know everybody?”

“You may remember him.” She produced her iPhone, flipped around a bit, then extended it to me. The man in the photo had dark hair and a beard that were starting to turn gray; what was most remarkable was that he was wearing a three-piece suit. People in P’town don’t wear three-piece suits.

Some people in P’town don’t wear much at all.

Julie retrieved her phone. “He’s an attorney,” she said.

She’d gotten her information remarkably quickly. “Okay,” I said. “So did he jump, or was he pushed?”

She was unamused. “You’re being remarkably flippant about someone’s violent death.”

“I’m remarkably flippant about anyone who gets murdered in the middle of my wedding.” I plucked at my ivory lace overskirt. “Just thought I’d remind you, in case you thought I was wearing this for a costume party. If he weren’t already dead, my mother would have killed him by now.”

She sighed. Julie sighs a lot when she’s around me. She’s even been known to refer to me as Provincetown’s answer to Miss Marple, and she doesn’t mean that in a good way.

It’s not exactly my fault that when someone gets murdered I end up having something to do with figuring it out. Julie thinks there’s some sort of cause and effect, but there really isn’t. I just know a lot of people—and it’s a small town.

But having a murder committed during my wedding? That was taking this whole amateur sleuthing thing just a little too far.

As though reading my thoughts, Julie said, “All right. You don’t know this man. Good. Can I take it that you won’t be trying to figure out what happened to him?”

The events of the past hour were starting to turn nasty on me, and I really wanted to be with Ali, not Julie. “No more than you are,” I said sweetly. It was a jab, of course: in Massachusetts, possible homicides are investigated by the state police, not the local force. I knew it was a sore spot with Julie, who thinks she’s better at it than they are. She can secure the scene, take preliminary statements, and assist the Staties when they arrive. “Is that all? Because—”

The door swung open and I’ve never, I think, been happier to see anyone. “Are you all right?” asked Ali. He didn’t even wait for me to respond. “She can give her statement later,” he said to Julie.

“She needs to do it while it’s fresh in her mind,” Julie said.

“Like most of our guests, she didn’t see anything until the individual was already on the ground,” said Ali. “She doesn’t need this now.”

“Maybe you two could stop talking about me like I’m not here?” I asked, my voice sharper than I’d meant it to be. Ali came and sat beside me, carefully moving the bottle of Châteauneuf aside so he wouldn’t knock it over. He knew I’d need it later; it wasn’t exactly an occasion for Champagne, despite all the Veuve Clicquot that Martin, the maître d’, had waiting for us on ice.

Not that Ali drank alcohol, anyway.

I slid my hand into his; for all my rather aggressive petulance, I was feeling a little lost and a little sad. It was finally dawning on me that someone had died. At my inn. At my wedding.

Ali looked, of course, wonderful. He annoyingly always does. He has beautiful dark eyes and beautiful olive skin and dark hair that curls ever so slightly and is always just a little too long, and designer stubble that makes him look sexy and a little dangerous.

Well, he is an agent for Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The danger is real.

Julie was giving up. She jerked her head towards the other cop, who closed his notebook, stood up, and left the room. “You may be needed later on,” she said to me. “Both of you, in fact. Should the state police have any questions about the individual.” Oh, yeah, I’d hit a nerve.

I liked that business about the “individual.” I’d come way too close to saying something about him crashing the party. It must have been the shock; I hadn’t had nearly enough wine to account for it.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” I said.

“You can’t—” she started, automatically, and I interrupted her. “Honeymoon,” I said firmly.

“We’ll be back next week,” said Ali.

Even Julie Agassi knows when she’s beaten. She gave us one last stern official look, and fled.

“Well,” said Ali, putting his arm around my shoulder. “How do you like married life so far?

***

Excerpt from The Honeymoon Homicides by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Copyright 2024 by Jeannette de Beauvoir. Reproduced with permission from Jeannette de Beauvoir. All rights reserved.

 

 

Meet the Author:

Jeannette de Beauvoir is the author of mystery and historical fiction—and novels that are a mix of the two—as well as a poet who lives and works in a cottage beside Cape Cod Bay. She is a member of the Authors Guild, the Mystery Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, and Sisters in Crime.

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Weight of the Kiss by Derek W. Whaley ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #WeightoftheKiss #DerekWWhaley #MilitaryThriller

Weight of the Kiss by Derek W. Whaley

Military Thriller

Date Published: April 17, 2024

Publisher: MindStir Media

 

About the Book:

Bombs, Bullets, and burnt-out vehicles are the order of the day in Kandahar, Afghanistan. War is afoot and everywhere you turn someone is hunting you. Follow Reaper-1, the leader of Reaper and Bang squads, as he takes a tour in Afghanistan. Learn about the military equipment, the soldiers, and the environment. Reaper-1 will show you plenty of shenanigans, struggle, and sadness. You will laugh when you read about all the characters and their stories, you will hurt as they are pinned down in combat, and you will cry when some of your favorite members are lost to war. Reaper-1 will walk you through struggles of friendship, combat, and post combat mental health. Reaper-1 will show you what it means to be alive and the pain of death. Come take a trip to Afghanistan, once the smoke clears, you'll be glad you did.

About the Author:

Master Sargent, retired USAF, Derek Whaley hails from Twin Falls, Idaho. His life purpose are his two children. His son, 9 and his daughter, 15. Derek served 20 years in the United States Air Force, retiring under Honorable conditions in 2019. Derek transitioned to social work and earned his master’s degree from the University of New Hampshire. He interned with substance abuse disorders in Haverhill, Massachusetts and discovered a liking to the field and is now a Drug Court Therapist. If you’re ever looking for Derek, just find people struggling and Derek will be near to help.

 

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The Accidental Sereph by Maci Aurora (Carran Hollow Fated Mate, #1) ~ Fantasy, Paranormal, Romance ~ #FantasyRomance #PNR @XpressoTours ThereIsAGiveaway

The Accidental Sereph
Maci Aurora
(Carran Hollow Fated Mate, #1)
Publication date: June 25th 2024
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Paranormal, Romance

About the Book:

When Atlas Black, a bad boy with a reputation in Carran Hollow, walks into The Hole-in-the-Wall bar investigating a demon sighting, it’s mostly business as usual until he comes face-to-face with his calix—his fated-mate. Except Ivy Day, oblivious to the world of seraphs and demons, thinks she’s stranded in Carran Hollow because a stupid bus has broken down. She just needs a ride to get to the next bus in order to get to her sister across the country. While the guy in the bar hitting on her is hotter than any human has the right to be, unless he’ll give her a lift, she doesn’t have any patience for anything else. But little does she know, Atlas is about to take her on the ride of her life—that is, as long as they can get through the demons.

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Read an Excerpt:

[Rome] pulls his phone from his pocket and glances at it. “Bus coming into the Hollow.”

Samson and I groan. Buses mean tourists. Obnoxious tourists drag in the demon riff-raff hiding among them, and they aren’t usually the organized kind, but rather the fledgling demons or the deserters attached to the taedae, unsighted humans.

“Not it,” Samson says.

“How’s that injury?” Rome asks me.

“Not an injury,” I repeat. “How many times do I have to say it?”

Rome looks me over, eyes narrowed, as if he can see beyond my skin and bones. “Fine,” he relents. “You go into town. Wait for the bus to roll in, see if any demons have hitched a ride.” He points at me. “But don’t engage, not without backup.”

I’m already walking over to the cabinet, pulling on my harness, sliding a sharpened dagger into a sheath, along with another into my boot. “Me? Engage?” I glance at my bow but leave it, knowing I probably won’t need it. Those off the bus are rarely difficult to dispatch. I glance at Rome with a smile. “Never.”

Samson laughs.

I shrug into my black leather jacket and grab my helmet before I’m out the door, headed for the heart of town. After driving past Lowry’s Gas and Sundries, where the bus stops, and seeing the hulking, metal can is already empty, I ride down Main. I park my bike, cross to the other side, and duck into The Hole in the Wall, a small bar sandwiched between a diner called The Getaway, and a witchy souvenir shop that sells Carran Hollow guidebooks. One of these three establishments is often the first stop for tourists, and thereby their parasitic demons, when they reach town.

My eyes adjust to the dark. There’s an older guy playing guitar near the door. The shiny wooden bar is on the left and runs the length of the room. There are a few people lined up along the counter, atop barstools. Booths—mostly empty—line the right wall, and in between is a stretch of space big enough to walk between the two. I’ve been here before. I have been in every single shop in Carran Hollow, every single home—though the owners haven’t known I was there. The Hollow is my town.

The locals glance at me then look away, giving me a wide berth. They might know me. They might know I’m a Black. If they don’t, they feel it—that sensation skittering across their skin telling them danger is near. That’s all that’s needed.

Meet the Author:

Romance author.

Lover of stories.

Maci Aurora has been writing stories since she was a child. When she was eleven, she fell in love with reading Sunfire Historical Romances about girls who made a difference in their lives and still fell in love. In high school, a friend introduced her to Lavyrle Spencer and Judith McNaught, and from there, her writing journey was cemented in telling stories about love. Having already published many novels (all of which are threaded with romance as upper YA and New Adult titles) under the pen name, CL Walters, Maci Aurora wanted to write stories that offered the same attention to story and characters but with additional steam.

Maci writes in Hawaiʻi where she lives with her husband, their children, and their fur-babies.

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Tour is Still Open and Accepting Sign Ups ~ 1-Week Virtual Book Tour Sign Up Invitation ~ Nine Levels by Elana Gomel ~ Fantasy, Speculative Fiction, Greek Mythology (July 17-23, 2024) @ElanaGomel @MirrorWorldPub

1-Week Virtual Book Tour Sign Up Invitation

Nine Levels by Elana Gomel

Fantasy, Speculative Fiction, Greek Mythology (July 17-23, 2024)

 

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The Rumble and the Glory by JA Huss ~ Contemporary, Romance, Suspense ~ @JAHuss @XpressoTours ~ ThereIsAGive@way

The Rumble and the Glory
JA Huss
Publication date: June 27th 2024
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

About the Book:

Deep in the hills of West Virginia, three small towns have found a way to flourish in the face of extreme poverty. Disciple runs a side-show tent revival that brings in millions of dollars a year. Bishop flaunts traditional ways in the vein of Colonial Williamsburg, luring weary city people to the slow-living lifestyle. And Revenant offers them an experience of sin filled with tattooed bikers and live-music dive bars.

It’s a sacred trinity that worships the almighty dollar and everyone plays their role like a well-trained Broadway actor. But these hills have secrets, and so do the people.
Collin Creed is a killer, but he’s Lowyn’s killer. And after a twelve-year separation, she wants him back. To the untrained eye, Lowyn is the good girl to Collin’s bad-boy reputation. But to those in the know, she’s just like everyone else up in these hills—not as wholesome and pure as she looks.

*****
The Rumble and the Glory is a cinematic and spicy second-chance romance wrapped up in a cloak of mystery and suspense. It honors the themes of found family, redemptive anti-hero, and is filled with bigger-than-life, morally-grey characters against a backdrop of deceit and deception.

TROPES:
Morally Grey
Enemies to Lovers
Found Family
Anti-Hero
Small Town Secrets

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Meet the Author:

JA Huss is a scientist, New York Times Bestseller, USA Today Bestseller, and a cowgirl who rides English. Five of her books were optioned for TV/film, several of her audiobooks have been nominated for the Audie and SOVA Awards, and she was a RITA Finalist in 2019. She has been an indie author in both fiction and non-fiction for seventeen years and lives on a ranch in Colorado with her family, horses, dogs, goats, donkeys, and chickens.

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Space Cats: Making Enemies (Space Cats Series, Book One) by Craig A. Price and Shayne Price ~ #SciFi, Middle Grade, #YA

Space Cats: Making Enemies

Space Cats Series 

Book One

Craig A. Price and Shayne Price

Genre: Sci-Fi, Middle Grade, YA

Publisher: Claymore Publishing

Date of Publication: 07/16/2024

ISBN: 9781946968111 

ISBN: 9781946968128 

ASIN: B0CSXTWH2H

Number of pages: 162

Word Count: 27,223

Cover Artist: Shayne Price with Craig’s typography.

Tagline: Cats are out to explore the galaxy… dogs are ready to protect it.

About the Book:

In the vast expanse of the galaxy, feline explorers from the Cat Exploration Corporation, led by the ambitious Blake, yearn to make their mark and unveil the secrets of uncharted space. All Blake desires is to honor his father's legacy and contribute to the endless curiosity of catkind. Meanwhile, Shadow, a loyal canine under the banner of the Tofferis Empire, is determined to pass his trials and stand as a stalwart guardian, protecting the very galaxy the cats seek to explore.

At the forefront of the Mineral Mining Corporation, Jade, a charismatic catsplorer, spearheads daring expeditions into uncharted territories. His mission: to unearth valuable minerals crucial for advancing feline exploration. Little do they know that their individual aspirations will intertwine in an unexpected political showdown, where cats and dogs are at the center of a cosmic power struggle.

As Blake, Shadow, and Jade navigate the complexities of interstellar politics, allegiances are tested, and the line between friend and foe blurs against the backdrop of unexplored galaxies. In "Space Cats: Making Enemies," the first installment of the series, these unsuspecting heroes find themselves entangled in a captivating space opera with a feline twist. Will they emerge victorious, or will the clash of paws and claws reshape the destiny of the cosmos? Embark on a thrilling journey that combines cosmic curiosity, canine loyalty, and the indomitable spirit of feline explorers. 

If you're a fan of space adventures where the stakes are as high as the humor is charming, "Space Cats: Making Enemies" awaits your cosmic companionship.

Purchase Links:  Amazon    Claymore Publishing      Books2Read 

Watch the Book Trailer:  https://youtu.be/j1RNOYhlQtU   

Read an Excerpt:

"I have a bad feeling about this," Ryan muttered.

"Don't be ridiculous," Jade replied, leading the way toward the temple. "We came here for the minerals, and we're going to find them."

As they approached the temple, they could see that it was ancient, with large stone columns and carvings covering the walls. They made their way inside, and the mineral finder began to beep rapidly.

"There it is," Jade said, pointing to a door at the end of the chamber. "That's where the scanner is leading us."

They cautiously approached the door, which was adorned with strange symbols and carvings. Jade hesitated for a moment, but then pushed the door open.

When the door creaked open, they saw a blinding light emanating from inside the chamber. They shielded their eyes and cautiously stepped inside, drawn toward the powerful energy source.
Jade and his team crept through the temple. The air grew colder, and they felt a sense of unease.

The mineral finder beeped louder as they approached the large chamber door. Ryan, the team's technician, examined the door and found that it was heavily secured.

They noticed strange markings etched on the walls. The markings resembled scratches, as if claws or sharp objects made them. Upon closer inspection, Jade realized the markings were actually a form of language, but one that he had never seen before.

Ryan, who had some expertise in ancient languages, inspected the markings. "This isn't any language that I recognize," he said, furrowing his brow in concentration. "It looks like some kind of primitive tool made it, like a claw or a rock."

Jasper, who had been scanning the temple with his handheld device, interrupted. "Guys, I'm getting some strange readings here," he said, pointing to his device. "It looks like there's some kind of energy emanating from the walls themselves."

Jade walked over to Jasper. "That's strange." He looked at the device. "There's definitely something here, but I can't quite make out what it is."

"It seems to radiate from behind this door." Jade touched a door at the end of the hallway with strange markings.

Jasper, the team's muscle, stepped forward and used his strength to force the door open. Inside the chamber, they found a glowing orb emitting a powerful energy. Jade approached the orb and scrutinized it, trying to identify its properties.

As he did so, the orb suddenly flared up with a blinding light, knocking the team off their feet.

When they regained their senses, they found the orb had disappeared and the chamber was now empty.

Jade, Ryan, and Jasper looked at each other, stunned by what had just happened. They realized they had stumbled upon something beyond their understanding and knew that they needed to report their findings to their superiors. Before they could head back to their shuttle, the darkness faded once again, and the center of the room gleamed with a small object. A crystal. It flickered slightly.

About the Authors:

Craig A. Price Jr. is a USA Today bestselling author of Claymore of Calthoria Trilogy, Dragon's Call Trilogy, Dragonia Empire Series, Space Gh0st Adventures Series, and several other titles available in alternate realities. He loves to read, write, cast spells, and spend time with his beautiful wife and three children. He dreams to one day become a full-time wizard, but until then, he'll settle for being an author. With more than a dozen novels under his belt now, it's only a matter of time before he settles for world domination, but until then, you can follow his author journey as he takes over one reader's soul at a time.

Craig lives on the Alabama Gulf Coast, among the ravenous mosquitos, humidity, and deadly predators. If you spot him in the wild, he can be dangerous, but will often be tamed by a Mountain Dew and Reese's.

Shayne Price is the son of Craig A. Price, and hopes to one day become a Geologist. He likes to play sports and video games. He was behind all the plot in this book. He is a sophomore in high school and attends classes at the University of Alabama. 

https://claymorepublishing.com/

 

https://www.facebook.com/CraigAPriceJr/ 

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https://www.amazon.com/author/craigapricejr 

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Snoodles in Space: Episode 2 by Steven Joseph ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #SnoodlesinSpace #StevenJoseph #ChildrensBook ~ ThereIsAGive@way

 

The Zoodles Strike Back

Snoodles in Space: Episode 2 

by Steven Joseph

Children's Books

Date Published: August 13, 2023

Publisher: Enigami Publishing

 

About the Book:

In the award-winning book “Snoodles in Space”, Steven Joseph and Andy Case brought us further adventures of Herbie Snoodleman and Sour Croodle-man exploring the universe and battling the Zoodle Kidoodles for the Earth’s entire supply of noodles.

In this third instalment of the Snoodles series, the Zoodles are determined to have revenge and with the help of a grimy millionaire whose fallen on hard times, they intend to poison the Earth’s water supply and turn everyone into Willy Nilly’s and Dilly Dally’s.

Can Briana and Ricky save the Earth again? Will the outcast kids on the other side of the track rise to the challenge and help save the world?

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Hotheaded Heart by Anna Alkire (Waterfall Canyon, #1) ~ Contemporary, Romance ~ @AnnaAlkire @XpressoTours ~ ThereIsAGive@way

Hotheaded Heart
Anna Alkire
(Waterfall Canyon, #1)
Publication date: June 25th 2024
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

A fun sexy story, with a dash of suspense, about not hiding from yourself and letting love in. This steamy, laugh-out-loud, enemies to lovers romance pits an annoying prankster, turned small town cop, against the woman forced to live with him.

I’m finally back in Waterfall Canyon, after leaving for a decade, when one-night changes everything. I sort of snapped and beat up my stalker with yard debris. That creep didn’t know who he was messing with. Except, I was the one put in the patrol car.

Sometimes the worst mistake of your life calls for desperate measures—like accepting help from one of the cops that arrested you.

Beau Martin is a police officer, a slob, and also a man that’s promised to never settle down. He’s my best friend’s older brother. We had a history—of him tormenting me ten years ago. Now he leaves me flirty notes, wants me to believe he’s always liked me, and thinks we should blow off some steam.

Torn between Beau and an unrequited work crush, pursued by my increasingly creepy stalker, and fighting to save my career from the fallout of my mistake, I stumble into organizing a bachelor auction for charity. Everything depends on the support of our small town—and how much I can sacrifice for my own heart.

From award winning author Anna Alkire, comes an unforgettable new series that mixes the spice of Meghan Quinn’s A Not So Meet Cute, and the unexpected fun of Lucy Score’s Things We Never Got Over. Anyone looking for banter, cuteness, and a bit of suspense will find it in this steamy contemporary romance with a romantic comedy spin. Grab your copy of Hotheaded Heart today!

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Read an Excerpt:

A little adrenaline set in when I thought of my underwear getting tossed around for every soul to see—Beau and Mason would be there any minute. I started stuffing garbage bags as fast as I could move in my bedroom, shuddering at how wrinkled and smashed my pretty lingerie would all be.

“Raven?” Beau called from the front door.

“Yep,” I shouted. “Be out in a sec…”

My hands moved faster but my slinky collection of undergarments kept slipping from my fingers and landing on the carpet.

“Hey,” Beau said from the door, while I frantically shoved a teddy and garter belt set into the bag. “Good news. I bribed Chuck and AJ into helping out…”

“That’s great. I owe you big time for this.”

He walked closer. I glanced over my shoulder, hunching forward to hide my naughty bag.

Beau crouched over and picked up a red lace G-string. “Dropped this,” he croaked. He bit the knuckle of his other hand.

I snatched it away from him, my ears burning. “Give me a damn minute. And scrub that out of your head.”

He punched his chest and stumbled backward. “Never.”

Author Bio:

Anna Alkire has been a long-term college student, a business owner, and a world traveler. Now “settled”—with a sigh and a cup of decaf—Anna lives in Washington state, where she splits her time between a husband who thinks the North Pole would be a great place to live, chasing her hurricane of a son, learning new handicrafts, and creating worlds full of the kind of romance and fun she most wants to read. Find more about her (and grab a freebie or two) at her website, annaalkire.com.

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