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The Garden of Before
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Harleigh Sinclair and the Kingdom of the Bristol Skull
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: I stepped into the office of Darius Greyson—my boss, my once savior. Some would call him my captor. Thunder rumbled as I looked through the vast windows ringing the room. Usually, the view from the fifty-seventh floor displayed an impressive panorama of the San Antonio skyline. Tonight, only a few pinpricks of light managed to punch through the storm clouds. Muted pendant lights flickered as another peal of thunder shook the room. My footsteps echoed over the expansive marble floor, and my heart gave a sudden lurch when I approached the glass display cases sitting atop polished onyx pedestals. Nothing but velvet cushions remained where the artifacts had once been displayed. The Egyptian ankh. The mask of Kushtaka. The scythe. Where were they? My hand went to the Glock holstered at my side. Questions swam through my head. After last month’s security breach, perhaps Greyson had moved the artifacts? I tried not to ponder the less pleasant theories. “Greyson?” I focused on the marble and gold desk near the windows. His chair was turned away from me, and I couldn’t be sure who was sitting there. “Greyson, is that you?” I addressed the chair, unsure of who might answer. He’d asked to meet at eleven p.m. sharp—not an unusual hour for him. But in the many years I’d been his employee, he’d never failed to meet. I took another step forward when the chair spun around. Shock stunned me. King Khamron sat in Greyson’s chair. His dark skin blended with the night sky beyond the windows, and his expression, while congenial, held a look of warning. I’d only ever seen Greyson sitting in the chair. Seeing King sitting there unnerved me. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Twice A Target
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks -- EXCERPT: Bobby’s siren wail penetrated Holt’s consciousness like a nail in his skull. He opened one eye. The lighted digital clock beside his bed read two o’clock. Right on time, little guy. “Coming,” he mumbled. One foot on the floor. The other. He raked fingers through his hair, then pushed to his feet. Starting for the door, he snapped alert as though slapped. Maddy McCoy. He’d finished some paperwork in the office, then slipped off to bed early. But escape didn’t work worth a damn. The image of Maddy’s sassy face and the memory of her scent kept him torturing his sheets for hours before he finally slept. Damn, she was in the master bedroom. He couldn’t troop through the house in his skivvies. Blinking in the darkened bedroom, he stumbled back and forth like a drugged steer as he searched for his jeans. Didn’t he leave them on the chair? Or on the floor? No. He put away the clean ones and tossed the manure-smeared ones into the washing machine. Where they remained. Bobby cranked it up a notch. He could rival that opera singer, Luciano something. Hell with it. Holt hit the door and burst into the hall. And collided with a slim figure in filmy white. He stumbled to a halt and braced himself as his arms went around her to stop her fall. She emitted a small yelp like a cartoon eek. Under his hands, her slender body in the silken covering was a miracle of curves and soft, toned female flesh. His body tightened and his pulse raced off to distant planets. The hallway suddenly didn’t have enough air. He immediately set her away a step. Then he stepped back another. “Sorry. Bobby.” The baby’s cry subsided to hiccups and whimpers. No emergency, to his relief. “Thought that was my job,” she said. “Two o’clock bottle. Diaper change. Like that.” “You’re here to spell me when I’m doing ranch work.” “A rancher needs sleep.” She returned his scowl, although humor tugged at the corner of her lips. “Why do you want me here if you won’t leave Bobby to me?” He opened his mouth, closed it again with a snap. Bobby cranked it up again. Only taking a breather. His wail rivaled an air raid siren. “If you’ll get out of my way,” she said, tossing her hair and smoothing her nightshirt so it highlighted her breasts, “I’ll see to the baby.” The grin popped out, accompanied by a slow perusal down Holt’s body. “Nice…legs.” He blinked, shot a glance downward. Damn, betrayed by his tented boxers. His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed hard. He jerked to the side along the wall, as if someone had pressed a knife to his side. “Bobby’s all yours.” “Great!” She turned and swung her hips as she flounced toward the baby’s room. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Chasing Headlines
-- EXCERPT: Breslin POV I threw my glove in my locker and grabbed my backpack from the hook. I imagined myself bounding out of the room, but my legs barely managed more than a shuffle. Still, I must have gotten going a bit too fast because, the next thing I knew, Rally Girl was on the ground, phone skittering across the tile. And I was the asshole. Shit. She sat on her rear in the center of the hallway, rubbed her hip and winced. Fuck, is she going to claim I injured her—to get back at me for earlier? I glanced behind me at the locker room door. She can follow me. I looked at the exit door. I’d have to step over her. That would be ridiculous. I had more integrity than that. Still . . . She hissed through clenched teeth. “You . . .” Dammit, what was her name? I had not been paying attention to anything other than, well, my shirt. On her body. Idiot. “Well, what’s left of me. Geez, do you eat bricks for breakfast or what?” Her legs, long and tan and open—they bent at the knee as she rested her elbows on them. And apparently, my body was not too tired to enjoy the view. “I’m not hurt and I’m not upset. But maybe you could help me up?” She spoke in a soft voice. Dark eyelashes framed bright blue-green eyes. I extended a hand and tugged her to her feet. She stood for a breath, two. So close. Connected. Something about the feel of her skin against mine . . . A small, but soothing warmth tingled through the nerves in my hand, sparking a heated rush from my palm to my neck. A sharp breath, and then her fingers slid from my grasp. I missed the warmth of her. “. . . maybe offer an apology?” She moved her hand up and down in a phantom handshake. “Sure, Coop. No hard feelings.” “Sorry,” I mumbled. Can this be over? I panted for air and shifted back a step. Her being the hot chick in the water fountain had been one thing. I could have tried to find her, always wondered, haunted the student center in the hopes I’d run into her again. Her being a reporter meant all of those things went on the “no fucking way, ever” list. “I don’t know what you’re over there thinking, but, I wouldn’t hurt you. You mean too much to the team.” She frowned. “This was an accident. Not that it didn’t jar me to the bone. You missed your calling as a linebacker.” I blinked. Opened my mouth. Re-ran the words through my brain. She just said a shit ton of stuff, and what the fuck was any of it about? “I’m fine, really. You need to stop gushing over me. All the upset is really beneath you.” One eyebrow rose and she crossed her arms. How did she breathe while saying all those words? “Um, are you OK?” She leaned closer. I stared at her mouth. “You talk a lot.” Her arms dropped to her sides. “That’s what you have to say? Not a ‘You OK?’ or ‘So sorry, I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with your things?’” I didn’t catch all of it, but, maybe, if I did the last thing, she’d move out of my way? And I could get food, drink a gallon of water, take a shower? I stunk to hell and back. Help her with her stuff. I set my backpack down and knelt at her feet. I tried not to think about those short running shorts or how good it’d feel to slide my fingers over the curve of her calf, up to her hip. I shoved her shit into her bag and tossed it to her. I retrieved her phone from the tile floor. “That’s, um. Yeah. Thanks.” She pulled the device from my grip. I pushed my sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. “You’re OK?” “Yeah.” She pulled the bag over her shoulder. “Got bowled over by a human freight train, but lived to tell the tale. I pity any catcher that tries to get in your way.” She gave me a tight-lipped smile. So many words. No wonder she had to write them all down. “But you’re fine?” “What, do you need me to sign a waiver?” Red hazed into my vision. “I’d say yes, but reporters are lying snakes in the grass. Wouldn’t matter.” “I . . .” Her jaw worked, but no sound came out. An errant thought about her mouth working flit through my brain. “But, I–We’re on the same team, Coop.” She pointed at her jersey as if that was “proof”. It sure as hell wasn’t. “We’re not.” I hefted my backpack onto my shoulder. “But you were right about one thing.” “What do you mean?” I leaned down and stared at her head on. She turned a deep dark pink. “To pity the person who tries to get in my way.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Mending Broken Threads
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Later that night, Lynette lay in her parent’s old bed, huddled under the massive pile of blankets. Suddenly spooked by the shadows in the room and the anticipation of sleep, she pulled the blankets to her eyes and closed them tight. Her heart raced when her body jerked at the sound of a tree branch breaking outside. It must be an animal or the wind. Lynette flipped on the bedside lamp and scanned the room. The closet doors remained shut, the hallway light spread from under the door, and a pile of dirty clothes sat in the far corner. Nothing looked amiss. She closed her eyes again, and thoughts of ghosts, spirits, and mediums infiltrated her mind. Freaking herself out, she turned on the tv at a low volume and focused on the sound of the eleven o’clock news. When her eyes became heavy, she closed them for a moment, praying that morning would arrive fast. When she opened her eyes, her body bolted upright and her fingers gripped the sheets. Tiny beads of sweat formed along the nape of her neck. She wiped her neck, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples. It was only a dream. The thought didn’t calm her mind, but solidified her hunch that Mom and Dad were expecting when they married, but in this dream, Mom was pregnant. Like, really pregnant and wearing that awful top from the suitcase. Dad stood at a grill, cooking outside, and Mom sat in a chair knitting. Knitting…was that Loretta? But Dad called the baby Lorraine. Lorraine, Lorraine…there was no Lorraine. And Mom looked sad, always sad. Lynette felt her unhappiness, which solidified her assumption that Mom didn’t want to get married. Whatever happened to Lorraine? Worst-case scenarios popped through Lynette’s mind. And why was she kept a secret all these years? Unable to handle her thoughts any longer, she hopped out of bed and ran to her old bedroom. “Ruby.” She barged open and through the door, finding her daughter fast asleep. Gripping and shaking her shoulder, she said, “Ruby, wake up. I need to talk to you.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Change of Heart
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: He examined the blood-smeared paper. Only one typed sentence: I donate my organs for transplant. Kirk stared at the illegible signature. Something begged for attention, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was… “Any weapons or bullets?” “This was on the driver’s seat between the victim and the door.” John produced an evidence bag from his backpack. “A Ruger. A woman’s gun. Small, concealable, and accurate.” Kirk reached for the bag and wrapped his hand around the plastic covering the grip’s checkered frame. In his mind, the weapon’s light weight and John’s words triggered an image of a beautiful young woman, Amy Winter, with no future. “The bullet,” John went on, “ended up embedded next to the ceiling, on the car’s front passenger side. No other bullets found in the gun.” “Why next to the ceiling?” Kirk lifted his eyes from the gun. “It must have hit her cellphone.” John handed Kirk a plastic-wrapped iPhone with a dazzling pink case. “She must’ve been holding the phone to her ear when the bullet exited. We found the phone on the car floor between the two back seats. Screen’s shattered, phone’s dead.” Kirk examined the phone. The black screen bore a bloody diagonal fracture from top to bottom. That would have been the direction of the exiting bullet grazing a phone glued to the woman’s right ear. Who in hell would she be chatting with while killing herself? “Who discovered the victim?” Kirk said. “A man called the hospital ER and 9-1-1 at about the same time.” John extracted a smartphone from his sport jacket and scrolled through his notes. “The call to the ER was registered at 4:41a.m. I’m not sure how precise that is. The 9-1-1 call came in at 4:42.” Kirk placed his index finger on the phone’s volume button. Nothing happened. Then his thumb pressed the reset button several times. After the third try, the screen lit up. A key piece of a puzzle fell into place, making Kirk feel almost giddy with excitement. “I’m afraid we’re not dealing with an attempted suicide,” Kirk said, turning the face of the phone toward John, “but an attempted murder.” “I agree.” John’s brows went up. “But how can you be so sure without any forensics?” “Several things,” Kirk said. “The note was added later, after the shot. Smears of blood, instead of sprays. Poor attempt by the shooter to make us believe the note was on the seat before the bullet hit.” “Yeah,” John said, “that’s been bothering me also. You’ve come a long way from your training over ribs and beer.” Kirk smiled at the memory of their favorite pub. It seemed a long time ago when Kirk decided to leave the police force and John helped him get started as a private investigator. John was more than a mentor. He always cared about Kirk, but cared even more after Kirk’s near-fatal car accident years ago. John had become as protective as an older brother. The image of the dark pub dissipated and Kirk refocused on the victim’s note. “I’m no calligrapher,” he said, “but, from the slanting of the signature, I think the victim is right-handed. A right-handed person would shoot her right side.” “If it’s actually her signature,” John said. “The shooter could have forced her to sign at gun point,” Kirk said. “Either way, it would point to attempted murder.” “What else?” “We’ve got the exact time of the shooting,” Kirk said, waving the plastic-clad phone. “Here in this frozen, undead iPhone.” John grabbed the evidence bag. He stared at the fractured, frozen screen. His lips stretched into a grin. “The bullet froze the time at 4:43,” Kirk said. “One minute after the 9-1-1 call. The man called before the shooting occurred. It’s unlikely someone would notice the shooter, figure out what he was going to do, call the police, and leave without talking to them.” “The witness could have left because he was afraid the shooter would come after him,” John said. “Or perhaps,” Kirk said, “the caller knew the shooting would occur because he himself was the shooter. And he wanted the victim to be found as soon as possible.” John referred again to his notes. “The caller said that someone had been shot. Not someone is going to shoot, or is shooting, somebody. The woman had gun powder residue on her left hand, but the shooter could’ve placed the gun in her hand before throwing it in the car. We’ve got a few prints on the handle. I bet they’re all from her. But I still think you’re right.” Kirk nodded. “The shooter made sure she would be rescued in time for her organs to be saved for donation and subsequent transplant.” Kirk turned toward the hospital ER entrance. A vivid memory materialized. A plastic bracelet around his wrist, from six years ago, in a different hospital. The bracelet classifying him as an organ donor. After his prolonged coma, doctors had given up on Kirk. Luckily for him, he had woken up and retained his organs. The woman who had crossed the ER threshold earlier that morning wouldn’t be so lucky. Someone wanted her organs badly enough to put a bullet in her brain. 
GIVEAWAY! -- Happy Publication day to She Doesn't Have a Clue by Jenny Elder Moke From the blurb: With a colorful cast of characters and a cellar full of wine, anything can happen--from murder to a second chance at love--in Jenny Elder Moke's half mystery, half romance adult debut set at a lavish destination wedding. A high-end wedding on a private island off the coast of Seattle sounds like something out of a magazine. But for bestselling mystery author Kate Valentine, it’s more like a nightmare. Why Kate agreed to attend her ex-fiancé’s wedding is its own enigma, but she’ll plaster on a fake smile for two nights, with the aid of free champagne, naturally. And because the groom happens to be her editor, she’ll try to finish a draft of her latest Loretta Starling mystery as a wedding gift. But when the bride is poisoned and Kate stumbles across a dead body, she finds herself in a real-life mystery that eerily echoes the plot of her latest novel. And the only person who seems willing to help Kate catch the killer is Jake Hawkins, aka: the Hostralian; aka: Kate’s biggest romantic regret. As the wine flows and the weather threatens to hold every guest hostage, bitter resentments and long-held grudges surface amongst the colorful crowd. Anyone could be capable of murder, it seems. What would Loretta do? Unfortunately, Kate doesn’t have a clue. ISBN 9781250354969, 125035496X  JENNY ELDER MOKE is the author of award-winning children’s and adult literature. She enjoys fast-paced adventures with plenty of mysteries, surprising turns, and laughs along the way. When she’s not writing, you can find her knitting, puzzling, or fighting imaginary crime as a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. She Doesn't Have a Clue is her adult debut.
Jenny lives in Denver, CO.
Eternal Ashes
-- EXCERPT: Sofie stared out the window of Chief Edison’s unmarked police car, a cold sense of dread spreading through her chest as she awaited her daughter’s fate. The local hospital wasn’t far, but the ride felt like it was hours. They had left immediately after throwing on some clothes. Sofie wasn’t sure what she had grabbed, or if she should bring anything for April. What had happened? What could’ve possibly happened? Why hadn’t she come home? The night was still and silent. Everything was so quiet and peaceful, in such stark contrast to the turmoil raging through Sofie’s whole body. Please, let my baby girl be okay. The thought repeated itself in her head, right along with the last image she had of April walking hand-in-hand out of the pub with Drew. April’s last words to Sofie had been “I love you.” But Sofie couldn’t remember if she’d said those all-important words back to her. Sofie’s breath clutched in her chest, her gasp disturbing the silence inside the car. Chief Edison glanced back at her through the rearview mirror, concern in his eyes despite his blank expression. Beside her, Parker took Sofie’s hand, interlocking their fingers. Chief Edison hadn’t given them many details beyond the fact April and Drew had been in an accident. He’d shared no insight into their condition. He didn’t need to though. Sofie could read between the lines. If the kids were okay, they would have been driven home. April would have called. If the kids were okay, Chief Edison would have said so instead of staying tight-lipped. His silence was a red flag. A bad omen. Please, let my baby girl be okay… Sofie’s vision blurred and she blinked back tears, refusing to let any fall yet. She was convinced crying prematurely would only bring bad luck. Sofie was fearing the worst, but she needed to hold on to some kind of hope. At least now, before she knew for certain how bad it was. Maybe the kids were banged up and in shock. Maybe there were some broken bones. Maybe some concussions. Scrapes and scratches. Bruises. A bunch of stuff would heal quickly… And maybe one day, a few weeks or months from now, they would remember this incident as a scary close-call they’d overcome. A minor setback. Someday in the future, April and Drew would be married and in their forties, telling their kids about the bad crash they had weeks before graduating high school. Their yearbook would have pictures of all the signatures they’d gotten on their matching casts. There was no need to panic. No need to panic. Sofie let these words replace the chant in her head, wanting so badly to believe them. Yet, no matter how hard she tried to cling to some optimism, the prolonged drive provided ample time for dread to take hold again. 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Loathe Boat
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- EXCERPT: First line: Nothing says love like walking through a parking garage in a bright yellow duck suit. ~ Chrissy I open the box to reveal the custom-made engagement ring I’ve been hiding in my drawer for a month. Her mouth gapes open, but no words come out – no “OMG, yes” or even “Of course I will” or a squeal of excitement….. Her breaths come out in rapid pants. “I..I… uh, I…” Her chair falls backward as she runs toward the bathroom. Relinquishing my ticket to her would be the right thing to do, but there is no way on Earth I’m going to let her share my stateroom with her ex-husband. I’d rather be stuck on the Titanic with her than let her have any sexy times with that twenty-first century Eddie Haskell ~ Deacon A sword? Wait! A viking helmet too? Most of the people in line around me seem more like they are on their way to a Ren Faire. All that’s missing is a very large turkey leg. ~ Chrissy -- Rom-Com readers will have a memorable trip on The Loathe Boat ~ Goodreads Great for getting in the ‘vacation mood’ without necessarily hearing Jimmy Buffet. ~ Goodreads For a closed-door romance, they had magnetic chemistry! ~ Goodreads 
GIVEAWAY! --
Some Like It Hott
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: By the time I start my new job a week after my coffee-shop encounter with Lloyd and Susie, I’m starting to feel more optimistic about things. My new boss, Hanna, hooked me up with a swanky room in the Hott Springs Eternal lodge; I’ve deleted all Lloyd’s emails, texts, and photos; and I’ve pawned all the jewelry he gave me. I’m not sleeping great, and I’m still a little weepy…but you can’t have it all. I poke my head into Hanna’s office and say, “Hey!” “Oh, hi, Natalie. Come in.” I can tell right away that something’s off. She doesn’t sound as brimming with enthusiasm as she did when she called to let me know I had the job or when we talked about my lodging. But I tell myself it’s nothing to do with me—probably a bridezilla situation from earlier in the morning—and step inside. “Good to see you.” She waves me into a chair across from her. “I have some paperwork for you to fill out, but first I wanted to have a word with you.” She rearranges a stack of papers, and I realize she’s nervous. Which means the “something off” I observed when I first walked in? Probably does have to do with me. Shit. “Everything okay?” I don’t know what I’ll do if this job falls through. Things are over with Lloyd, and it’s a huge understatement to say my parents aren’t my first choice of roommates. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that the idea of asking them for any kind of favor makes me feel like throwing up. Which is why I have to save the money to go back to school. And even if my housing situation weren’t at stake, I want this job. Yeah, it’s not on the long-term Get Serious path, but it’s totally up my alley. I love people and I love, well, fun—and this is a job where I get to make sure people have fun. Nothing else I’ve applied for sounds like something I want to do. “I have so many great ideas for how to make Hott Springs Eternal a true destination!” I blurt out, sounding like a bad cover letter—as if that’s going to keep her from delivering whatever bad news is on the tip of her tongue. She winces, and…I do, too. She looks away, and shit. Shit shit shit. “It’s complicated,” she says, still not making eye contact. “Nothing to panic about, but there’s a—twist.” “A twist,” I repeat. That doesn’t sound good. “I’m really sorry about this bait and switch, but my hands are totally tied. I know I hired you to be the sole person in this position, but, well…God, how do I explain this?” She’s not making any sense, and apparently my face betrays my confusion and worry because she says, “Wait, let me start from the beginning.” But just then, her eyes leave my face and fix on something behind me. “Oh, hey,” she says. I turn to see a man standing in the office door, towing a rolling suitcase behind him. He’s tall and broad-chested, wearing a gorgeous gray linen suit whose expensive tailoring flaunts the strength in his shoulders and biceps. His brown-and-burgundy power tie is cinched up tight against his strong, tanned throat. A half day of dark stubble coats his iron jaw, his cheekbones were carved from stone, and he’s scowling like he just found out his bespoke-suit maker has gone out of business. My mouth goes dry, and my thighs get hot. I may have read a little too much “You liked Fifty Shades? Try this!” romance at a formative age. My eyes go to his hands. No ring. Yes, I checked. The universe has spontaneously served me up a Hot Man in a Suit. I challenge any single, straight woman with a pulse not to try to figure out if this guy’s married. Although it’s pointless. Because things never work out between men like him and women like me. They’re all business, and I’m a party. They take themselves and everything else seriously, and I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. But it doesn’t stop me from having to wipe imaginary drool from both corners of my mouth. It might be the stern look and the crease between his dark eyebrows. The set of his jaw or the harsh twist of his lush mouth. Whatever it is, I have to force my eyes away from him and back to my boss’s face. Which is pained. Whatever the bad news is, it involves this man. And that makes sense because no matter what happens next, I already know he’s bad news for me. “Preston,” Hanna says, “this is Natalie Archer. I’ve, er, hired her to be Hott Springs Eternal’s activities coordinator.” His scowl deepens, making my heart beat faster, out of both fear and lust. “That’s unfortunate,” he says. Yikes. Nice to meet you, too, Preston. 
GIVEAWAY! -- |
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