BOOK BLAST: “The Road to Montepulciano” by Garrick Jones.

BOOK BLAST

Book Title: The Road to
Montepulciano

Author: Garrick
Jones

Publisher: Moshpit
Publications

Cover Artist: Garrick
Jones

Release Date: September 19,
2023

Genre: Crime Thriller/Historical Fiction

Themes: Sowing one’s oats; Finding Mr. Right; Acceptance in
community

Heat Rating: 5 flames

Length: 140 500 words/ 393
pages (paperback version)

It is a standalone book and
d
oes not end on a cliffhanger.

Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon AU | Smashwords

Blurb

Two years after finishing his tour of duty in the

Occupational Forces in Japan, Damson O’Reilly arrives in Siena, Italy. Sight-unseen at a local
auction, he buys an abandoned Tuscan farmhouse in which he aims to write, paint, and start
a new life.

The house, passed over at auction, becomes an
impulse buy when it’s put up for a final time. He’s prepared for a semi-ruin, happy to turn his
hand to renovating the house—however, what he’s totally unprepared for are three dead
bodies, one of which he stumbles over when he arrives at La Mensola, the name of his
isolated farmhouse on the road between Siena and Montepulciano.


Against the backdrop of a series of grisly murders,
The Road to Montepulciano is the story of a young man, still suffering the scars of war, who,
despite betrayal of trust and surrounded by a complex web of lies, finds friendship, love and
the warmth of community.

Excerpt

I was lying in bed listening to Donati potter around in the
kitchen for a few minutes, trying to make up my mind whether or not to get out of bed. I
checked my watch: half past five. It was still dark outside—it wouldn’t start getting light for
another three-quarters of an hour.

He had to know, I thought, reflecting on the whole of last
evening. He must have guessed that I was queer, otherwise what had happened wouldn’t
have taken place. We’d have washed separately, each waiting in our rooms until the other
had finished, then continued to drink, play cards and behave like kids, but with our clothes
on … or at least our underwear.

Some people just seemed to know it about me, although I
wasn’t aware that I’d ever telegraphed where my preferences lay. A few times during the
war I’d found myself on the receiving end of some very not-so-subtle advances quite out of
the blue, far more forthright than the almost imperceptible, ever-so-slightly charged evening
I’d enjoyed last night. And as for him? Well, I wasn’t sure just yet. There was something
though that made me wonder: a frequent holding of eye contact, as if he was trying to
discover what I was thinking, always breaking away abruptly with a soft smile on his face.

I’d never been able to recognise who was one of the tribe
like some of my bedfellows, although at the same time I’d never been shy to leap at an
opportunity when it offered itself up. But I found it hard to initiate things. Usually I’d wait
until the other person either made a move or gave me a sign that he was interested in more
than passing the time of day.

I’d heard Italian men were basically open to
anything—whether that was true or not, I had no idea. Maybe Donati was just a regular man
who liked a bit of variety every so often—I’d met a few of those—or maybe he was just like
me: lonely and looking for a friend.

Deciding to finally get up, I’d barely thrown back the sheet
and sat up, my feet drawn up and knees splayed while I leaned over, searching for my
cigarettes—which for some strange reason I’d thrown into my haversack last night—when
Renzo walked into the room with a demitasse in each hand. The smell of the coffee made my
stomach grumble.

He was naked too. It seemed that clothing was to be an
optional extra during my stay … I returned his smile.

Buongiorno, Damson,” he said, handing
one of the cups to me, then sat in the middle of the bed, one of his legs at an angle, the
knee resting on my foot.

Buongiorno, Renzo. You. Sleep.
Good?”

Hai dormito
bene?
” he corrected my Italian, saying the
words slowly, twirling his finger in the air to encourage me to repeat the correct version.

“In English?” Renzo asked after I’d got it right.

“Did you sleep well?”

When he repeated the words, he made a pretty good fist of
it, so I held out my hand. The shake happened directly over my crotch, mainly because
having finished his coffee he’d stretched out over the bed. It was obvious that my genitals
were right in front of his face, but his eyes hadn’t flicked away from my own, despite his
Cheshire cat grin. This time I was the first to break eye contact, playfully nudging his
shoulder with my foot, then reaching for my cigarettes once more.

We chatted for a while, trying out words with each other
while smoking, Renzo idly playing with the hair trail below his navel while we traded
vocabulary for items in the room. Then, after we’d given each other a lesson on conjugating
the present tense of the verb “to be” in our own languages, I checked my watch. “Is that the
time?” I said in English. I jumped out of bed, pulling on my only pair of slacks and grabbing a
white American T-shirt from my haversack. It was wrinkled, but there was nothing I could do
about it.

“No …?” he asked, making a plucking gesture at his waist
with his thumb.

Damn, I’d been so distracted that I’d forgotten. Pulling off
my trousers, I rummaged in my backpack again and found a pair of Y-fronts—they were a
French brand and fairly new on the market. I usually washed my smalls every night, but
there’d been too much going on and it had slipped my mind

Renzo whistled as I pulled them on, watching as I put my
hand down inside the front of the waistband and adjusted myself in the pouch before pulling
on my trousers once more.

“You. Like?” I asked.

He nodded, so I found another pair, still in its packet, and
threw them to him. “Go ahead,” I said, while pulling on my socks, then lacing my canvas
shoes.

He undid the packet, swung his legs off the bed, put both
feet in the underpants, then, as he stood up, pulled them up, turning to look at his arse in
the mirror of the wardrobe. “
Che bel
culo
,” he said, winking over his shoulder at
me.

I laughed. That phrase I did understand, and he did have a
very nice arse.

About the Author

From the outback to the
opera.

After a thirty-year career as a
professional opera singer, performing as a soloist in opera houses and in concert halls all
over the world, I took up a position as lecturer in music in Australia in 1999, at the Central
Queensland Conservatorium of Music, which is now part of CQ University.

Brought up in Australia,
between the bush and the beaches of the Eastern suburbs, I retired in 2015 and now live in
the tropics, writing, gardening, and finally finding time to enjoy life and to re-establish a
connection with who I am after a very busy career on the stage and as an
academic.

Author Links

Blog/Website |
Facebook | Twitter |
Instagram

Pinterest | Newsletter Sign-up

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Continue ReadingBOOK BLAST: “The Road to Montepulciano” by Garrick Jones.

RELEASE BLITZ: “The Scars of Life” by David Blyth

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: The Scars of
Life

Author and Publisher: David
Blyth

Cover Artist: David
Blyth

Release Date: June 1,
2023

Genre: Contemporary Romance/Literary Fiction,
mystery/suspense

Tropes: Sexual identity, bisexuality, forbidden love

Themes: Psychological twist, mystery, family drama

Trigger Warning:
Supplementary themes involve sexual identity and a teenage incestuous occurrence: neither
are covered in detail, or described graphically, as they were ‘incidents’ rather than
relationships, though they have an impact on the development of the narrative.

Heat Rating: 2 – 3 flames

Length: 95 000 words/362
pages

It is a standalone story and
d
oes not end on a cliffhanger.

It has a HEA of sorts – it fits
vaguely into the romance genre with a lot of psychological suspense and mystery
interwoven.

Goodreads

Buy Links – Available in Kindle
Unlimited

Amazon US | Amazon UK

Paperback also available from
Barnes and Noble

A troubled mind, a
dysfunctional love story, a psychological twist….

Blurb

Paul
Somerfield, a young journalist for Planet Earth magazine, shares a brief
friendship with the enigmatic Mike Stokes during an assignment in Devon. It leads to a
disruptive fascination and a reluctant complicity in events that evolve from Mike’s tragic
past.

On a journey
where emotions influence his brittle control, Paul pursues the truth. But the truth has many
disguises which disrupt his relationships, his rationality and his life.

A reminder of how fragile the stability of love and trust can
be: a journey that follows fear and doubt as they steer lives into a downward spiral of
destruction.

Excerpt

(To place in context: Paul (the main character) has just taken a trip over the moors
(Dartmoor, Devon, UK) with Mike (the mysterious second character) who he met just a few
days ago and befriended).

After a few minutes, with the sun transferring energy to
untanned skin, Paul plunged forward to swim towards the opposite bank. Standing up in the
shallow water, his gaze rested on his friend still stretched out below him. Mike’s eyes
remained closed, the gentle rise and fall of breath the only movement in his body. He could
almost have been asleep, but Paul knew he was not, and equally certain of Mike’s awareness
of a close observer, perhaps another gift to them both from the custodian of the paradise
who chose to share it. Paul was neither embarrassed nor aroused by the hedonic posture,
which perfectly balanced the equilibrium, complimenting the setting. He only felt
gratitude.

Time slowed to allow appreciation of the scene. Eventually,
with reluctance lest the spell be broken, Paul spoke again, “You need another cold dip,
mate.” The words were an intrusion. He strained to speak at all. An atmosphere of
expectancy subdued his responses.

Mike remained silent. As he turned his head, his eyes filled
with a remote but compelling vision. Paul was a prisoner to that gaze. The surroundings
drifted out of focus as the man held out a hand in an undeniable gesture of
reception.

The sensual element formed a command. With water
lapping knees, he leaned as fingers enclosed one arm in a soft grip. Mike’s eyes held a silent
appeal. It defied refusal. Legs felt weak, folded, he fell forward, his free hand placed near
Mike’s shoulder.

“Mike….” Words came like sobs from his lips, “I … I don’t … I
can’t….” He took shattered breaths, which formed around, “I’m sorry….”

Steady hands cradled his bowed head in a gentle caress.
Wet hair supplemented the tears that unmanned him. The softest touches of Mike’s fingers
smoothed them from his cheeks.

“Get out of the water, Paul.” Words almost whispered, close
to his ear, with barely disguised authority.

Paul responded, unconsciously, climbing onto the
stone.

Lines of sweat blurred his eyes. The atmosphere, heavy
with anticipation, directed his senses, regulated his responses. Or, a will projected from a
powerful force far below him, buried in the rock beneath. The body below him appeared
able to harness that power without the need for physical participation. Paul, aware of the
reaction of his own body to so sensual a situation, was powerless to subdue it. His skin
absorbed the life below with every touch. Nerves ignited with every caress. His senses
stimulated by conduction from another’s, as the strained form below him ascended the
pinnacles of climactic rapture. Salt tears and sweat, sun warmed skin against his lips, shared
breaths of confined desire; the noise of life pounding at his ear, the considerate grip of
passion embracing him with a bond of impregnability. All volition was gone.

Suddenly, as though perpetrated by a violent act upon the
man below him, the body became still. Only Mike’s relaxed breathing convinced Paul he was
innocent of such a deed. Time was striving to catch up with its unnatural stagnancy. A stale
memory of desire stained his mind like a contamination of his thoughts; the fruit of an
unguarded crop of passion, which left behind the bitterest aftertaste.

Paul stared at the slope they walked down earlier. Then he
stood, turned, and dived back into the water. He held no immediate aspiration to emerge
from that tranquil medium, doing so only when the pain in his chest forced him to return to
reality. Thrusting his feet towards the bed of the stream, he launched to the surface, gasping
for air. The vision that met his eyes when his violent breaths had calmed was of a dream
shattered. The picture was not as it appeared earlier. The sky painted a tormented brown.
The breathtaking scene, transformed to a bleak and forlorn landscape. Air and water around
him, tainted with pollution.

Turning his eyes across the water, he saw Mike walking up
the slope wearing his shorts, boots held by their laces in one hand, his T-shirt trailing from
the other and dragged along the grass. Swimming to the bank, reaching his clothes, he
fought jeans over a wet body and slipped on his shoes. Grasping his shirt and camera bag, he
stumbled up the slope in his haste. “Mike! Wait!” he called in a weak voice, breathing hard.
The man did not respond to his cry. Catching up as they entered the trees, he reached out to
the man’s shoulder, halting his progress.

Mike turned, a hard, almost pitiless stare, as he looked
deep into Paul’s eyes.

For a moment, Paul was unable to speak. So intense a
visage, it took away what little breath he had left. “You bastard! Don’t walk away from me as
though your dignity’s been bruised.” He dropped his shirt and bag to his feet, and braced
both hands on his knees. Breathing heavily, he waited for some reaction.

“Don’t lecture me about dignity.” The man answered,
sharply.

He felt a consuming fury growing within. Standing again,
Paul received a harsh look of accusation. As anger conquered instincts, he swung a clenched
fist towards the man’s head. The punch found its target, striking a heavy blow to the jaw.
Mike made no attempt to avoid the impact; blood soon appeared between his lips, trailing
down the side of his chin. He stood motionless, looking into the eyes of his assailant. Paul
remained poised, as though prepared to deliver another attack. Yet, in reality, he’d been
stunned by the recognition of his actions. Mike’s eyes never flinched as he reached towards
the fist, then enclosed it in a strong grip. Paul stood, mentally helpless and physically
defeated, as the man lowered the arm back to his side.

“Paul, let’s go home.” The expression on his face softened
before he turned to walk ahead.

About the Author

David Blyth was born in
Staffordshire, in the UK. He graduated from Nottingham and Wolverhampton
Universities.

He lived for many years in
South Africa, where he witnessed the political and social transformation during and after
apartheid.

His interests, apart from
writing, include anything that helps him to stay relatively sane.

The Scars of
Life
was written during a two-year overland
exploration of southern, central and east Africa; much was achieved sitting under the shade
of a huge mango tree on the shores of Lake Malawi, always with a beer near at
hand.

Separate
Development
, which is in fact his second novel,
though published first, was written at his home in the English Midlands.

He is currently working on his
third.

Social Media Links

Blog/Website | Facebook Profile | Facebook Author Page

Giveaway

Enter the Rafflecopter
Giveaway for a chance to w
in

an ebook copy of The Scars of
Life and Separate Development.

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Rafflecopter giveaway

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Continue ReadingRELEASE BLITZ: “The Scars of Life” by David Blyth

RELEASE BLITZ: “The Scars of Life” by David Blyth

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: The Scars of
Life

Author and Publisher: David
Blyth

Cover Artist: David
Blyth

Release Date: June 1,
2023

Genre: Contemporary Romance/Literary Fiction,
mystery/suspense

Tropes: Sexual identity, bisexuality, forbidden love

Themes: Psychological twist, mystery, family drama

Trigger Warning:
Supplementary themes involve sexual identity and a teenage incestuous occurrence: neither
are covered in detail, or described graphically, as they were ‘incidents’ rather than
relationships, though they have an impact on the development of the narrative.

Heat Rating: 2 – 3 flames

Length: 95 000 words/362
pages

It is a standalone story and
d
oes not end on a cliffhanger.

It has a HEA of sorts – it fits
vaguely into the romance genre with a lot of psychological suspense and mystery
interwoven.

Goodreads

Buy Links – Available in Kindle
Unlimited

Amazon US | Amazon UK

Paperback also available from
Barnes and Noble

A troubled mind, a
dysfunctional love story, a psychological twist….

Blurb

Paul
Somerfield, a young journalist for Planet Earth magazine, shares a brief
friendship with the enigmatic Mike Stokes during an assignment in Devon. It leads to a
disruptive fascination and a reluctant complicity in events that evolve from Mike’s tragic
past.

On a journey
where emotions influence his brittle control, Paul pursues the truth. But the truth has many
disguises which disrupt his relationships, his rationality and his life.

A reminder of how fragile the stability of love and trust can
be: a journey that follows fear and doubt as they steer lives into a downward spiral of
destruction.

Excerpt

(To place in context: Paul (the main character) has just taken a trip over the moors
(Dartmoor, Devon, UK) with Mike (the mysterious second character) who he met just a few
days ago and befriended).

After a few minutes, with the sun transferring energy to
untanned skin, Paul plunged forward to swim towards the opposite bank. Standing up in the
shallow water, his gaze rested on his friend still stretched out below him. Mike’s eyes
remained closed, the gentle rise and fall of breath the only movement in his body. He could
almost have been asleep, but Paul knew he was not, and equally certain of Mike’s awareness
of a close observer, perhaps another gift to them both from the custodian of the paradise
who chose to share it. Paul was neither embarrassed nor aroused by the hedonic posture,
which perfectly balanced the equilibrium, complimenting the setting. He only felt
gratitude.

Time slowed to allow appreciation of the scene. Eventually,
with reluctance lest the spell be broken, Paul spoke again, “You need another cold dip,
mate.” The words were an intrusion. He strained to speak at all. An atmosphere of
expectancy subdued his responses.

Mike remained silent. As he turned his head, his eyes filled
with a remote but compelling vision. Paul was a prisoner to that gaze. The surroundings
drifted out of focus as the man held out a hand in an undeniable gesture of
reception.

The sensual element formed a command. With water
lapping knees, he leaned as fingers enclosed one arm in a soft grip. Mike’s eyes held a silent
appeal. It defied refusal. Legs felt weak, folded, he fell forward, his free hand placed near
Mike’s shoulder.

“Mike….” Words came like sobs from his lips, “I … I don’t … I
can’t….” He took shattered breaths, which formed around, “I’m sorry….”

Steady hands cradled his bowed head in a gentle caress.
Wet hair supplemented the tears that unmanned him. The softest touches of Mike’s fingers
smoothed them from his cheeks.

“Get out of the water, Paul.” Words almost whispered, close
to his ear, with barely disguised authority.

Paul responded, unconsciously, climbing onto the
stone.

Lines of sweat blurred his eyes. The atmosphere, heavy
with anticipation, directed his senses, regulated his responses. Or, a will projected from a
powerful force far below him, buried in the rock beneath. The body below him appeared
able to harness that power without the need for physical participation. Paul, aware of the
reaction of his own body to so sensual a situation, was powerless to subdue it. His skin
absorbed the life below with every touch. Nerves ignited with every caress. His senses
stimulated by conduction from another’s, as the strained form below him ascended the
pinnacles of climactic rapture. Salt tears and sweat, sun warmed skin against his lips, shared
breaths of confined desire; the noise of life pounding at his ear, the considerate grip of
passion embracing him with a bond of impregnability. All volition was gone.

Suddenly, as though perpetrated by a violent act upon the
man below him, the body became still. Only Mike’s relaxed breathing convinced Paul he was
innocent of such a deed. Time was striving to catch up with its unnatural stagnancy. A stale
memory of desire stained his mind like a contamination of his thoughts; the fruit of an
unguarded crop of passion, which left behind the bitterest aftertaste.

Paul stared at the slope they walked down earlier. Then he
stood, turned, and dived back into the water. He held no immediate aspiration to emerge
from that tranquil medium, doing so only when the pain in his chest forced him to return to
reality. Thrusting his feet towards the bed of the stream, he launched to the surface, gasping
for air. The vision that met his eyes when his violent breaths had calmed was of a dream
shattered. The picture was not as it appeared earlier. The sky painted a tormented brown.
The breathtaking scene, transformed to a bleak and forlorn landscape. Air and water around
him, tainted with pollution.

Turning his eyes across the water, he saw Mike walking up
the slope wearing his shorts, boots held by their laces in one hand, his T-shirt trailing from
the other and dragged along the grass. Swimming to the bank, reaching his clothes, he
fought jeans over a wet body and slipped on his shoes. Grasping his shirt and camera bag, he
stumbled up the slope in his haste. “Mike! Wait!” he called in a weak voice, breathing hard.
The man did not respond to his cry. Catching up as they entered the trees, he reached out to
the man’s shoulder, halting his progress.

Mike turned, a hard, almost pitiless stare, as he looked
deep into Paul’s eyes.

For a moment, Paul was unable to speak. So intense a
visage, it took away what little breath he had left. “You bastard! Don’t walk away from me as
though your dignity’s been bruised.” He dropped his shirt and bag to his feet, and braced
both hands on his knees. Breathing heavily, he waited for some reaction.

“Don’t lecture me about dignity.” The man answered,
sharply.

He felt a consuming fury growing within. Standing again,
Paul received a harsh look of accusation. As anger conquered instincts, he swung a clenched
fist towards the man’s head. The punch found its target, striking a heavy blow to the jaw.
Mike made no attempt to avoid the impact; blood soon appeared between his lips, trailing
down the side of his chin. He stood motionless, looking into the eyes of his assailant. Paul
remained poised, as though prepared to deliver another attack. Yet, in reality, he’d been
stunned by the recognition of his actions. Mike’s eyes never flinched as he reached towards
the fist, then enclosed it in a strong grip. Paul stood, mentally helpless and physically
defeated, as the man lowered the arm back to his side.

“Paul, let’s go home.” The expression on his face softened
before he turned to walk ahead.

About the Author

David Blyth was born in
Staffordshire, in the UK. He graduated from Nottingham and Wolverhampton
Universities.

He lived for many years in
South Africa, where he witnessed the political and social transformation during and after
apartheid.

His interests, apart from
writing, include anything that helps him to stay relatively sane.

The Scars of
Life
was written during a two-year overland
exploration of southern, central and east Africa; much was achieved sitting under the shade
of a huge mango tree on the shores of Lake Malawi, always with a beer near at
hand.

Separate
Development
, which is in fact his second novel,
though published first, was written at his home in the English Midlands.

He is currently working on his
third.

Social Media Links

Blog/Website | Facebook Profile | Facebook Author Page

Giveaway

Enter the Rafflecopter
Giveaway for a chance to w
in

an ebook copy of The Scars of
Life and Separate Development.

a
Rafflecopter giveaway

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Continue ReadingRELEASE BLITZ: “The Scars of Life” by David Blyth

COVER REVEAL: “Prelude to Decay” by Amy Tasukada”

COVER REVEAL

Book Title: The Yakuza Path: Prelude to
Decay

Author: Amy Tasukada

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Release Date: Newsletter Serial – The first chapter
goes out to subscribers on June 1

Genres: Thriller, gay romance, suspense

Tropes: organized crime, boss/ secretary, angst

Themes: relationships are hard, thriller, mystery,
suspense

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: To be determined

It is a standalone story, but it is best enjoyed as part
of the series

It does not end on a cliffhanger.

FREE monthly Serial of Amy’s latest
book.

Only newsletter subscribers will be able to
read the story.

Exclusive newsletter serial sign-up link:

https://www.amytasukada.com/free-stuff/

A dead prostitute. A mysterious meeting. And a
retiring cop set on righting past wrongs…

Blurb

Kyoto mafia don Nao Murata is enjoying a quiet reign. Now that his boyfriend,
Aki Hisona, has a clean bill of health, they can finally have some much-needed intimate time.
If only a persistent detective wasn’t about to throw a wrench in those plans.

Aki’s ready to fully consummate their relationship, but Nao doesn’t appreciate
his scandalous flirting in the office. Being left alone to deal with one of Nao’s top men, Aki
ends up learning about a secret that puts a crack in Nao’s control.

Amidst worries about whether they’re as compatible between the sheets as
they are on the streets, Nao and Aki are forced to work with the police to cement Nao’s
reign. As the secret begins to unravel, they’re pulled deeper into a treacherous game of cat
and mouse.

Now it’s no longer just their love life they have to fight for…

Prelude to Decay is the seventh book of The Yakuza Path thriller series. If you enjoy gripping
suspense, authentic Japanese traditions, and a healthy dose of gay drama, then you’ll
devour Amy Tasukada’s latest instalment.

 

About the Author

International best-selling
author Amy Tasukada writes thrilling times of crime, love, and gore. Readers who crave
diverse characters, unique settings, and edge-of-your-seat action will devour her
Yakuza Path series. Readers who seek less blood and more love will swoon over the
Yakuza Path Romance and Would it Be Okay
to Love You?
Series. Amy is an atheist, queer
author who enjoys drinking tea, Japanese street fashion and visual kei music. Her calico cat,
O’Hara, is never far from her side. Amy lives in North Texas, but is always planning her next
trip to Japan.

 

Author Links

Blog/Website
|
Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

Newsletter Sign-up (FREE
chapter of an exclusive story sent every month)

 

 

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Continue ReadingCOVER REVEAL: “Prelude to Decay” by Amy Tasukada”

AUDIOBOOK TOUR: “No Surrender” by Morgan Brice.

AUDIOBOOK TOUR

Book Title: No
Surrender (Badlands 5) An MM Psychic Detective Romance Adventure

Author: Morgan
Brice

Publisher: Darkwind
Press

Narrator: Kale
Williams

Release Date: March 21,
2023

Genre: Paranormal MM romance, MM Psychic Detective Romance
Adventure

Tropes: evolving established relationship, hurt/comfort,
grumpy/sunshine

Themes: letting go of the past, dealing with old guilt, forgiveness, facing
tough times together, trust

Heat Rating: 5 flames

Length: 6 hours and 14
minutes

It is a standalone story, but
also part of a series. It d
oes not end on a
cliffhanger.

Goodreads

Buy Links

Audible US | Audible UK | Amazon US | Audiobooks.com

Cold cases, hot leads, a
psychic psychopath, a copycat killer, cursed objects, the trial of the century—and wedding
plans.

Blurb

Cold cases, hot leads, a psychic psychopath, a copycat killer,
cursed objects, the trial of the century—and wedding plans.

Psychic medium Simon Kincaide and sexy homicide
detective Vic D’Amato met hunting a supernatural serial killer. Since then, Simon has
become a police consultant on cases involving the paranormal, and Vic has gotten over his
doubts about Simon’s abilities being real. Along the way, they fell in love and got engaged.
But it seems like the danger never ends.

Now, the first case Simon and Vic worked together comes
back to haunt them as the killer goes to court and all hell breaks loose. The killer has a crazy
fan setting curses on key players in the upcoming trial. Ghosts from an old cold case suggest
that someone got away with murder. And a supernatural creature attracted to fear and
death is using the Grand Strand as its feeding ground. Simon and Vic feel like they’re waging
a war on all fronts, but with the stakes so high, there can be No Surrender!

About the Author

Morgan Brice is the romance
pen name of bestselling author Gail Z. Martin. Morgan writes urban fantasy male/male
paranormal romance, with plenty of action, adventure and supernatural thrills to go with the
happily ever after. Gail writes epic fantasy and urban fantasy, and together with co-author
hubby Larry N. Martin, steampunk and comedic horror, all of which have less romance, more
explosions. Characters from her Gail books make frequent appearances in secondary roles in
her Morgan books, and vice versa.

On the rare occasions Morgan
isn’t writing, she’s either reading, cooking, or spoiling two very pampered dogs.

Series include
Witchbane, Badlands, Treasure Trail, Kings of the Mountain and Fox Hollow. Watch for more
in these series, plus new series coming soon!

Author Links

Website |
Audible Profile | Amazon profile

Facebook Group | Facebook Page

Pinterest (for Morgan and Gail) | Twitter


BookBub
|
Instagram

Sign up for my newsletter and never miss a
new release

Read a copy of my
Badlands short story Restless Nights here for free

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Continue ReadingAUDIOBOOK TOUR: “No Surrender” by Morgan Brice.

RELEASE BLITZ: “Deep Waters” by Thom Collins. Rafflecopter Giveaway Included!

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Deep
Waters

Author: Thom
Collins

Publisher: Pride
Publishing

Cover Artist: Kelly
Martin

Release Date: December 27,
2022

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance, thriller and suspense

Tropes: Murder mystery, small town, coastal romance

Themes: Secret lives, seeking justice, danger at sea

Heat Rating: 3 – 4
flames

Length: 61 740 words/ 262
pages

It is a standalone story. The
third book in a linked
Jagged Shores series
but can be read alone.

It does not end on a
cliffhanger.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available in Kindle
Unlimited

Universal
link
|
Publisher |
First For Romance

In search of a story, he
found murder and romance.

 

Blurb

Author Christian Costner is researching material for one of
his dark thrillers and Nyemouth seems like the perfect setting for his next book. The small
seaside town has witnessed plenty of trouble over the years, and Christian thinks it will
provide him with the inspiration he needs.

He hires local tour guide and fisherman Harry Renner to
help him explore the coastline for a couple of days. Harry is knowledgeable and mature
beyond his twenty-eight years. Handsome too, though Christian thinks Harry is far too young
for him..

As the weather worsens, Harry cuts short their first sight-
seeing trip. Heading back to shore they spot a figure in distress in the water. A difficult
rescue is made far worse when they discover the casualty has a knife wound to his abdomen
and dies before they reach the safety of the harbour.

United by the trauma, Christian and Harry find comfort in
each other, but when another murder comes to light, they find themselves at the heart of a
dangerous mystery and the target of a killer more ruthless than they could ever
imagine.

 

Excerpt

Harry went to the bar. He didn’t know the bartender so
didn’t have to face another barrage of questions about Niko’s death. “Two of whatever these
were,” he said, holding up the empty tumblers. “Make them doubles.”

He glanced over his shoulder as he waited. Christian gazed
into the fire, looking lost in his thoughts. What was it about him? Just this morning Harry
had dismissed him as being far too old, but the more time he spent with him and talked to
him, Christian’s appeal grew stronger.
He can’t
be that old, anyway
, he reasoned. Ten, maybe
eleven years older than he was. It wasn’t like fancying someone his dad’s age.

Of course, Harry knew what really drove this new attraction
to Christian.

Death.

He’d learned from his time in the lifeboat how sex and
death went hand in hand. He had taken part in three failed rescues when he was a member
of the crew and afterwards he had always wanted sex. It wasn’t unusual. He’d even read an
article about it—how sex helped people to feel alive after a clash with mortality.

Is that what this is? Do I only fancy him because we
didn’t save Niko?

As he carried the drinks back to the fire, Harry realised just
how much he did want Christian. They had been through a gruelling experience. What better
comfort could there be than each other’s bodies? He didn’t want to go back to his flat on his
own and wondered whether Christian felt the same about his lonely hotel room.

Fuck it. One more drink and I’ll ask him. The worst he
can say is no.

Christian lifted his gaze from the flames when he returned.
Their eyes connected and, just for a second, a hint of a smile. “Thanks,” he said, accepting
the drink.

“Is this your favourite tipple? Whisky?” he asked, sitting
down.

“Sometimes. It depends on my mood. But at the end of the
night, when I want to unwind, it’s the best. I always bring a bottle with me when I’m working
away—for a nightcap.”

Their eyes locked again, and Harry wondered if there had
been a hint of an invitation in the last remark.
Or
is it just wishful thinking?

He had never been good at reading signals.

“What’s your hotel like?” he asked in a rush. “I’ve had a
drink at the bar in Quay House, but I’ve never been upstairs.”

Christian’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Oh shit. I’ve judged this all wrong.

Then he smiled. “It’s nice. I’ve got a good-sized room that
overlooks the harbour. Actually, it’s pretty great.” He sipped. “You’re welcome to come up, if
you’d like to look around. I could also give you that nightcap.”

Harry’s pulse quickened, and a stiffness developed in his
groin. “I’d love to.”

This morning he’d been so dismissive about Christian
because of his age, and now there was nothing he wanted more than to spend the night in
his protective embrace.

 

 

About the Author

 

Thom Collins is the author of
Closer by Morning, North
Point
and the Anthem Trilogy. His love of page
turning thrillers began at an early age when his mother caught him reading the latest Jackie
Collins book and confiscated it, sparking a life-long love of raunchy novels.

Thom has lived in the North
East of England his whole life. He grew up in Northumberland and now lives in County
Durham with his husband and two cats. He loves all kinds of genre fiction, especially bonk-
busters, thrillers, romance and horror. He is also a cookery book addict with far too many
titles cluttering his shelves. When not writing he can be found in the kitchen trying out new
recipes. He’s a keen traveler but with a fear of flying that gets worse with age, but in 2013 he
realized cruising is the best way to see the world.

Check out his website for news updates and a free ebook, The Night.

 

Other links

Twitter:
@thomwolf
|
Instagram: thomcollinsauthor | Newsletter Sign-up

 

Giveaway

Enter the Rafflecopter
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one of 5 ebook copies
of Deep Waters

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RELEASE BLITZ: “The Reaper” by Rae Scott.

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: The
Reaper

Author: Rae
Scott

Publisher: Page
Publishing

Release Date: November 3,
2022

Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Crime

Tropes: Vigilante justice/ Victims no one will miss/ The one you least
expect

Themes: Good vs Evil, Life or Death

Heat Rating: No
heat

Length: 188 pages/ 60 000
words

It is a standalone story and
d
oes not end on a cliffhanger.

Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US | Amazon UK |
B&N

Reap what you have sown.

Blurb

Fear not those who are innocent, for I shall cause you no
harm. I seek out only those who have yet to pay for their sins. Fear me if you have no

remorse, for I am the Reaper, and I will ensure that you reap what you have
sewn.

The serial killer known as The Reaper is loose on the streets
of Norfolk. Its victims have two things in common: They have each hurt a child but served
little to no time in jail for it and none of them regret their actions.

Detective Mel Tanner is close to retirement when she is
assigned to investigate a murder that leads her in a hunt for the serial killer known as The
Reaper. As a seasoned homicide detective of fifteen years, she now finds herself jaded and
unfeeling to the atrocities that she has had to witness every day.

When rookie Detective Nat Petrov lands her dream
assignment, to work with the best Detective in Norfolk, she is thrown headfirst into The
Reaper’s perverse sense of justice. The Detectives race against the clock as body after body
turns up with the signature Grim Reaper tarot card, each life ended in a way specifically
designed for the individual victim. Will the detectives be able to catch a twisted serial killer
before time runs out or will The Reaper exact revenge in a way more personal than anyone
could have ever fathomed?

Excerpt

Michael watched with a sense of foreboding as the masked
figure in the black cloak stood looking down at the various items on the table, fear of the
unknown beginning to take hold of him. A thousand thoughts and images ran through his
mind as he tried to work out the reason for why he was there on that table, but as hard as
he tried, he couldn’t come up with a single explanation for his circumstances. He tried to
figure out who his captor might be, but the only name he could come up with was the Grim
Reaper, because that’s what his captor looked like. The Reaper came back and held a card in
front of his face with its left hand. It was a three-by-five-inch tarot card, and on it was a
picture of the Grim Reaper. Michael felt the color drain from his face. The Reaper pulled the
card away and with its right hand, held up a laminated newspaper clipping for him to read.
Michael Fitzpatrick received a six-month
sentence for the beating death of his then-girlfriend’s six-year-old son. Questions on the
mishandling of evidence dropping the charges from murder to child abuse
.

His stomach dropped. “I did my time for that,” he said, his
voice shaking with dread. Out of nowhere, his captor’s fist came swinging down hitting him
square on his nose. The sound of his nose breaking resonated loudly in his ears. Instantly his
eyes began to water, and blood began flowing down his throat. He tried to turn his head so
he could spit the coppery-tasting substance from his mouth, but the Reaper held him still,
forcing Michael to swallow the thick fluid. The Reaper slowly shook its head from side to
side. Fear of repercussions should he move kept him still and motionless even when his
captor went back to the table again.

When the Reaper returned, he was shown another news
article. This one detailing all fifty-three injuries the boy had sustained by him during a
drunken rage. While he read the article, tears spilled from Michael’s eyes in earnest as he
finally realized that he wasn’t going to get out of this room alive. Again, his captor went to
the table, returned the news article, and came back to look down at him with its unblinking
gaze. It held the Grim Reaper’s card up to him again, only this time it showed him the
message that had been written on the back of the card. Swallowing several times to clear
the blood from throat, Michael read it out loud, “Fear not those who are innocent, for I shall
cause you no harm. I seek out only those who have yet to pay for their sins. Fear me if you
have no remorse, for I am the Reaper, and I will ensure that you reap what you have sewn.”
Michael looked from the card to the Reaper, tears flowing down his cheeks as he begged for
his life. “Please, no. I did my time for that. I would never have hurt him if I hadn’t been
drunk. It wasn’t my fault. She knows how I am when I get drunk. She should have kept him
quiet and away from me.”

The Reaper placed the card on Michael’s chest and shook
its head. With its other hand, the Reaper slowly lifted up a ball-peen hammer, holding it in
front of Michael’s face so he could see it, the intention clear.

“Please, no. I’m sorry,” Michael sobbed, frantically pulling
against his bindings as panic began to take over.

The Reaper slowly turned and walked around the table until
it was standing next to Michael’s right knee. As the hammer was steadily raised over its
head, the Reaper looked down into Michael’s eyes.

He didn’t feel the wetness pooling around him as his
bladder released nor the pain of the restraints as they cut into his already raw and bleeding
skin. The only thing he felt was pure unadulterated terror. “No, please! You don’t
understand!”

The Reaper tilted its head, the hammer still hovering high in
the air over Michael’s knee and placed one black-gloved finger to its mouth.
Shhh. It said as the hammer came down hard, shattering his kneecap.

About the
Author

Born in New England, Rae
Scott spent her childhood hiking, fishing, and enjoying the outdoor life inherent to the area.
This love of adventure led her to travel the world in a quest to discover new and exciting
things, feeding her thirst for knowledge and creativity that she now draws on for her books.
In between her travels, she can be found on her porch in Virginia with her family coming up
with new ideas as to where their next adventure will take them.

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BOOK BLAST: “The Grocers’ Son” by Garrick Jones

BOOK BLAST

Book Title: The Grocers’
Son

Author: Garrick
Jones

Publisher: MoshPit
Publishing

Cover Artist: Garrick
Jones

Release Date: September 21,
2022

Genres: Crime Fiction;
Detective; Thriller

Tropes: Lost lovers
reunited

Themes: The strength of relationships over time; What one will do for
love

Heat Rating: 2 flames

Length: 138 629 words/ 422
pages (paperback)

It is a standalone book and
the third book in the Clyde Smith Mystery series.

It does not end on a cliffhanger.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links

Amazon AU | Amazon
US
| Amazon UK | Smashwords

 

 

Blurb

“I swear to God it was Willoughby. My brother stood not
two feet away from me, called me Lina to my face, and pulled Harley into his arms, saying he
was sorry, sobbing, and calling him his boy.”

An apparition in Sydney’s fruit and vegetable market leaves
the mother of one of Clyde’s best friends believing that her brother, hanged for murder
twenty-four years beforehand, has somehow risen from the grave and confronted
her.

She is adamant that the visitation was real and visits Clyde
asking him to investigate the mass murder her brother was supposed to have committed.
She believes he was either set up or was covering for someone else’s crime.

Could this vision have been a folie à deux, a delusional
vision shared by both mother and son? As Clyde investigates, clues lead him to one of
Australia’s most famous silent screen actors, a man who, together with his murdered father,
becomes intrinsically linked to the mass murder, known as The Killing at Candal
Creek.

Wheels within wheels, lies, extortion, and coverups lead
Clyde to a bloody confrontation on a deserted beach in the tropics. This time, it’s not only
his own life at risk but also that of one of his most valued and closest friends.

 

Excerpt

I was in my “puzzle room” when I heard Harry’s cooee from
the front door.

I called it a puzzle room because that’s the phrase we’d
used during the war to describe a safe place where we could discuss plans, devise strategies,
and toss ideas around. Mine was my bathroom, lying on my back in the bath with the lights
out and the shower falling onto my legs, the only illumination from the flickering blue light
of the gas geyser. After eating dinner, I’d listened to Mama Lena’s
Arrivederci Roma
radio programme then had got stuck into some research on Elwood Pearson.

I could hear Harry clunking around in the hallway. “I’m in
here!” I called out.

“I know!” he responded, then appeared in the doorway,
totally naked except for the black bow tie around his neck and wearing his socks and
garters.

“What happened to the master of the house looking for the
lazy footman?” I said, laughing because I could see he was more than three sheets to the
wind.

He climbed into the tub and sat between my legs, water
pouring over his head, grinning at me stupidly. “I changed it,” he said. “It’s master of the
house, pissed out of his skull, ravishing the naked footman in the bathtub.”

“Come here,” I said, and pulled his head down for a kiss.
“You’re not that drunk,” I added, my hand having found no evidence of brewer’s
droop.

“Shh!” he said, biting my chin. “Mark’s crashed in the spare
room.”

“What?”

“Too many cocktails, both of us. We caught a taxi and he
helped me up the stairs.”

“So, no noise then?”

“Nup,” he said, then pulled my legs around his hips and let
forth a loud wolf-howl.

I laughed then pushed my wet washcloth between his
teeth, which he spat out then attacked my mouth with his own. I really hoped Mark had
closed his bedroom door. When Harry was in this sort of mood, he could make a lot of noise
… not that I was complaining.

 

About the Author

From the outback to the
opera.

After a thirty-year career as a
professional opera singer, performing as a soloist in opera houses and in concert halls all
over the world, I took up a position as lecturer in music in Australia in 1999, at the Central
Queensland Conservatorium of Music, which is now part of CQUniversity.

Brought up in Australia,
between the bush and the beaches of the Eastern suburbs, I retired in 2015 and now live in
the tropics, writing, gardening, and finally finding time to enjoy life and to re-establish a
connection with who I am after a very busy career on the stage and as an
academic.

 

Social Media Links

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