$50 GC – Intimate Secret by D C Stone @xpressotours @DCStoneauthor

Intimate Secret
D.C. Stone
(Empire Blue, #6)
Publication date: April 17th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

A murder was captured on satellite and multiple law enforcement agencies are trying to solve it. One of the detectives on the case, Jake Gonzalez, is led right to the front door of a local author, Francesca Conti. Sparks fly as Jake realizes he’s insanely attracted to his primary suspect, and her father is one of the most ruthless mafia bosses in the city, and someone he’s been investigating for years.

Francesca wants to escape this life her father has set for her and has been putting money away, looking for her opportunity to disappear. And much to her dismay, lately her father has been pushing her toward marrying his right-hand man, someone no woman has ever been able to say no to.

Just when she thinks she’s getting closer to escaping, Detective Gonzalez lands on her doorstep asking alarming questions, and making her heart race unlike ever before.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Smashwords

EXCERPT:

There’s only so many times one could say they’d been shot by the woman they loved.

Jake stared at Francesca’s shaking hands wrapped around the butt

of a SIG .229. She held the gun with as much confidence as one would

expect with someone who had little to no experience with such a

weapon. Like a toddler taking their first wobbling, unsteady steps. Or

a young child holding a chicken’s egg for the first time and being told

they could break it if they weren’t careful.

Under the full moon, silver tears trickled down her face. A moderate

wind teased at hair that had escaped the messy bun held low at the back

of her head. Russet tendrils brushed along her neck and cheeks like

phantom fingers. She ignored those things. But he saw it all, as if the

world moved in slow motion, tracking the shifting of her eyes and

hands from one person to another. Saw the way her finger tightened

ever so slightly over the trigger.

The safety was off, so if she applied a touch of pressure to that metal

hook, approximately ten pounds for the first shot to go off, the gun

would fire the bullet waiting within.

“Frankie,” he called in a soothing yet firm voice, using the

nickname he’d started saying a few nights ago. One he’d discovered

she liked when he whispered it in her ear as he sank slowly inside the

heat between her legs. Her attention shifted to him for only a fraction of a second before

she refocused on Dante, her father’s right-hand man. A man many did

not want to fuck with. One who’d killed his fair share of folks both in

and out of the city. A man who was known to be one of the most ruthless

enforcers around. Dante did things in the most violent way to set

examples or make a point. It was the only way he communicated. And

it was the way he got into the position he did, leading one of the most

ruthless organizations in New York City.

And lucky, lucky Jake was currently in a three-way face-off, like

something from the Wild Wild West, with a woman he loved and a man

he’d been hunting for years.

And as if his luck couldn’t get any worse, the two had a serious

history he hadn’t been able to wrap his mind completely around.

He quickly glanced around, wishing for that backup he’d called for

about ten minutes ago to show up. But with how deep they were in

Central Park, that wish would never come to fruition in time. The dull

light coming off the yellow haze of a streetlamp reflected dark shadows

of trees in the standing puddles leftover from the rainstorm earlier. The

only sound outside the passing cars on the streets lining the park and

Frankie’s harsh breathing was that of leaves hitting the ground, the

season of fall in full swing.

“Frankie, listen to me,” he tried again, his chest growing tight with

unease. “Put the gun down. Let’s talk about this.”

“I don’t want to be a woman you love,” she said, lips trembling.

Her arms shook with either fear or adrenaline, both equally dangerous

when holding a weapon.

Jake Gonzalez’s heart clenched at the words, but he pushed them

away. He had to stay focused, had to sort through this mess and prevent

any additional loss of life. As it was, there’d already been too much.

And if she pulled that trigger, there was nothing he could do. He

wouldn’t be able to protect her. As frustrating as it was, he had an oath

to uphold. Even against a woman he loved.

Francesca Conti looked broken, disheveled, and cornered. The first

two had him angry and concerned. The last…frightened.


Author Bio:

D.C. “Desi” Stone is a best-selling romance author and full-time fraud investigator. She lives in the northeast with her incredibly supporting husband, two kids, a cat, and the ever-growing family of dogs.

After serving eight years of service with the United States Air Force, she went on to transition into the world of financial crimes and became a lead investigator for many years.

Reading has always been a passion of hers, getting lost in a good, steamy romance is one of her favorite past times. She soon after discovered her own love for writing and recreating stories and characters in her head. Her writing concentrates on romantic with specifics in paranormal, suspense, and erotica.

Now, when she isn’t trying to solve a new puzzle in the world of fraud, she is engulfed with coffee, her laptop, and all those crazy characters in her head. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Hudson Valley Romance Writers, New Jersey Romance Writers, RomVets, RWA Kiss of Death, and the Liberty State Fiction Writers. She served as the 2014 NJRW Vice President and Conference Chair. Come stop by on Facebook, Twitter, or her website and say hello!

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Twitter


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$25 GC – The Whisper Legacy by T J O’Connor @partnersincr1me

The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor Banner

THE WHISPER LEGACY

by Tj O’Connor

April 28 – May 23, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor
Curran’s enemies thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
He thought his past was left on the Voula Beach Road.
He was wrong.
Now, that nightmare is drawing his enemies out.
The halls of power are being targeted—but by who?
Is the secret of the Voula Beach Road behind the chaos?
Curran knows the answer.
It’s all in
The Whisper Legacy . . .

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran was once a freelance intelligence operative swashbuckling around the world—until Greece—until the Voula Beach Road. There, he lost everything and nearly his life. Now, he’s a luckless, aging PI living on guilt and nightmares—barely paying his rent if not for Tommy Astor, a well-connected Washington powerbroker. Curran becomes a suspect in the murder of a philandering husband. He has an alibi—but that will get him arrested. Is committing crimes trying to resolve other crimes still a crime? For Curran it is, especially after he’s a suspect in two murders. Chasing the real killer, Curran is haunted by his demons from the Voula Beach Road, and something called Whisper. On his trail is an angry, vengeful US Deputy Marshal, gun-happy assassins, and a shadowy figure thwarting Curran’s every success. For each step forward, there’s another threat, another roadblock, another piece of evidence stacking up against him. Whisper is at the center of his nightmares—whatever Whisper is. Is Whisper why Charlie Cantrell had to die? Why bodies are dropping across Washington? Why the President’s short list for running mates is getting shorter? Faced with old foes and aided by his last surviving Voula Beach friend, Curran must stay ahead of the assassins, rescue a kidnapped little girl, and find the deadly secrets hidden within The Whisper Legacy.

Praise for The Whisper Legacy:

“O’Connor’s The Whisper Legacy is an addictive joyride. Sometimes the loudest sound is a whisper when PI/Consultant Marlowe Curran finds himself in the crosshairs as political figures drop. The secrets are buried in The Whisper Legacy.”
~ James L’Etoile, award winning author of River of Lies and the Detective Nathan Parker series

“Former intelligence operative/now down-and-out PI Marlowe “Lowe” Curran is a fascinating character who takes us on a wild ride through murder, kidnapping, high-ranking political scandal and long-buried secrets in The Whisper Legacy. Author Tj O’Connor does a masterful job of providing chills, thrills, excitement, suspense – and lots of fun too – along the way. Highly recommended!”
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson series

“With The Whisper Legacy’s heart-pounding pace, well-written characters, plot twists, action, and intrigue, TJ O’Connor once again proves why he is a master of the political thriller.”
~ Westley Smith, author of Some Kind of Truth and In The Pale Light

“Tj O’Connor has a rare gift of combining unique character development with a fast-moving story pace that not only transports you into his world, but also makes you want to stay. From elaborate settings, to plot twists you won’t see coming, to larger-than-life but relatable characters, O’Connor’s story continues to gain momentum, and I would recommend everyone come along for the ride.”
~ Jay W. Foreman, award-winning author

“Tj O’Connor’s spy thriller novel The Whisper Legacy is a tour de force that grabs readers by the scruff of the neck, impelling them forward, and it doesn’t let go until the last word. Though Lowe Curran is a compelling and humorous protagonist, who endears himself to the reading audience with ease, there are truly spine-tingling moments of terror and horror that he must endure to stay alive and unravel the intricate web of intrigue at the highest echelons of power. The author shows real tradecraft not only in his writing style and character. ”
~ Seth T. Thatcher, award winning author of the epic sci-fi novel Zendra of the Periphery

“Binge read in one sitting! THE WHISPER LEGACY has all the makings for sleep deprived night. ”
~ TG Wolff, co-host Mysteries to Die For podcast

THE WHISPER LEGACY Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Political Thriller, Action Thriller, Detective Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: March 25, 2025
ISBN: 978-1685129149
Series: A Pappa Legacy Novel, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Marlowe “Lowe” Curran

Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.

For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.

I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.

Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.

My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.

See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.

Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.

He wasn’t.

Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.

“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”

I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”

No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.

The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.

Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.

“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”

If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.

“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”

As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.

A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”

Time to play the role.

“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”

“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”

I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.

“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”

I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.

“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”

Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”

Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.

“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”

“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.

The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.

What an asshole.

“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”

“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”

“Call? I didn’t call you.”

“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”

“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”

Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”

“Not until I get my Rufus.”

His watch signaled him again.

“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.

I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.

I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.

I know cool TV stuff like that.

At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.

I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.

Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.

“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”

We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?

“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”

“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.

I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.

“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”

“Nope.”

“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”

“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”

“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”

I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”

He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”

“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”

“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”

Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”

He shrugged. “It means—”

“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”

“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”

“They send me.”

Chapter Two

U.C.

The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.

The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.

U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.

The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.

“Yes?”

The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”

“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”

“He got through.”

“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”

U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”

“Maybe.”

He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”

“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”

He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.

“Did you hear me?”

U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”

Hesitation, then, “Orders?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.

He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.

Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.

U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”

The Controller—Define compromise.

U.C.—Total.

The Controller—Confidence?

U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.

***

Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Tj O'Connor

Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.

Catch Up With Tj O’Connor:

tjoconnor.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @tj37
Amazon Author
Instagram – @tjoconnorauthor
Twitter/X – @Tjoconnorauthor
Facebook – @TjOConnor.Author
YouTube – @tjoconnorauthor3905

 

 

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$50 GC – After Pearl by Stephen G Eoannou @partnersincr1me

After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou Banner

AFTER PEARL

by Stephen G. Eoannou

April 14 – May 9, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou

A Nicholas Bishop Mystery

 

1942. War rages in Europe. Pearl Harbor still smolders. And alcoholic private eye Nicholas Bishop wakes up on a hotel room floor with two slugs missing from his .38 revolver. The cops think he’s murdered lounge singer Pearl DuGaye, mobsters think he saw something he shouldn’t have, and Bishop remembers nothing…

Together with his indomitable assistant Gia Alessi, who he may or may not have fired, a WWI vet who often flashes back to 1918, and a one-eyed female dog named Jake, Bishop tries to piece together the events that took place during his disastrous five-day bender. Along the way, he stumbles across a dirty politician, a socialite and her unfaithful husband, and a cabal of American Nazis who are undoubtedly up to no good.

Written in the spirit of classic noir, Eoannou adds his own unique voice and flair to the genre in this, the first action-packed outing of the Nicholas Bishop Mysteries…

Praise for After Pearl:

“…thanks to Stephen Eoannou, Buffalo has a hard-boiled detective to call its own. Say hello to the irrepressible Nicholas Bishop”
~ Tim Wendel, Author of Rebel Falls

After Pearl is a wonderfully rendered hard-boiled historical mystery reminiscent of Chandler’s Marlowe novels.”
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, International Bestselling author of The Turner and Mosley Files

“Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett would be proud of this next generation author who takes their styles and not only matches them but adds his own unique flair and voice to the genre. This is a novel dying to be made into a movie.”
~ Historical Fiction Company 5 Star Review

AFTER PEARL Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Noir
Published by: Santa Fe Writers Project
Publication Date: May 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 260
ISBN: 9781951631475 (ISBN10: 1951631471)
Series: A Nicholas Bishop Mystery, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Talking Leaves Books

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

Nicholas Bishop named the one-eyed dog Jake even though she was female. Jake seemed like a good name for a pup missing an eye. He couldn’t remember where the mutt had come from. When he awoke on the floor of his room at The Lafayette Hotel, she sat close by, giving him a single eye stare. Strong odds said he stole the dog. She didn’t weigh much, maybe ten pounds, easy enough to scoop under his arm as he staggered home.

He struggled to a sitting position and waited for the room to stop teetering. Vertebrae ground together as he rolled his head, hoping that would end the pounding between his ears. It didn’t. He massaged his closed eyelids. The corneas felt swollen beneath his fingertips. Jake watched all this, never once taking her eye off him.

Bishop took inventory when the world righted itself. Rubbing his chin, whiskers whispered against palm. He tried to guess how long it’d been since he’d shaved. Two days? Three? His shirt cuff was dirty and frayed. He pushed it higher on his arm. The Bulova was still on his wrist, the crystal cracked, hands frozen at 2:30. His pewter-handled cane was on the floor next to an empty bottle of Four Roses. The pain in his right foot stabbed sharper than usual. He wondered if it would swell when he unlaced his shoe. No memory of reinjuring it came to him. He patted his suitcoat and felt his wallet in the inside pocket and the .38 Detective Special holstered near his heart. The wallet was empty. There were four slugs in the snub nose. Not six. He sniffed. It had been fired.

He crawled to bed and pulled himself on the mattress, not bothering with his clothes. Jake hopped up, circled twice, then settled by the footboard, keeping her eye on Bishop as if her doubts about him were increasing now that he was conscious.

Memories were slivered as he tried to recall when he had fired the gun:

Day drinking at the Kitty Kat.

The revolving bar at The Chez Ami.

Perfume.

A blonde.

A car ride.

No recollections about a one-eyed dog or gunshots.

He checked the .38 again. Who had he fired at? Had he hit them? Killed them?

The ringing phone was an ice pick to his ear. The only way to stop the pain was by answering.

“Hello,” Bishop said, his voice raspy.

“Coppers.”

It took a heartbeat for the desk clerk’s voice to register. The line died. When it did, Bishop slammed the receiver into its cradle and swung his legs to the floor. The world again tottered. He swallowed bile until his swollen eyes teared. His damaged foot bore weight but each metatarsal sent ripples of agony with each step. He retrieved his cane and hat from the floor without toppling, something he considered miraculous, and felt grateful to the angel or demon in charge of keeping crippled detectives upright.

The hallway was deserted. He limped to the stairwell before the elevator full of cops arrived at his floor. Bishop didn’t mind talking to the police, but he wanted to know what they were after before he did, certain it had nothing to do with a stolen dog but everything to do with two fired slugs. Guilt, thick and dark, oozed through him but he couldn’t tell if it was old remorse or something new, heavier.

It was slow going down the stairs. He couldn’t outrace the fattest cop, not with his 4-F foot. He gripped the railing and leaned on the cane as he eased down each step, moving like a man much older than thirty. Jake waited on the landing, tilting her head as if to listen for shouts or thunderous feet descending from the floors above. There were none.

Was Buffalo’s Finest tossing his room, rifling through drawers, pulling suits from hangers, checking pockets for…what? His gun? He wished he could walk into The Allendale Theater, buy a nickel bag of popcorn, and watch the last few days of his life projected on the silver screen, certain it would be more informative than any newsreel.

When he reached the ground floor, he pushed open the fire exit and was blinded by sunshine reflected off the sidewalk and car fenders.

So, it’s afternoon, he thought. But was it Monday or Tuesday? Bishop raised his hand to shield his eyes. He didn’t see his Packard anywhere.

Benny The Junk Man stood by the hotel’s dented garbage cans. His cart was loaded with the day’s salvaged items—bundled rags, andirons, dresses, blouses. The clothing looked newer and of better quality than what Benny usually found. Bishop wondered if they’d been pulled from clotheslines. Unlike the mean drunks and meaner children who tormented him, Bishop knew Benny wasn’t stupid. He’d left the best part of himself in the Argonne still fighting that battle two decades later. He spent his days pushing his cart through the streets, crisscrossing Buffalo, searching for discarded treasures. His body passed through alleys rummaging for things to pawn, but what remained of his mind was mired in that burning forest surrounded by the dead and dying. Still, Benny sometimes saw and heard things that were real:

A woman got her purse snatched on Genesee Street.

There was a new girl, a real doll face, working at the Michigan Avenue brothel.

A big card game was going on above The New Genesee Restaurant.

He would whisper these truths to Bishop, and the shamus would pay for the information—a quarter, fifty cents, maybe a buck—even if it had nothing to do with the case he was working. Other times Bishop asked him to keep an eye out for a certain car or dame—nobody paid attention to a junk man lingering on a corner, just like no one had paid attention to a fifteen-year-old Bishop when he’d started working the streets. The information that Benny provided that was relevant to Bishop’s investigation was worth a fin or more—a fortune to a rag collector. Benny was still the good soldier, putting the mission first, and most times getting information the gimpy detective needed. Jake sniffed the junk man’s unlaced army boots.

“Benny, what do you know? What do you hear?”

Benny turned from the garbage pails and squinted as if trying to pick Bishop out of a crowd of gathering ghosts. Recognition registered in stages from the top down—brow wrinkled, eyes widened, mouth curved to a smile. “I didn’t know you had a dog, Bishop.”

“You see her, too?”

The junk man wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Have you seen my car, Benny? The Packard?”

“Your car?”

“The green convertible.”

Benny looked around the hotel alleyway and down Ellicott Street. “There’s no green car here, Bishop.”

“Keep your eyes open for it, all right? You know which one it is, don’t you? Let me know if you spot it.”

“You think someone stole your green car?”

“It’s probably parked in front of The Kitty Kat or The Chez. Hopefully, it’s not in a ditch somewhere.”

“Why would you leave your car in a ditch, Bishop?”

“For safekeeping,” Bishop said. “Say, you hear anything about a shooting or why the cops are looking for me?”

“I haven’t heard about those things.”

“Okay, maybe it’s nothing. But if you hear something or find my car, you come tell me. If I’m not here, leave a message with Corbett at the front desk.”

Benny saluted, his hand slicing the air as sharp as it had in 1918.

“Good man. Carry on,” Bishop said, and the junk man resumed rummaging through the garbage pails.

It was a four-block limp to The Kitty Kat to hunt for his car. Bishop wasn’t sure he could make it. He was considering sticking out his thumb when Lieutenant Darcy rounded the corner. His face, flushed pink from the heat, broke into a wide grin when he saw Bishop.

“Rats are always in alleys, but I found a weasel. You think you can outrun the law with that crippled foot, Bishop?”

“I’m not running, Lieutenant. I’m walking my dog.”

“That’s a dog? It’s in worse shape than you.”

“Me and Jake aren’t morning people.”

“Morning people? The day’s half done, Bishop.”

“Time flies.”

“Not in prison it don’t. Which is where you’re headed, draft dodger.”

Bishop winced and hoped it didn’t show. “Is sleeping late a crime?”

“No, but murder is. What do you know about Pearl DuGaye, smart guy?”

“Never heard of heard of her. Who is she?”

“A singer from The Chez Ami gone missing. We found her purse not far from here. Cleaned out, of course, except for one thing.”

“Trolley fare?”

“Your business card.” Darcy pulled out the card and read, “Bishop Investigations. Civil. Criminal. Missing Persons Located. Licensed and Bonded. Who the hell would bond a coward like you?”

Bishop took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “When did this DuGaye woman go missing?”

“Saturday.”

“What’s today?”

“Thursday.”

Jesus.

Darcy wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Funny you never heard of her. Not only was your card in her purse, I got a revolving bar full of people at The Chez Ami who saw you two together. They say you weren’t exactly acting like brother and sister.”

“You ever seen my sister, Lieutenant? She’s a looker.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. I wouldn’t put anything past a guy who sticks his foot in front of a moving taxi to keep out of the army. Were you working for DuGaye or just working her?”

“I honestly can’t say, Lieutenant,” Bishop said, and wondered if she was blonde.

“If she hired you to protect her, it looks like you did your usual swell job. Speaking of which, how’s business?”

“It pays the light bill.”

“Not at your office it don’t. Heard you had to close that down. Got rid of that good-looking secretary, too. Lucky Teddy Thurston must be rolling in his grave.”

“I work out of The Lafayette now. Teddy would be fine with that.”

“The hell he would. Only whores work out of hotels. Funny how business dried up on you. I guess folks who lost husbands and sons on December seventh and at Bataan don’t want to hire a chicken-shit Jap lover. Makes me wonder why DuGaye hired you. She must be as shady as Fat Ira. I read you work for him these days.”

“I hear you work for Joey Bones. Have been for a long time.”

Darcy took a step forward and jabbed a finger at Bishop. “Listen, you crippled shit. If this Pearl DuGaye shows up dead, I’m pinning it on you. I got a nice frame already picked out.”

“Pleasure talking to you, Lieutenant, but I’m late for an appointment.”

“With which bottle?”

“Say hello to Joey for me.”

“Watch out for taxis, weasel. Wouldn’t want you to have two crippled feet.”

Bishop caned his way down Ellicott as Jake trotted ahead. The sun was hot on his neck. He could smell bourbon seeping through his pores. His stomach cramped and he wondered when he’d last eaten, uncertain he could keep anything down if he ate now. Guilt weighed on him, its cause remained unclear.

***

Excerpt from After Pearl by Stephen G. Eoannou. Copyright 2025 by Stephen G. Eoannou. Reproduced with permission from Stephen G. Eoannou. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Stephen G. Eoannou

Stephen G. Eoannou is the author of the award-winning short story collection Muscle Cars and the novels Rook, Yesteryear, and After Pearl. He holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte and an MA from Miami University. He has been awarded an Honor Certificate from The Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and the Best Short Screenplay Award at the 36th Denver Film Festival. His latest novel, Yesteryear, was awarded the 2021 International Eyelands Award for Best Historical Novel, The Firebird Book Award for Biographical Fiction, and Shelf Unbound’s Notable Indy Books of 2023. He lives and writes in his hometown of Buffalo, New York, the setting and inspiration for much of his work.

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$25 GC – I Can’t Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent @partnersincr1me

I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent Banner

I CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION

by Teresa Trent

April 7 – May 2, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

I Can't Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent

The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series

 

After finding herself in the middle of murder investigation in her last two secretarial jobs, Dot finds the only place that will hire her is her local funeral home.

Why not? At least there all the clients are safe from what the town calls her murderous “Curse of Camden”. It is 1965 and Dot is planning her wedding with a Twiggy like mini-bridal gown, but secretly she’s not so sure it’s a good idea. If she really is cursed, what might happen to the one she loves? Is she willing to put him in danger? She and Ben put wedding planning on the back burner when one of the town’s teenage girls gets hit by a drunk boater who gets away. The closer they get to the answers, the more Dot feels the curse is coming for Ben.

Book Details:

Genre: Cozy Historical Mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: February 2025
Number of Pages: 215
ISBN: 978-1-68512-870-8
Series: The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series, Book 4 | Each is a Stand Alone Novel
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

After leaving Oliver, I decided to speak to the marina owner one more time to try to figure out who took the boat used in Henry’s murder. Grabbing a sandwich at my apartment, I called Ben to see if he would like to go along with me. He was covering court this week for a reporter on vacation, so I was lucky to catch him at his desk.

“Yes, I’d love to go with you, and as luck would have it, the judge rescheduled the court case.”

Even though some people might think a reporter’s life is glamorous and full of intrigue, Ben was covering a case of stolen pigs for The Camden Courier. Shorty Wyckoff, a pig farmer, claimed Bill Wheeler, another pig farmer, snuck up in the cloak of darkness and loaded up an 1100-pound sow into the back of a pickup truck. What made her so valuable was her nickname, Fertile Myrtle. It was reported that she could get pregnant with only one try, and the results were dozens of little piggies. The newspaper had dubbed the case “Makin’ Bacon Caper.” It was a popular series of articles, considering it was one step up from the farm report and featured the sex lives of pigs.

“I’ll pick you up, but I have to warn you, ol’ Bernice isn’t doing too well. I think she’s on her last breath.”

“Ol’ Bernice, a 1955 Oldsmobile, had several dents, bald tires, and a constant wheezing coming out from under the rusty brown hood. “Should we take my car?”

“Nice of you to offer, but I want to take Bernice today. I have plans for her.”

Besides setting her on fire or pushing her off the nearest cliff, I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. I knew Ben had arrived when I heard the familiar wheezing and sputtering of Bernice in my driveway.

Ben and I returned to the marina, but this time the marina owner was nowhere to be found. The marina office and residence stood atop a small hill overlooking the glistening waters of the bay. Selma, the guard dog Shep had praised, did not bark or even growl, but playfully nudged her snout against my hand, her tail wagging vigorously in excitement. We knocked on the glass panes of the marina office, and after not getting an answer, I clasped my hands around my eyes and, leaning on the glass, looked inside. As I drew closer, I could hear the low rumble of jazz, heavy on the bass. It created a melodic backdrop with the gentle lapping of the waves. “I think he must be farther back in the house. I hear a stereo.”

Ben put his ear to the glass and then turned around to face the parking lot. “Hmmm. How many cars do you see parked here?”

I turned back and scanned the parking area. “Three.”

“Right. Ours, his, and whose is that?” He pointed at a wood-paneled station wagon. It was the kind of car a family with children would use.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone else around here. Maybe someone has taken their boat out.”

“Maybe, but when we were here last, there were twelve boats in twelve boat slips. Today I only see eleven. Considering Bubba Jenkins’s boat – was just impounded for a murder investigation. I would say all the remaining boats are here.”

“Which means whoever is driving that station wagon is inside, listening to jazz with Shep. Let’s try knocking at the backdoor,” I said.

We made our way around, and as we did, the sound of the music grew louder, along with a few other sounds.

Ben smiled and blushed a little as we heard rhythmic moans coming from an open window. “They must be big music lovers.”

I giggled. “Regular jazz nuts.” There was no doubt about what they were doing, and from the sounds of it, things were going quite well.

Ben raised his hand to knock, but then stopped. “Not the best time.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can figure this out on our own. I don’t think I could erase a memory of hot and sweaty Shep, but I am curious about who he has in there with him.”

“Let’s go look at the boats.” We walked around the house to the parking lot. Selma followed along, her tail still wagging. As the jazz and the sound of other things faded in my ears, I asked Ben, “What exactly are we looking for?”

“I’m not sure, just something out of the ordinary. Maybe Henry’s killer left something important on the dock.”

“You mean like his I. D.? That would make things easier. Do you know a lot about boats? We didn’t do much boating at our house, although I have been waterskiing with friends.”

“A little.” He shrugged. “Not much. We need to concentrate, and hearing about you in a bathing suit is not making my thoughts flow.”

I giggled. “Billie Holiday will do that to a person.”

We walked on the wooden pier as the surrounding water was still. There was little call to take a boat out on a weekday. The boats were in a variety of sizes, but most were small speedboats, with a pontoon moored at the end. Inside a few boats, there were remnants of beer bottles and sandwich wrappers.

“Not very tidy, these boat people, and from the looks of the empty beer bottles, there are several drunk drivers out on the lake at the same time. No wonder Betty Weaver got hit,” I said, walking to the end of the pier. The pontoon was covered with a canvas drape. Looking underneath, the insides were as neat as a pin.

“Look at this,” Ben said, crouched down by the tip of a small speedboat. “It looks like they’ve sustained some damage here.”

On the side of the boat, a scrape had cut through the sleek paint, making a line through the boat name, Lucky Me. Not as lucky as the boat owner might have thought.

“So, somebody isn’t very good at putting the boat back into the dock. I hardly think that has anything to do with boat thefts.”

Ben nodded. “You’re probably right, but we know there has been a boat thief out here. What’s to say this person only used one boat?”

“You mean like a serial boat thief?” Could a person get away with stealing different boats periodically from the marina? Was starting one boat as easy as starting another?

“Think about it,” Ben said. “Just how many days a week are Romeo and Juliet in there playing Billie Holiday on the stereo?”

The boat dock was at least fifty yards from the combined house and office. Someone could be out here starting a boat, and if the marina owner was busy, he would hear nothing. “He wouldn’t hear it, and Selma, the guard dog, gets put outside on occasions, so happy for a visitor, she doesn’t even bark.”

Ben snapped his fingers. “Bubba Jenkins is Al’s friend, right? We need to talk to him. He might be sitting on information.”

“You know, Al has mentioned him, but I’m not sure what he does.”

“Then we’ll have to ask him.”

As we turned to head back to Ben’s car, the sound of a screen door opening peeled through the air. Shep, his cheeks rosy and his shirt half on, edged around from the back of the house and immediately spotted Ben’s car. His gaze shifted to the dock.

“Can I help you, folks? How long have you been standing out here?”

I walked forward. “We tried knocking, but there was no answer.”

“Yes, you must have been busy,” Ben said.

Shep lifted his chin slightly. “Working on the books. Guess I got involved. Numbers are not my thing.”

We knew just what his thing was.

Ben walked forward and extended his hand. “Ben Dalton, Camden Courier.”

Shep reached out with a measured amount of enthusiasm. “I remember you. What can I do for you this time?”

“We were wondering if you could provide a list of the boat owners here at the marina. I would also like to get in touch with Bubba Jenkins. Ben said this with such efficiency. Shep let go of his hand and stepped back.

“Why would I do that?”

Ben swept his hand back toward the boats. “In the interest of the investigation. Two deaths on the water don’t exactly put the security of your marina in a good light.”

Shep raised a single finger in the air and shook it at Ben’s face. “Lookie here, son. If I hand over a list like that, it will be to the police, and only the police will get it. Hear me? You and your lady friend need to quit nosin’ around here. If I see you again, I’ll call the cops on you for trespassing. Get me?”

“This is public property. There’s not much you can do.”

“Watch me.”

“You seemed more than willing to let people nose around and steal other people’s boats. I think you’re a little late with your righteous indignation,” I said.

“Yeah, well, a tiger can change its spots. I don’t need a lot of folks here getting into my business.” He glanced up at the house. “Talking to you has been a mistake, and now I’m fixing it. Out with you.”

As we made our way to the car, Ben turned and spoke. “We’re leaving, but remember, if you ever want to talk…”

“Out!”

***

Excerpt from I Can’t Get No Satisfaction by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2025 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.

 

 

 

Author Bio:

Teresa Trent

Teresa Trent started out teaching English in Colorado, but life and children intervened, and with all that new spare time, she began writing. Besides The Swinging Sixties Series, Teresa has penned the Pecan Bayou, Piney Woods and Henry Park Mystery Series and always has a little idea in the back of her mind for the next one. She is also the author of several short stories and is teaching writing at her local library encouraging new writers. Teresa lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son. Her podcast, Books to the Ceiling, features authors with new mysteries on the market.

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Facebook – @teresatrentmysterywriter

 

 

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Giveaway – The Organ Broker by Deven Greene @partnersincr1me

THE ORGAN BROKER

by Deven Greene

March 31 – April 25, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Organ Broker by Deven Greene

A devoted wife and mother faces the unimaginable as her life crumbles.

Crystal Rigler seems to have a perfect marriage. Derek, her handsome and charismatic husband, and their adult daughter, Cordelia, are her whole world. In addition to her already busy life, Crystal supports the volunteer organization she and Derek started: STOP (Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners).

STOP aims to end a new government policy of harvesting organs from executed prisoners. They learn that these organs are not distributed by the national transplant list, established to allocate organs fairly. Instead, a shadowy figure known as Broker Al pulls the strings. He expedites the execution of young and healthy prisoners and sells their organs at a high price to the rich and well-connected.

After Crystal learns a disturbing secret, events are set in motion that will potentially dismantle STOP, change her life, and cost her everything. Unless she is willing to do the unthinkable…

Praise for The Organ Broker:

The Organ Broker by Deven Greene was intricate and captivated my attention from the first page. The story was fast-paced with not a single dull moment.”
~ Readers’ Favorite

“If you enjoy moral dilemmas, complex characters, and a plot that feels uncomfortably plausible, this book will leave you thinking long after the ending.”
~ Literary Titan

“…electrifyingly intense… Introspective and entertaining, The Organ Broker navigates the delicate balance between principles and priorities.”
~ Indies Today

The Organ Broker … teeters between thriller, novel, a story of medical and social challenge, and more. It stands out from others about organ harvesting simply because it evolves a complex plot that engages characters and readers in a moral and ethical dance spiced with intrigue and the unexpected.”
~ D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

THE ORGAN BROKER Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Panthera Publishing
Publication Date: April 2025
Number of Pages: 321
ISBN: 9781964620060 (ISBN10: 1964620066)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Google Books | Apple Books | Kobo | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

The East Texas sun was hotter than usual for September, the few clouds high above providing no relief. A half-hour earlier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, Crystal had let her sign reading “Save Kwami” slip to the ground. Standing near the front of the crowd, Crystal pushed up the visor on her baseball cap to get a better look at her surroundings. She was pleased with the impressive turnout which she estimated to be close to one thousand people. It was the largest they’d ever had. Most of the other protestors continue to hold their placards high, displaying myriad slogans such as “Justice for Kwami,” “Let Kwami Live,” “Impeach Gov. Percy,” and the most popular, “STOP.” She took a deep breath and lifted her sign again, fighting the pain in her fingers as she held it as high as she could.

The crowd of protestors was comprised of a cross-section of the community— young, old, couples, families, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian. A colorful array of baseball caps, bucket hats, visors, straw hats, and cowboy hats protected most of the heads from the constant flood of the sun’s rays.

The makeshift podium and public address system were rudimentary, and there was the usual milling around often seen in large gatherings, but the audience, for the most part, was paying attention to the pudgy young man with a man bun speaking to them. At times, the crowd burst out in synchronous claps and hoots of approval. The assembly was peaceful, with only a few skirmishes breaking out at the edges where police stood watch.

Still thirsty after having finished her bottle of water, Crystal let her mind wander as the speaker droned on about the immorality of what was about to take place. Her clothes clung to her sweaty body, and despite wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, the bright sun hurt her eyes. Looking down, she swatted away a bug that landed on her arm. Uncomfortable and impatient, she was eagerly awaiting the next speaker.

Finally, the man at the podium looked up and announced, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting to hear, the leader of our organization, Mr. Derek Rigler.”

The mood of the crowd changed, and participants started chanting “STOP” in unison as they raised and lowered their signs. A tall, muscular man with tan skin and wavy blond hair, took to the stage next to the previous speaker and scanned the crowd with his magnetic blue eyes. Crystal looked up and smiled. His handsome, chiseled features gave him the look of a confident leader. Although he was nearly fifty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. He hasn’t lost the ability to attract attention whenever he enters a room.

Derek took his place on the podium and held out his arms as if to give a benediction. After almost a full minute of roaring applause, he raised and lowered his hands several times to quiet the crowd.

Crystal looked around, energized by the enthusiasm bubbling over. She noted more press vans set up around the perimeter than in the previous protest. Their organization, STOP, was gaining traction.

She wondered if Derek had picked her out of the crowd. If she were taller, he’d probably see her—she wasn’t far from the front—but she imagined her five-foot two-inch frame made her visage difficult to identify in the sea of people. From what she could glean, Derek hadn’t spotted her. After all, she was just another brunette under a baseball cap, surrounded by many others. Even so, Crystal smiled widely, wondering if anyone nearby recognized her. After all, she was notable as Derek’s wife and the mother of his child, Cordelia.

As Derek started his familiar diatribe against the Texas death penalty laws, Crystal tried to lock eyes with him, but his eyes never found her. Instead, he focused on members of the audience near and far, concentrating his gaze on one person for several seconds before moving on to the next pair of waiting eyes.

Crystal recognized the usual arguments against the event that was scheduled to take place momentarily—the uneven death penalty sentencing, the ugliness of exacting revenge, and the irreversibility of the punishment once meted out. The speech was powerful, and she agreed with everything Derek said. She could recite the words by heart, not only because she had heard them during Derek’s practice sessions, but because she had written them herself. Every time the crowd reacted with hollers and claps, she felt taller, each breath a bit more satisfying. She’d been to over six of these rallies in the past year, each protesting the execution of a prisoner found guilty of a crime deemed fitting for capital punishment.

The death penalty had never sat well with Crystal, but over the past two years, the practice had escalated, with four more executions scheduled over the next six months in Texas alone. Not only was the ultimate punishment meted out more often, but the evidence leading to convictions was frequently less convincing. She’d made up her mind to do something to stop the injustice and had established STOP almost a year earlier. A small, grass-roots collection of like-minded people, it was taking hold, thanks to her speech writing, community outreach, and organizational skills, bolstered by her husband’s charisma. He was the face of the organization.

Derek’s address was interrupted by a loud commotion as the officers stationed around the perimeter began to forcefully clear a path through the protestors to the entryway of the large building looming behind the speaker. Despite shouting and resistance from the crowd, with the most passionate demonstrators being handcuffed and dragged away, the police were able to open a wide berth.

“We are nearing the time,” Derek shouted above the commotion, “the time when our brother Kwami will be taken from us in an act that can only be described as state-sponsored murder. Let all those who have participated in this mockery of justice one day pay for their crimes, and let all those who directly benefit from this violent act realize the wrong they have participated in.”

A police transport moved through the clearing in the crowd as demonstrators chanted “Kwami, Kwami” in unison. Although the windows of the vehicle were covered, all knew who was inside—Kwami McKinney, sentenced to be executed that day. The van didn’t stop until it was a mere five feet from the door to the building. A massive construction of cement and glass six stories high, the structure dwarfed the trees and other buildings nearby. Derek was silent as he turned to watch the Black prisoner, his head shaved, exit the van’s side door.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit accessorized with ankle and wrist shackles, Kwami was escorted by two armed guards, each holding onto one of his arms. Two more prison officers took up the rear. As the party of five walked towards the glass doors of the building, a Black woman around fifty years old ran towards them screaming. She was forcibly stopped by police, who grabbed onto her arms long before she could interfere.

Everyone there knew the woman was Sally McKinney, Kwami’s mother. She yelled and cried hysterically, flailing against those restraining her as her son was led through the automated doors that opened before him and the guards. They disappeared inside the structure as the glass doors shut.

People in the crowd yelled and cried, drowning out Ms. McKinney’s wails. Frustrated tears filled Crystal’s eyes; their protest had done nothing to dissuade the authorities from carrying out their sentence. She hadn’t expected the proceedings to be halted, but held onto a glimmer of hope until now, irrational as it was.

She looked to Derek for comfort, hoping they might finally lock gazes and convey their sadness to each other, but Crystal’s thoughts were interrupted by a female acquaintance. “Fantastic speech,” the woman said.

“I can’t disagree,” Crystal answered, buoyed momentarily by the woman’s words.

“You must be very proud, being his wife. He’s so handsome, and brilliant to boot. You two are the perfect couple. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall at your dinner table to hear about all his great ideas.”

The words stung slightly, as Crystal chuckled politely. She was accustomed to being thought of as a mere appendage of her charismatic husband, but, she’d tried to convince herself that a successful protest, with Derek delivering a resounding speech, was all that was important. She didn’t need the admiration of others like he did. “Our dinners aren’t as interesting as you might think. Mostly, we talk about how we’re going to pay our bills.”

Members of the press, who until now had been scattered amongst the protestors while taking notes and silently recording videos, were now talking and interviewing people on camera. The crowd thinned, but Crystal didn’t want to leave. She’d have liked to remain until she knew Kwami had taken his last breath, but that moment was hours away.

She listened as a nearby male telecaster spoke into a camera. “Emotions are again high as another execution is about to take place. While many people feel that the crimes Kwami McKinney was convicted of, armed robbery and hostage-taking, justify the death sentence, some feel the punishment is too severe for the crimes the prisoner was convicted of. Still others believe he is innocent of the charges against him.”

The reporter turned to a middle-aged female bystander and asked, “What do you think of today’s events? Do you think justice is being carried out today?” After posing the question, he shoved the microphone close to the woman’s mouth.

“This is a travesty of justice,” she answered. “The real criminal was wearing a ski mask during the robbery, and escaped capture immediately following the crime. That was made clear during the trial. We also learned that Mr. McKinney was picked out in a lineup by two unreliable witnesses days later. There was a boatload of evidence that the so-called witnesses had drug charges against them dropped shortly after identifying Mr. McKinney. What kind of justice is that?”

The telecaster quickly turned to the camera and continued his reporting. “Despite the controversy, Kwami McKinney is still scheduled to be executed here and now at New Lake Hospital. While we are happy for the families of the six unnamed individuals who will be the recipients of much-needed organs, many are questioning the legality and morality of what is now becoming a common method of organ procurement. The objections are being led by the organization STOP, which stands for Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners.”

***

Excerpt from The Organ Broker by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Deven Greene lives in Northern California, where she enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry (PhD) and medicine (MD), and practiced pathology for over twenty years.

She has previously published the The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy (Unnatural, Unwitting, and Unforeseen), and Ties That Kill, as well as several short stories.

Catch Up With Deven Greene:

www.DevenGreene.com
Subscribe to Deven’s Blog
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BookBub @Deven_G1
Facebook @DevenGreeneFiction

 

 

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$20 GC – Someone Had To Lie by Jack Luellen @partnersincr1me

Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen Banner

SOMEONE HAD TO LIE

by Jack Luellen

March 31 – April 25, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen

THE JAMES BUTLER MYSTERIES

 

Some cases never let you go.

Reeling from the sudden death of a close friend, James Butler and Erica Walsh are pulled back into the shadow world of Mexican cartels and the CIA. Seeking to avenge the murder of their friend with only his haphazard notes to guide them, they puzzle through the possible connections searching for anything concrete. As they investigate his murder, and his notes, they find unsettling links between drug trafficking, American gangs, the CIA, and the opioid epidemic.

Determined to find the truth hidden among cases they thought were long closed, Butler and Walsh call on friends and colleagues to help them survive the crosshairs that got their friend killed. With the threat spreading across more of their contacts, they must uncover the truth before they are buried in lies.

The James Butler mysteries from Jack Luellen seamlessly weave fact with fiction, introducing nonfiction material in the midst of fast-paced murder mysteries.

Praise for Someone Had to Lie:

“Jack Luellen crafts an intriguing tale, interwoven with proven facts about the deadliest drug in our society, Fentanyl. Someone Had to Lie takes the reader on an educational journey into the biggest cartels and Narcos in the world and provides a behind the scenes glimpse of cartel operations through his lead character James Butler. Gripping storytelling! A must read!”
~ Leo Silva, Author of Reign of Terror, Former DEA Supervisory Special Agent

Book Details:

Genre: Crime; Mystery
Published by: Torchflame Books
Publication Date: March 11, 2025
Number of Pages: 294
ISBN: 9781611533705 (ISBN10: 1611533708)
Series: The James Butler Mysteries, Book 2
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Torchflame Books

Read an excerpt:

“Is that music playing in your office? You never listen to music at work?”

“I do on rare occasions.”

“That’s Alice Merton. How are you even aware of her music?” Erica asks, gobsmacked.

“I’m not, but I met Detective Torres at a Starbucks this morning and it was playing, and I liked it. I asked a Gen Z barista who the artist was and played it when I got in,” James says.

“I’m in shock.”

“I’m evolving,” James says, his words interrupted by the playing of the Johnny Rivers hit “Secret Agent Man” from his cell phone. “Alexa, off. Tim, hi, thanks for calling back. Erica is here with some information to share.”

“Hi, Erica. What’s going on?” Tim says.

“After we left the jail today, I went back to the office to work, and a few minutes ago, Belmonte called me to tell me that the DEA had been quote, ‘Requested,’ end quote to refrain from investigating or prosecuting Javier and that Javier was being moved to a different facility. Belmonte said the directive apparently came from the DNI. He called me from a burner phone and suggested we keep the circle of information as small as possible,” Erica explains.

“Holy crap,” Tim says.

“Any idea who could have that kind of juice?” James asks.

“None in particular,” Tim says.

“You didn’t tell anyone about meeting Javier?” Erica asks.

“Of course not,” Tim replies.

“Then how did anyone—” Erica begins.

“I have no idea,” Tim interrupts.

“One thing seems certain,” James says. “Aguilar was spot on. It is bigger than we knew.”

***

Excerpt from Chapter 24 of Someone Had to Lie by Jack Luellen. Copyright 2025 by Jack Luellen. Reproduced with permission from Jack Luellen. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

author

Jack Luellen is a Denver, Colorado, attorney with more than 30 years of experience. In practice, Jack has tried cases to courts and juries, and has written hundreds of briefs, motions, and memoranda, to state and federal courts, including federal courts of appeal and the United States Supreme Court.

In 1990, Jack first started working on cases related to the 1985 kidnapping and murder of DEA Agent Enrique Camarena and has investigated the case in the years since that time. Jack’s investigations have taken him to foreign countries and included interviews with witnesses both notorious and infamous. This work has been the background to Jack’s upcoming novel Someone Had to Die.

Jack is the proud parent of an amazing daughter and is a weekend warrior on the tennis courts.

Catch Up With Jack Luellen:

LuellenWriting.com
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Instagram – @luellen_writing
Threads – @luellen_writing
X – @jack_luellen
Facebook – @Luellen Writing

 

 

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$20 GC – Murder On The Steel Pier by Rosie Genova @partnersincr1me

Murder on the Steel Pier by Rosie Genova

MURDER ON THE STEEL PIER

by Rosie Genova

April 1, 2025 Book Blast

Synopsis:

Murder on the Steel Pier by Rosie Genova

THE TESS MANCINI TIME TRAVEL MYSTERY SERIES

 

Greetings from the Nifty Fifties…

The morning after a blowout birthday celebration in Atlantic City, crime reporter and party girl Tess Mancini wakes up in an unfamiliar place—1955. Bread is eighteen cents a loaf, Ike occupies the White House, and the Boardwalk is crawling with vintage cars and vintage wise guys. A bewildered Tess is sure of only two things: One, she’s not crazy, and two, the clothes are fabulous. Somehow, she’s living the life of her Great-Aunt Theresa, who disappeared decades before Tess’s birth.

In her 1950s existence, Tess is a reporter at the local newspaper, living at a boarding house owned by her Zia Antonetta, an Italian immigrant with a big secret. It turns out Theresa has a kid brother, teenaged troublemaker Val Mancini—aka Tess’s paternal grandfather. Though determined to return to her own time, Tess’s curiosity takes over. What happened to the first Theresa Mancini? And is Tess’s trip through time connected to her aunt’s fate?

But when young Val is accused of murdering a boarding house guest, a Nazi in hiding, Tess ends up with two investigations on her hands—and now stuck in time until she can prove Val’s innocence. As she searches for answers, she finds allies in a dishy police detective and a suspiciously charming fellow reporter. The clock is ticking for Tess to find a way home, but first, she has to keep her grandfather off Death Row.

Because before Tess can get back to the future … she needs to make sure she has one.

Praise for Murder on the Steel Pier:

Murder on the Steel Pier is impossible to put down, offering an irresistible blend of mystery, history, and time travel. I felt like I was in 1950s Atlantic City along with heroine Tess. Unlike her, I didn’t want to leave! I absolutely loved this book and can’t wait for Tess’s next adventure.”
~ Ellen Byron, Agatha Award-Winning Author

“Awesome book! This stylish, creatively written and highly entertaining mystery will keep you turning pages long past bedtime.”
~ Terrie Farley Moran, award-winning author of the Murder, She Wrote series

Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Two Roses Books
Publication Date: March 31, 2025
Number of Pages: 340
ISBN: 979-8-9911241-1-9
Series: The Tess Mancini Time Travel Mysteries, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | AppleBooks | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

Someone was smoking a cigarette. I sniffed, and spikes of pain started at my chin and shot through the top of my head. Oh God, make it stop, and I promise I’ll never touch another drop of tequila. Being another year older was bad enough—did I have to be punished for it, too? My nose twitched as the smoke teased my nostrils and caressed my olfactory nerves. I’d quit a month ago, but the longing for a cig came roaring back.

With my eyes still closed, and my head nailed to the pillow, I had one coherent thought: This is supposed to be a smoke-free hotel. As far as I knew, it was also bird-free, but the chirps and twitters assailing my ears were clearly coming from feathered creatures. Then again, it’s Atlantic City. Maybe the birds were part of the hotel show. Ever so slowly, I slid my hands from under the covers and cupped them over my ears.

“Please, birdies,” I whispered. “Stop singing.” Geez, they sounded close enough to be in my room. I exhaled, yoga style. C’mon, Tess, time to open your eyes. You can do it. Actually, I couldn’t, as my lashes were glued together. (Had I slept in my make-up? Not a good sign.) Still covering my ears against the piercing bird song, I fluttered my left eyelid and squinted.

Big, fuchsia-colored roses seemed to scream at me from the wall. And sun—blinding, eyeball-searing sun—streamed in through an uncovered window. And not a hotel window bolted shut and draped to keep out that awful light, but a wooden one with glass panes. And across the top, a ruffly white curtain.

Okay, not my hotel. So where was I? My empty stomach grew queasy; I wouldn’t have gone home with a stranger. Though I did remember a cute blond guy playing the slots next to me, but it was all so … blurry. I eased open the other eye. Across the room was a vanity table draped in more white ruffles. Somehow, I doubted the blond guy lived here.

This place was obviously some kind of historic inn or something, but that still didn’t explain how I’d gotten here. I looked down at the sheets, also decorated with roses. Only these were little yellow ones. Somebody sure liked her florals.

“So weird,” I muttered. Hands shaking, eyes half closed, I felt around for my phone, but my fingers landed on a string of beads. I let go of the necklace and blinked hard, trying to ignore the little flashes of pain behind my eyes. Next to me was an old-fashioned nightstand; on it was a lamp with a frilly pink shade, an analog alarm clock ticking loudly, and the “necklace,” which had a cross hanging from it. A face stared at me from a black-and-white photo. I shifted closer, peering at a guy with slicked-back hair, thick brows, and dark-lashed eyes. Across the bottom of the picture was a name, signed in blue ink. I frowned at the image. Who the heck was Tyrone Power? Was he someone’s boyfriend? Or part of the décor?

Hangover and rubber legs be damned, I had to get moving and find my phone. But before I could get a big toe out from under the covers, a knock sounded at the door. I sat up in the strange bed, holding my throbbing head as though it were a soft-boiled egg.

“Tess? Are you awake yet?” The voice on the other side of the door had a slight Irish brogue. “Can I come in, then?”

“Yes,” I croaked. Whoever she was, she knew my name. Despite the sunlight, the room was chilly, and I huddled under the cotton blankets as the woman bustled in holding a small tray. I sniffed coffee and toast, and when she set it down on the nightstand, my stomach gurgled audibly.

“Now,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “we served breakfast some time ago, and when you didn’t come down, I knew you’d be oversleepin’ again. Your auntie will have my hide and your own if you don’t get down to that kitchen.” She crossed her ample arms and sent me a stern look. “You know we don’t serve anyone in their rooms, guests or otherwise, but Carolina insisted I bring you your coffee. Said you’re no good without it.”

I looked up at a broad-shouldered woman in a green housedress. Over that was an apron in a loud, orange-and-green pattern of forks and spoons. Her thick white hair, twisted into a bun, was bright against her weathered skin. Her small dark eyes gave the impression of two raisins set in a gingerbread face. I’d never seen her before in my life.

“Sorry, Mrs. Flaherty.” How did I know that? It surely must have been her name because she didn’t correct me. I sat up quickly, my mouth hanging open in shock, and the blankets slipped to my waist.

Mrs. Flaherty took a step closer to the bed and narrowed her eyes at me. “Just what are you wearing, missy?” What was I wearing? I glanced down at the cursive “T” stitched on the pocket of my favorite monogrammed PJs. Expensive ones. And why did she care? I opened my mouth to answer, but Mrs. F got there ahead of me. “They’re silk,” she hissed. “And black, for the Lord’s sake.”

“Uh huh,” I said slowly, wondering if she commented on the nightwear of all her guests. Still, I pulled the blankets up to my chin.

“Best not let your auntie see them. Don’t know how in the world you afford such things,” she grumbled. “Eat up quick now, and bring down that tray when you’re through.”

“Okay,” I whispered, staring at the door she closed behind her…

***

Excerpt from Murder on the Steel Pier by Rosie Genova. Copyright 2025 by Rosie Genova. Reproduced with permission from Rosie Genova. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Rosie Genova

Proud Jersey girl Rosie Genova is a multi-genre author. Her work includes a Jersey shore cozy series, The Italian Kitchen Mysteries, and The Tess Mancini Time Travel Mysteries, set in 1955 Atlantic City. She is also the author of standalone suspense and a couple of rom-coms that presently live in her computer files (but are longing to be released into the wild). A former teacher and journalist, Rosie’s non-fiction has appeared in a variety of publications, including Entrepreneur magazine and The New York Times. The mother of three sons, Rosie still lives in her favorite state with her husband, too many dusty antiques, and a charming mutt named Lucy.

Catch Up With Rosie Genova:

www.RosieGenova.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub – @RosieGenova
Facebook – @RosieGenova

 

 

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Giveaway – Lush by Tinia Montford @xpressotours

lush
Tinia Montford
Publication date: March 31st 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

Laurene King had it all: beauty, wealth, and a sexy secret affair with Reese Ashbourne— the brooding heir of her family’s sworn enemy.
But one reckless night shattered everything.

Tragedy struck. Laurene disappeared. And Reese was left with betrayal, unanswered questions, and scars he’ll never forget.

Now, Laurene is back, forced to return to the life she fled, but her homecoming comes with a cruel twist. Their families, teetering on the edge of ruin, have resurrected an old deal to save themselves: an Ashbourne and a King must marry—or lose everything.

Only this time, Reese is the groom. Not his brother.

Haunted by the past, Reese craves revenge as much as he still craves her. Trapped in a forced proximity neither can escape, their chemistry ignites—and so do their secrets.

But someone knows the truth about that night. The lies that tore them apart are unraveling, and the shadowy danger lurking in their luxurious world could destroy them both.

With their second chance at love and their families’ legacies hanging by a thread, Laurene and Reese must choose: bury the past or watch everything crumble to ashes.

The clock is ticking, and some truths are better left buried…

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT:

An Hour before the Accident

The laughter spilled from the main hall of the yacht club, bright and careless, tangled with the relentless thump of music. I should’ve been out there, smiling, toasting, pretending.

Instead, I’d been hiding in this bathroom for nearly twenty minutes, like it could stop the slow, sinking dread pooling in my chest.

Smile, Laurene! Smile!

Conrad’s great.

Really? my conscience said. He was great. Great for the family, great for appearances, great for everything except me.

The door opened and shut softly behind me.

“It’s over.”

I refused to look behind me. I couldn’t. If I did, I’d crack.

Instead, I focused on putting on my lipstick, the motion mechanical. I looked immaculate—perfect—the kind of woman my mother would smile at with pride. But I hated the color.

This fucking burgundy.

The same shade she shoved at me for every happy occasion, every moment she wanted to control. A color that screamed her. Everything she expected me to be. Everything I despised.

I met his gaze in the bathroom mirror.

He loomed there, his suit rumpled and tie slightly askew, his dark hair rebelliously unkempt. He looked the exact opposite of his brother—wild, unapologetic, dangerous. Everything I wasn’t supposed to want.

“Don’t look away.” Every word wrapped around me like a challenge, and that rebellious part of me strained beneath my skin. But he wasn’t asking. He was demanding.

And I obeyed.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I wanted him here. I needed him. But I couldn’t have him.

“I could say the same to you.” In the dim light, his green eyes seemed almost black. “Shouldn’t you be outside? Smiling for the cameras? Pretending you don’t hate every second of this?”

“This”—I pointed between us—“ends now. Get out before somebody sees you.”

His eyes held mine, and the way he saw me, like he was stripping away every layer, every excuse, was almost too much.

I turned. “This isn’t a game, Reese. My mama would burn the entire town to the ground if she knew about us.”

“She doesn’t know.” He stepped closer. “I was careful. No one saw me. We still have the plan.”

“Please.” I had to get through this night without more tears. “Let’s…let’s just cut our losses. I—I don’t know if I can do it now.”

He was behind me before I knew it, his weight trapping me against the counter. I closed my eyes, my breath catching as his exhale grazed the sensitive skin of my neck, hot and tantalizing.

“Can we think of something else?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “She always knows, Reese. You don’t understand—”

“What I understand,” he said, his voice sharp, “is that you’re miserable. You’re about to marry my brother, and you’re standing here trying to convince yourself it’s what you want. Believe in our plan or is that what you want, Laurene?”

Author Bio:

Tinia (TUH-NIA) Montford is a Pisces who’s a sap for romance, especially when there’s (tons of) kissing. Loves eighties sitcoms and will consume anything with chocolate. She graduated from the University of San Francisco with a degree in English and Graphic Design. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Fiction.

You can find Tinia at www.tiniamontford.com or on social media: @tiniawritesbooks

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / TikTok / Instagram / Amazon


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$25 GC – Pity Play by Whitney Dineen @xpressotours

Pity Play
Whitney Dineen
(Pity Series, #6)
Publication date: March 23rd 2025
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

I’ve loved my brother’s best friend for as long as I can remember. Newsflash, he doesn’t see me that way. But now that Luke Phillips is coming to town and needs a place to stay… could this be my big chance?

It’s not like I’ve sat around for the last twenty-eight years waiting for Luke. Not really. But ever since I moved back to Elk Lake, I can’t help but hope I’ll run into him. Enter my big brother calling and asking if his bestie can bunk with me. My younger self is doing backflips at the possibilities.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like Luke is looking for a long-term situation. He’s made it clear he’s got some business to take care of and then he’s on the first train back to Chicago.

But then he kisses me. And everything changes.

At least, I hope it has…

Pity Play is a brother’s best friend, close proximity, small town rom-com that takes place in the resort town of Elk Lake, Wisconsin. This is the sixth book in a series that read as standalones.

Goodreads / Amazon

EXCERPT

After climbing the stairs, I open the door to my room, and I’m immediately filled with the comforting familiarity of my early years. I’ve thought about redecorating now that I’m an adult but being that I spend as much time living in my parents’ room—when they’re in Florida—as I do here, I haven’t quite pulled the trigger. Also, I’m twenty-eight, and even though I tell Noah there’s nothing wrong with me still living at home, I have started to wonder how much longer I’ll be here.

Once again, I let my feather duster take flight and when it gets to the posters, I perform a ritual from my teenage years. I swipe it across Mel B’s face and sing, “I tell you what I want, Luke Phillips. I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna go out on a date with you!”

I’m so busy jamming around my room that I jump when the doorbell rings. It can’t even be eight o’clock so I have no idea who it is. I know it’s not Luke because he won’t be here until ten. That leaves old Mrs. Bing from next door.

My bluish-haired neighbor isn’t generally a bother, but ever since her husband went into the nursing home, she regularly stops by when she needs a jar opened or a spider killed. One time she told me that our weeds were growing out of control and kindly offered to send her gardener over. I let her do that once but then she hit me with a bill for a hundred and fifty dollars. Now we all just live with the weeds.

I run down the stairs with the Spice Girls still ringing in my head, and apparently out of my mouth because as I swing open the door, I practically shout, “If you wannabe my lover …” And that’s when I realize Mrs. Bing isn’t my guest.

All six-foot two inches of Luke Phillips is standing in front of me, and man, does he look good. It’s March in Wisconsin so he’s dressed for winter in a bomber jacket and wool scarf. Nicely fitted jeans showcase every gorgeous inch of his long legs.

I know I should say something to him, but my mouth pools with so much saliva that if I don’t swallow it soon, I’m liable to drool on the man. Swallow your spit, girl.

Once I manage that monumental, and embarrassingly audible, task, I blurt out, “Hey … Hello … Hi there!” Oh yeah, I’m a real orator.

“Hi.” Luke’s beanie-covered head tips to the side. His gorgeous brown eyes narrow like he’s inspecting a moldy piece of cheese. “I’m looking for Lorelai Riley.”

This is my chance to tell him she’s not here and that he should come back at ten when he was supposed to arrive, but my synapses aren’t firing. That must be why I throw my arms into the air and practically shout at him, “I’m Lorelai!”

Luke takes a step backward like he’s going to make a run for it. Instead of fleeing, he moves his gaze from the top of my purple bandana all the way to my bare feet. This of course means he’s aware I’m wearing a pink flowered flannel nightgown from Lanz of Salsburg. A favorite with grannies everywhere.

“Hi,” he repeats. Yet he makes no move toward the door. In fact, there’s no movement at all. It’s like he’s turned into a marble statue. He even stays put after I step back and gesture for him to come in.

Well, this is awkward. I start stammering, “I didn’t expect you until ten. I mean, that’s when Noah said you were coming so that’s why I’m not dressed.” He looks borderline terrified, so I hurry to add, “I was cleaning. Getting ready for you.”

He lifts his foot like he’s going to take a step forward, but the action is so slow it’s like he’s trying to push his way through a wall of frozen molasses. “I can find a hotel or something …”

“What? No! Come on in! You’re staying here!” The image of Kathy Bates from that old movie Misery pops into my mind. From the look on Luke’s face, he’s thinking something similar. I want to assure him that I won’t hobble him, chain him to the bed, and keep him as a hostage, but I think that might scare him more.

Author Bio:

Whitney loves to laugh, play with her kids, bake, and eat french fries — not always in that order.

Whitney is a multi-award-winning author of romcoms, non-fiction humor, and middle reader fiction. Basically, she writes whatever the voices in her head tell her to.

She lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with her husband, Jimmy, where they raise children, chickens, and organic vegetables.

Gold Medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2017.

Silver medal winner at the International Readers’ Favorite Awards, 2015, 2016.

Finalist RONE Awards, 2016.

Finalist at the IRFA 2016, 2017.

Finalist at the Book Excellence Awards, 2017

Finalist Top Shelf Indie Book Awards, 2017

Website / Goodreads / Twitter / Facebook / Instagram


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$25 GC – Love & The Divorce Lawyer by Barbara Newhart @partnersincr1me

Love & the Divorce Lawyer by Barbara Newhart Banner

LOVE & THE DIVORCE LAWYER

by Barbara Newhart

March 24 – April 18, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Love & the Divorce Lawyer by Barbara Newhart

If you love mystery, with a hint of humor and romance, you’ll want to read Love & the Divorce Lawyer

Josephina Jensen, a feisty, justice-seeking divorce lawyer, reluctantly returns to the courtroom after a four-year absence, to help a woman collect an award worth several million dollars from her unscrupulous ex-husband. This decision forces her to cross swords with the brilliant, infuriating, yet ever-so-charming attorney, Richard Diamond, and the ex-husband who will stop at nothing to prevent the dismantling of his empire. Little does anyone know that someone from Josephina’s past is also at work, intent on taking care of unfinished business by stopping her permanently.

Praise for Love & the Divorce Lawyer:

“From its slam-bang opening to its unexpected yet inevitable conclusion, Love and the Divorce Lawyer is a twisty, suspenseful, romantic legal thriller. Author Newhart’s legal background serves her well as she leads the reader through the fascinating strategies that high-end practitioners of family law employ to protect and reap the best possible benefits for their clients. But it is the mystery of who is sending increasingly ominous threats to Attorney Josie Jensen that drives the action of the novel. Filled with complex and genuine characters with understandable but conflicting motives, Newhart masterfully creates tension scene after scene. Attorney Jensen’s growing attraction to her opponent in an important divorce case unfolds naturally as she anticipates her crafty adversary’s next move and what she must do to counter it, all the while finding herself drawn to him on a personal level. Superbly written and expertly plotted, Love and the Divorce Lawyer is a winner.”
~ Brian Anderson, author of Yule Tide and the Lyle Dahms Mysteries

“Josie Jensen is back. Four years ago, a client’s bullet shattered her pelvis and nearly ended her legal career. Now, against her better judgment, she’s reluctantly agreed to represent Amy Castle, a woman entangled in a bitter financial battle with her ex-husband.
But the case isn’t as simple as it seems. Josie’s ongoing divorce is a constant reminder of the pain she’s endured, and her physical limitations make the courtroom a challenging arena. To complicate matters, she’s locked in a legal duel with Richard Diamond, a brilliant and undeniably attractive attorney.
Danger lurks around every corner as Josie digs deeper into the case. A near-miss on the road, a sinister floral delivery, and a persistent sense of being followed signal that her troubles are far from over.
Barbara Newhart has crafted a complex cast of characters and a captivating narrative that will keep you on the edge of your seat. This is one for the keeper shelves. 5 out of 5 stars”
~ Kate Damon author of Jury Duty is Murder

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, with a hint of humor, romance, and family
Published by: The Wild Rose Press
Publication Date: December 11, 2024
Number of Pages: 276
ISBN: 978-1-5092-5925-0
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | The Wild Rose Press | Waterstones

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Anne Compton, Almost Four Years Ago

Anne placed the empty gun carefully on the table, then folded her hands next to it. Moments earlier, to prevent the judge from granting their divorce, she fired it at her husband. She and Peter had shared such wonderful dreams of their lives together. But that was a long time ago—before he broke their vows. For that, there could be no forgiveness. And yet, he escaped his sentence.

All because of her interfering lawyer.

Anne peered down at the floor at Attorney Josephina Jensen, the woman she hired to prevent the divorce, and who had failed her. To add to her treachery, Jensen stepped in front of the bullets meant for Peter. Now, the divorce would go forward, thrusting Anne with him into eternal damnation for his sins.

In the hallway outside, footsteps pounded the marble floors. The courtroom’s double doors burst open, shattering glass and splitting wood.

Anne met the panicked eyes of her former fiancé, followed by the first responders. She smiled as a single tear dropped to her cheek.

Chapter Two

Present Day, Josie Jensen, Thursday Afternoon

“Face it, Josephina Jensen. You’re a divorce lawyer.”

“No, brother dear,” the almost forty-one-year-old corrected as she twirled the stem of her wine glass on the bar. “I have a shattered pelvis and an assortment of scars from a couple bullet wounds to prove I was a divorce lawyer.” She held her cane up in the air. “I am now a law school professor.”

Reaching for his beer mug, Dan Jensen flashed his perfect bachelor-of-the-year grin. “I’ve got a great case for you. The divorce part is over. Judge Myers awarded the wife six million, plus a few million more in assets that are all in the husband’s name.”

“Let me guess,” Josie interrupted, concentrating on opening the package of oyster crackers that arrived with her fish chowder. “The husband refuses to authorize the transfers.”

“Correct. All you have to do is help the wife, now the ex-wife, collect.”

Out of patience, Josie yanked the cellophane hard, spewing the contents in all directions. “Oh, good grief.”

Dan swallowed a forkful of baked scrod and rice pilaf as she retrieved the crackers. “The couple has a chain of high-end grocery stores. They made a ton of money over the years. Plus, the stores are still operating.”

When Josie didn’t respond, he stilled her hand with his and gave it a squeeze. “You got this. You’re a bloodhound when it comes to cases like this. It’s easy money for you.”

She glowered at him over her gold-rimmed glasses. “I remember you flying around the house in superhero costumes.” She removed her hand. “Those gorgeous eyes and that infamous charm get you nowhere with me.”

Deadpan serious now, Dan leaned in close, speaking fast. “The wife is Amy Castle. She’s a cousin on my mom’s side. Two years ago, I referred her to Barry Woodward because you were still recovering from your injuries. Barry did a fantastic job on the divorce. Sadly, he also put the moves on Amy, and they had an affair.” Dan shook his head. “Really poor form. She learned over the weekend that he was married, and she fired him. So, would you please help her?”

Josie sat back and tackled one piece of information at a time. First, their family tree. She and Dan shared the same father but had different mothers. Yes, that could result in unknown cousins. Next, she considered the aforementioned lawyer. “Isn’t Barry on his third wife?”

Dan resumed eating. “The fourth. She knows about the affair too. It’s a disaster.”

Josie balanced a piece of salmon on her soup spoon. “So, I’d really be doing this for you, right? To help ease your guilt over referring a family member to a brilliant, sex-addicted lawyer with commitment issues?”

He tilted his head. “Well, yes. And for Amy, an innocent victim of love, taken advantage of by her now ex-husband and deceived by her lover.” When Josie didn’t respond, he added, “She’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars, upfront, and you can bill her a c-note an hour. There’s plenty more after that if you need it.”

As if on automatic pilot, Josie’s mind started listing each step of the process needed to hang the ex-husband. Then the sane, less greedy side of her brain kicked in.

Stop. You don’t do that kind of work anymore.

Dan squeezed her hand again. “Please?”

Her resolve wavered. This not-so-humble, lawyer-of-the-year-type guy who just offered her a case other lawyers would beg for, was her life-long best friend and confidant. He also rarely said please. Twice. She pushed aside the chowder and swiveled in the bar stool to face him. “I hate you.”

His broad smile beamed. “You love me.” He picked up his cell. “Can I call her? She’s waiting in the parking lot to meet with you.”

Josie grabbed his hand. “I’m making no promises.”

“Agreed. Just speak with her.”

She scratched the scar on her chest. “Who’s representing the ex-husband?”

Dan’s cheeks and neck blotched red. “Oh yeah. About that.” He rose and tossed a bunch of bills on the bar.

Warning bells erupted in Josie’s brain. She grabbed the hem of his designer suit jacket. “Daniel Gabriel Jensen. Who is it?”

“Um, do you remember Richard Diamond?”

Chapter Three

Richard Diamond, Thursday Afternoon

“Mr. Castle is holding on line two.”

“Thank you, Dana.” Attorney Richard Diamond ended the intercom connection and drained a bottle of water.

Divorce caused even the most reasonable people to act unreasonably. And yet, Richard suspected his client, Malcolm Castle, displayed his “unique” form of unreasonableness long before his divorce commenced. To date, he held the record for the longest divorce case in the county, and the pandemic had nothing to do with the delay.

Richard didn’t need to review Castle’s file to recall the judge’s final decision when he granted the divorce. With millions of dollars up for grabs, Mr. Castle was ordered to transfer six of them in investments, plus a beach cottage, a boat, and a car, to his former wife within thirty days. And here they were, a hundred days or so later, and no transfers. Richard wondered if his client intended to break the record for this post judgment phase of the divorce as well.

Was Richard ruffled? Not at all. Malcolm already paid him close to two million in legal fees for the divorce. And he said he would commit to spending another two million for Richard to run circles around his ex-wife and her lawyer in order to hold on to his fortune until the last possible moment. And then, only then, would he direct Richard to make a deal. He was not going to pay anything close to six million and it was up to Richard to make sure of it.

Richard inhaled a deep breath and held it for five seconds. Then he released a slow exhale. It had been a long day, and it was about to get longer. After another second, he pushed the phone’s button for line two. “This is Attorney Diamond. How may I help you?”

“Hey there, Dickie Baby. It’s me, Mal. I hear Amy’s getting a new lawyer. A broad this time. She must have figured out, with some help, that this last one, who she was screwing, Wood something or other, was married. She gave him the boot Tuesday night.”

Richard never asked why or how his client always had up-to-date details about his ex-wife’s life. He didn’t want to know. Malcolm Castle may be slick, but more important, his skewed beliefs about how the world should operate, including his marriage and his divorce, created the type of no-holds-barred challenge that Richard relished.

And Malcolm, along with Richard’s other character-flawed clients, often expressed many prejudices, but they were not stupid. They ignored Richard’s dark skin because of the favorable results he produced. As for being Jewish, the topic never came up. Black Jews were not common in this country. Black Jewish lawyers of Ethiopian descent were even less common.

Richard gave his well-appointed office an appreciative glance. Mal wouldn’t pay his ex-wife, but he always paid his legal bills without question or delay. And the instant he didn’t, Richard would fire him.

“What’s the lawyer’s name?” he asked, disappointed that Barry Woodward couldn’t keep his pants zipped, or at least avoid getting caught.

There were few other lawyers left in the state who could handle a case of this magnitude. Like him, they treated the law as a game. The goal was to define the rules in each case, then be the best at figuring out how to enforce them or bend them. Which strategy depended on whose side you were on and how much money your client was willing to pay you.

“Some fat bimbo named Josephina Jensen,” Castle answered. “I already checked her out. She teaches at the damned law school. She quit going to court a couple years ago after her wacko client, the wife, mind you, got a gun into the courthouse. Jensen tried to stop her from shooting it off and she got hit pretty bad. If she represents Amy, it will be her first time back in court, in the same building. With all that emotional garbage and you in my corner, I doubt she’ll last a week. What do you think?”

Castle kept talking as Richard’s memory replayed the nightmarish scenes that came to be known as the Compton Catastrophe around Hartford’s Hall of Justice. He’d been down the hall when he heard the shots.

“Hey, Dickie, answer my question,” Castle demanded, drawing Richard back to the present.

Richard typed Jensen’s name into the attorney directory located on the state’s judicial website, confirming what he already suspected. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Malcolm.” He noted the calendar hanging on the wall and changed topics. “Are you all set for next Thursday?”

“You mean when I become unavailable?”

Richard cleared his throat. “Court starts at ten. It is my obligation to tell you to be there and on time.”

“Consider me told. Just be sure to cover my ass at all costs.”

“Consider your ass covered, Malcolm.” Richard hung up and jotted down the time spent during the call and its content. Next, he returned his attention to Josephina Jensen.

Holding his chin between his forefinger and thumb, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He recalled her body, wrapped in a white sheet and packed onto a gurney with an oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. Two silent paramedics, ignoring the media’s flashing cameras and shouted questions, wheeled the stretcher out of the courthouse and down the ramp near the steps. They lifted her into the waiting ambulance and raced off, lights and sirens blaring at full blast.

The image, along with one other, never left Richard’s mind. Over time, they had faded, but now they reemerged fresh as the day they happened.

Could Castle be right? Was she back?

Chapter Four

Josie

“Sit back down,” Josie insisted, tugging at Dan’s jacket.

The waiter returned just as her brother reclaimed his bar stool, interrupting the rant Josie was about to launch. “Shall I wrap your meal, madam?”

She looked at her barely eaten chowder and sandwich. “Do you want it?” she asked Dan.

He crinkled his nose. “After you played with it for the past half hour? No thanks.”

When the waiter left, Josie reduced her voice to a near-threatening level. “Richard Diamond is a monster, Daniel. Thirteen years ago, he roasted us alive in that Masterson case. Do you remember what happened when the judge read his decision, after that awful eight-day trial? Our client burst out of the courtroom and howled through the halls like a mama orangutang searching for her missing babies. And what did Diamond do? He stood there in his thousand-dollar suit, preening like a peacock, his feathers spread in full bloom.”

Straight faced, Dan pretended to study the dessert menu. “It’s not that we lost. The judge just didn’t give our client everything she wanted, the way she wanted it. Over time, the parents settled down and worked things out. And keep in mind, the playing field between you and Diamond is even now. You can take him. In fact, consider it your opportunity for payback.”

“We lost, Daniel,” Josie spat back. “And I don’t want payback. I haven’t handled a divorce case or any case for almost four years, and I don’t want to, ever again.” She hated that her voice started to crack mid-sentence.

Dan clutched her forearm and sought her tear-filled eyes. “Stop letting Anne Compton ruin your life. You’re an amazing lawyer and Amy needs you.”

Josie darted her attention to the nautical paraphernalia covering the bar’s walls. Even if he was right, she didn’t want to do it. “I doubt very much Richard Diamond has mellowed over the years. He’s like a clump of Roquefort cheese, its blue and green moldy disgustingness growing more and more pungent over time.”

Dan laughed. “That just makes it more challenging.”

Picturing Diamond in his element, Josie curled her upper lip. “He only represents wealthy, evil, greedy husbands and vengeful, spoiled, gold-digging wives. Their divorce proceedings last for years and always end with a trial. And for the rare times he loses, he files an appeal. There’s no end.”

“I agree.” He hugged her. “That’s why Amy’s divorce took so long.”

“And you want me to join that circus?”

He showed her his calendar on his phone. “Did I mention the contempt hearing against the ex-husband is scheduled for next Thursday?”

Josie straightened. “Are you listening to me at all? You act like we’re discussing a sale on one of your fancy suits.” She tapped her watch. “Luke and I are leaving for the Bahamas at eleven-fifty tonight. It’s his birthday present to me. We won’t be back until late Monday night.”

Dan’s grin and his eyes widened. “Then you’d better get started.”

Before she could stop him, he sent a text.

“I’m not doing it, Dan. I’m not stepping one foot into any courtroom with that fiend.”

Ignoring her, he stood and drained his beer mug. “You’re gonna love Amy.”

“I’m only agreeing to talk with her, Daniel.”

He waved. “There she is.”

Josie followed his gaze to the bar’s entrance.

A pretty, well-endowed and well-dressed older brunette stood in the doorway. With a worried smile, she waved back.

Perfect. Just perfect.

***

Excerpt from Love & the Divorce Lawyer by Barbara Newhart. Copyright 2025 by Barbara Newhart. Reproduced with permission from Barbara Newhart. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Barbara Newhart enjoys reading and writing stories that contain at least a sprinkle of romance, tossed into a great mystery or thriller where the characters dodge and weave their way through this crazy adventure we call life. In addition to Love & the Divorce Lawyer, Barbara has written Legally Yours and Finally Yours as Kimberly Whitmore.

Catch Up With Barbara Newhart:

www.BarbaraNewhart.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
Instagram – @barbara.newhart.mysteries

 

 

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