Thanksgiving Recovery

         Hello, gentle readers! I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving!

It is the Sunday after my favorite holiday and I am still recovering from it (I'm not as young as I used to be!). My refrigerator is full of leftover turkey, stuffing and pie, as am I, although I have managed to indulge in my favorite things…leftover pie for breakfast (preferably Dutch Apple) and turkey sandwiches...any time. I use Kings’ Hawaiian rolls to make my sandwiches so I don’t feel like I’m eating too much. Sorta like a turkey slider!

The house has been put back together…the furniture is in its proper place again and the “special” plates, silverware, etc., I use for the holiday has been washed, dried and put away until next year (I don’t host Christmas dinner at my house…we all troop over to a family friend’s home but that doesn’t mean I don’t do my part. There is lasagna to make as well as my oft-requested deviled eggs, spinach dip and cheesecake).  

I had so many things to be thankful for this year (actually, I'm thankful every day, not just on Thanksgiving). I never forget that I am truly blessed with good health, a roof over my head, and family and friends who love me as much as I love them.  

         Next up? Submitting my latest novel, A Kiss in the Sunlight, to my publisher then Christmas. The DH and I will be crawling into the attic to bring down all the Christmas stuff shortly (thankfully, it isn’t today!)

Until next time, remember to spread kindness wherever you go.

Marie

FORSAKING HOPE by Beverley Oakley and a $10 Amazon Gift Card Prize!

Forsaking Hope

Fair Cyprians of London By Beverley Oakley

Beverley is giving away a $10 Amazon Gift Certificate to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Please use the RaffleCopter below to enter. Remember you may increase your chances of winning by visiting the other tour stops. You may find those locations here. 

About the Book: 

Two years ago, she missed their secret assignation and disappeared without a trace. Now the divine "Miss Hope" is in Felix Durham’s bed - a 'surprise cheering-up gift' sourced by his friends from London's most exclusive brothel. Felix is in heaven - and he wants to stay there. So does Hope, but she can’t. Hope Merriweather lives by a code of honour – even if she’s a prostitute. Having sold her soul, she’s prepared to sacrifice everything else to protect what she believes in. Even if honour – in her eyes – comes at the cost of thieving and breaking hearts. Including her own.

Available for preorder here:

Amazon US | Amazon UK | iBooks | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Google Play 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Excerpt: 

Chapter One  
Wilfred Hunt. If there was a name to tip Hope into the abyss of despair she was hearing it spill from Madame Chambon’s lips now as the older woman directed Hope to take a seat in the reception room, presumably so Madame could loom oppressively over her. With her hands on her ample, expensively padded hips, Hope’s benefactress—procuress, employer and gaoler were other monikers—sent Hope a beetling look that needed no interpreting: Regardless of Hope’s true feelings, Hope must project the required show of warmth and delight at being the chosen one. Madame patted the side of her faux curls. Years of hot irons had reduced her hair to the texture of wool but her crowning glory these days was supplemented by the lustrous locks of those girls who dared cross her – before they were thrown back into the street from where most had come. Nevertheless, Hope had to make her resistance clear. Surely Madame who knew her history would understand her loathing for this man, above all others. “I shan’t do it,” she whispered. There was little evidence of the willful child and wild adolescent who’d been the despair of her family. “I won’t—” Outside, the noise of the traffic rumbling over the cobbles and the shrill calls of competing vendors settled upon the tense silence. Madame Chambon’s other girls, ranged around the sumptuously appointed room on red velvet upholstered banquettes, watched the exchange with prurient fascination. Hope knew it had been a calculated ploy of Madame’s to conduct her interview in public so that Hope would serve as an example to them. No one crossed Madame Chambon. The shrill cry of a fishmonger caused Madame to look pointedly out of the window. With something between a smile and a sneer, she smoothed a Marcel wave. “Is that where you plan to return, Hope? The gutter?” Her nose twitched and in the sunlight that filtered into the room, the grooves chiselled between mouth and chin were thrown into harsh relief, highlighted rather than hidden by the thick powder she used to conceal her age. Madame Chambon’s comfort, now and into retirement, depended on obedient girls. Hope knew that as well as anyone. She’d had to bury her rebellious streak just to ensure food in her belly. The Frenchwoman raised a chiselled brow and began to pace slowly in front of her girls. A painter with an eye for beauty would have been ecstatic at capturing such a spectacle on canvas. The discerning young man about town who visited 56 Albemarle Street was frequently rendered ecstatic by the range of delights Madame Chambon's girls offered in addition to the visual. “You forget yourself, Hope. I put a roof over your head and deck you out as handsomely as Mr Charles Worth ever did for his most discerning customer.” There was acid in Madame Chambon’s tone. “But for me, you'd be starving and glad of the pennies you could trade for a grubby stand-up encounter in a dark alley.” Madame Chambon thrust out her bosom and breathed through her nose, her response a calculated warning to the other girls arranged in various languid poses about the ornately decorated reception room that intransigence would not be tolerated. “Mr Hunt has requested you.” She paused and when Hope remained silent, though her stance and expression left no one in any doubt as to her horror regarding this enforced assignation, went on. “Remember what I told you—what I tell all my girls when they first come here? The past must be forgotten the moment you step over my threshold. You are reborn, remodelled, refashioned into the most exquisite delectation of womanhood. A marquess, a prince, is well recompensed for the tidy sum he hands over in order to enjoy your sparkling wit, to converse with you in French, or if he chooses, on philosophy…to enjoy your charms…and,” she added significantly, “your gracious hospitality and tender ministrations to his needs. That is our agreement and you are no different. If Mr Hunt wishes you, Hope, to attend him at his residence then you will go.” Faith, one of the kinder girls, patted Hope’s arm in silent solidarity. Hope didn’t expect any of them to speak up in her defence. Not when they all relied on Madame Chambon as much as she did to provide them with the necessities of life. Anything more than that was part of a strict contract that indentured a girl for life unless she was able to secure a generous benefactor to settle Madame's severance bill. The fine clothes were part of the charade, necessary to entice a more elite clientele. Hope’s exquisite wardrobe did not belong to her though she'd have forsaken all the dupion silk and Spitalfields lace for the freedom of the gutter and to be mistress of her own destiny – and her body - if she could only be sure of a plate of gravy and potatoes every second day. Closing her eyes, she hung her head, the carefully coiffed curls that fell forwards brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. It was as well that they not be in evidence. Tears, weakness, vulnerability were like a red rag to a bull where Madame Chambon was concerned. “How long…do I have to prepare myself?” She was not so stupid she couldn’t admit defeat when there was no alternative. Obduracy was beaten out of one, but tears ensured a girl got the very worst next assignment. Their clients weren’t all marquesses and princes, though they did require a very fat pocket book. “Tomorrow.” “Tomorrow.” Hope repeated it in a leaden tone, and stared at her hands, clasped in her lap; white-knuckled. As white as the rabbit-fur that edged her fashionable black-and-white striped satin cuirass. Hope had the tall, slim figure suited to the scandalously tight tie-back skirts that were all the rage, the back flowing into a train adorned with elaborate swags and trimmed with bows. She'd turned heads the length of Oxford Street as she’d promenaded along the pavement following a walk through Hyde Park earlier that afternoon. In fact, for the first time in two years, she’d almost felt happy as she’d pretended a sense of freedom in the afternoon sun, blocking her mind to the prison to which she was returning. She drew in her breath and forced herself to be brave, knowing the punishment she’d invite for daring to speak her mind. “Please tell Mr Hunt I will see him again under sufferance.” Madame Chambon’s voice was surprisingly caramel. “Well then, now that you have made your objection clear, Hope, you will be pleased to hear that Mr Hunt’s desires are not only motivated by fond memories of your no-doubt mutually satisfying congress. I believe he wishes to acquaint you with news of your family.” Hope hid her shock. “I have no family.” With care, she modified her tone so it was as leaden as before though emotion roiled close to the surface. “Not even a sister?” Hope raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The woman did her research. Aware that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with anticipation, Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface level but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a fellow prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had chosen to make this conversation public. “Mr Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the so-called Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth, not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare yourself for Lord Farrow. Married to a monolith like the venerable Lady Farrow, he likes his girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll be less coin in your pocket if you sully the transaction with that long face, Hope.” 

Author Info:

Beverley Oakley was seventeen when she bundled up her first her 500+ page romance and sent it to a publisher. Unfortunately drowning her heroine on the last page was apparently not in line with the expectations of romance readers so Beverley became a journalist.

Twenty-six years later Beverley was delighted to receive her first publishing contract from Robert Hale (UK) for a romance in which she ensured her heroine was saved from drowning in the icy North Sea.

Since 2009 Beverley has written more than thirteen historical romances, mostly set in England during the early nineteenth century. Mystery, intrigue and adventure spill from their pages and if she can pull off a thrilling race to save someone’s honour – or a worthy damsel from the noose – it’s time to celebrate with a good single malt Scotch.

Beverley lives with her husband, two daughters and a Rhodesian Ridgeback puppy the size of a pony opposite a picturesque nineteenth century lunatic asylum. She also writes Africa-set adventure-filled romances tarring handsome bush pilot heroes, and historical romances with less steam and more sexual tension, as Beverley Eikli.

You can get in contact with Beverley at:

Website | Facebook | Pinterest | Twitter | Goodreads
 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Fortune's Wheel (A Claire Rollins Cozy Mystery Book 4) by J.A. Whiting

Claire, an owner of a chocolate store in Boston, has more on her mind than sweet treats when she discovers a cold case murder of a graduate student, Leslie, headlining the day’s newspaper.

Claire’s BFF, partner in crime, and employee, Nicole, makes the team a sure fit to discover old and ignored clues when a former journalist for the original investigation reaches out for their help.

With a little inside help from Claire’s boyfriend, Officer Ian, she uses a touch of the paranormal, her friend, and inside information to investigate what really happened to Leslie.

With a little spare time, Nicole takes a romantic interest in a coworker at the chocolate store.  Can’t hurt to have more than one relationship in a fun story!

Happy reading,

Dawn

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child & More

Okay. I know. I'm late to the game. I always am. This week I finally indulged in my guilty pleasure: Harry Potter. I knew HP and The Cursed Child was a screen play, which is why I held off. I find reading in that format a bit tedious. However, after the first few pages, it wasn't a problem. Overall, the book wasn't too bad. Definitely didn't compare to the first seven books. But what amazed me is how a theater production could pull of the play night after night without something catastrophic happening. Every other page was a new set, different characters, wardrobe changes . . . and that didn't even begin to cover all of the magical aspects. I went online for answers. I didn't get many but I did find out that you have to buy a separate ticket for parts 1 and 2. Very interesting. I'm crossing my fingers that the play will eventually travel, but with so many sets, I don't think it will be in the near future. I'm still putting it on my bucket list.

In other news, yesterday my son and I forged ahead with Christmas. (Don't worry, Thanksgiving. We haven't forgotten you.) We made salt-dough ornaments. It was fun and he thought it was great to color "cookies". I highly recommend it as a family project.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving! I hope it's as magical as Harry Potter.
Nicolette Pierce

BRINGER OF CHAOS: FORGED IN FIRE by Kayelle Allen Cover Reveal and a FREE Download!

Bringer of Chaos: Forged in Fire  The Sempervian Saga (Book 2) by Kayelle Allen

BLURB: 

Humans created the Ultras, a genetically enhanced race, to defend mankind. Instead, Ultras became their greatest threat. With the help of traitors, humans captured half a million of the immortal warriors.

Exiled to an alien world with no tech, no tools, and no resources, their leader, Pietas, must protect his people, find food and shelter and unite them. But before he can, he must regain command from a ruthless adversary he's fought for centuries--his brutal, merciless father.

Ultras are immortal, and no matter how they die, they come back. Reviving after death isn't all it's cracked up to be. Some wounds heal instantly and a few take time, but battered and broken trust? Immortals may heal, but a wound of the heart lasts forever.

Genre: Science Fiction with romantic elements

Rating: PG13 for violence, no profanity or explicit content

Cover artist Brumae DeviantArt
https://brumae-art.deviantart.com/ Facebook https://www.facebook.com/Brumae  
Amazon Pre-Order Link

Excerpt: 

Bringer of Chaos: Forged in Fire is military science fiction with romantic elements. This excerpt is the foreword, which was "written" by Pietas, the hero.

You're human. Lies are your nature.

Truth is mine. Honoring my word means more to me than life.

Humans are craven, contemptible and reprehensible supplanters of power. What you need is the truth.

Traitors among my kind lied to you. They concealed themselves among you and claimed we were myth. They fed you false hope you were safe. They lulled you into complacent ignorance. The deceivers manipulated, confused, and desensitized you.

You chose to believe the lies.

You've heard tales of visitors from outer space. Stories of aliens who walk among you. You called them urban legends, myths, tall tales for the campfire, untrue.

You refused to believe the truth.

This book relates my tale but is not from my point of view. Call it Science Fiction, but it happened. I exist. My dimension is not yours, so you have not been aware of me--until now--but I know everything about you.

To honor a worthy human friend, I considered sparing humanity. I have since seen the folly of blanket exemption. Not all of you deserve to die, but there are requirements for being protected. Will I choose you?

Perhaps. I offer no guarantee. Your fate is a bequest no one can usurp.

Believe me.

Read this, if you dare to know the truth.

~ Pietas

Bringer of Chaos: The Origin of Pietas 

The Sempervian Saga (Book 1)

Why should Pietas end the war with humans? His people are winning, yet they insist on peace talks. The Ultra people want to grant humans a seat on the Council. Pietas ap Lorectic, Chancellor of the High Council, War Leader and First Conqueror, disagrees. What's best for mortals is oppression, control, and if necessary, elimination.

Pietas seethes with rage at the idea of human equality. Humans might have created Ultras, but the creation has far surpassed the creator. Humans die. Ultras are reborn, no matter how grievous the injury. They have no equals.

His people permit him no choice. He must attend these insipid peace talks on Enderium Six and what's worse, be polite. To humans.

When a human special ops warrior is killed in battle, he's resurrected in a secret process and inducted into the Ghost Corps. He's given enough strength to perma-kill immortal Ultras. Ghosts are the most hated and feared of warriors.

When the ghost entraps and captures Pietas at the peace talks, the two begin a long journey toward Sempervia, an isolated and forgotten world. Once there, Pietas is marooned and the ghost abandoned alongside him. The two must either fight to perma-death, or join forces to survive.

As Pietas comes to trust the human, an unlikely and awkward friendship begins. Until he discovers how ghosts are resurrected...

Amazon Buy Link 

Giveaway - Free Download

Free -- download Endure, Illustrated Quotes by Pietas (as told to Kayelle Allen). Enjoy an exclusive collection of quotes on the concept of endurance by the man known to other immortals as the Bringer of Chaos. https://kayelleallen.com/media/30-days-endure.pdf

Download a free adult coloring book you can print and share. Relax and color with friends. It's fun! https://kayelleallen.com/media/pietas-coloring-book.pdf

Mythic Heroes and Misbehaving Robots:

Kayelle Allen writes Sci Fi with mythic heroes, misbehaving robots, role playing immortal gamers, and warriors who purr. She's a US Navy veteran and has been married so long she's tenured. https://kayelleallen.com Twitter https://twitter.com/kayelleallen Facebook https://facebook.com/kayelleallen.author Join the Romance Lives Forever Reader Group Download four free books and get news about books coming soon. You can unsubscribe at any time.

Happy Thanksgiving!

    

     Hello, gentle readers!

     It is Sunday afternoon as I write this (I’m trying really hard to get back on schedule) and my house is redolent with the aroma of dinner simmering on the stove. I’m making a good, old fashioned Yankee Pot Roast, complete with mashed potatoes, gravy and caramelized carrots and onions. It’s my grandmother’s recipe (she related the recipe to me over the phone a very long time ago—we’re talking decades here—after I completely botched my first attempt). It’s comfort food. A family favorite. One of the dishes I do well.

         I am not the world’s best cook. I’m not the world’s worst cook, either. I make mostly simple meals that are filling and satisfying (I do make a spaghetti sauce with meatballs and sausage that will knock your socks off). Thankfully, no one has ever become sick or died from my cooking, but I have made a couple dishes that even the dog wouldn’t touch. On those occasions, my DH told me in the kindest, most diplomatic, way possible “Please don’t make this again.”

         Why am I telling you this? Well, Thanksgiving is coming up. This is, by far, my favorite holiday. I love roasted turkey with all the trimmings. And I go all out. Deviled eggs (my own recipe). Spinach dip (Knorr’s recipe). Cheesecake (Grandma’s recipe again). Pumpkin Pie (my aunt’s recipe).

         Over the years, I’ve taken the best recipes of family and friends, tweaked them for dietary restrictions (my DH cannot have red, green or yellow peppers), and made them my own. I use my mother-in-law’s recipe for the dressing/stuffing (again, related to me over the phone long distance). She was like me. She didn’t measure anything so it was trial and error for a while until I figured it all out. Her most cryptic direction?  Add water until it looks sloppy. When I asked her to explain that, she just said “You’ll know it when you see it.” And you know, though it’s taken a long time, she was right. I do know it when I see it (and feel it with the spoon….oh, and one of the tweaks? I use chicken broth instead of water. And real butter). Oh, I should stop. I’m making myself hungry!

         Happy Thanksgiving all!

Remember: spread kindness wherever you go.

Marie

SULTRY NIGHTS Collection of 22 Stories and a Giveaway!

Sultry Nights 

A Limited Edition Romance Collection

Containing Stories from: Nicole Morgan, Jocelyn Dex, Alison Foster,  Kate Richards, Linda O'Connor, Samantha Holt, Jerrie Alexander,  Whitley Cox, Krista Ames, Ursula Sinclair, Measha Stone, Tuesday Embers, Siera London,  Rachel Shane,  
Bonnie Phelps, Misha Elliott, Alyson Reynolds, Jenna Bayley-Burke,  Madison Michael, Pepper Goodrich, Marcia James, Destiny Blaine

The authors are giving away lots of goodies with this tour. Please use the Rafflecopter below to enter. Don't forget  you may increase your chances of winning by visiting the other tour stops. You may find those locations here. 

 

Blurb: Love, passion, romance and desire… No matter what your preference, this set of 22 hot and sexy reads has just what you need. From surprise love affairs to bad boys that we can’t help but fall for, and couples that were meant to be, this compilation from Romance Collections is sure to please your every single need. Sultry Nights Buy Link: Amazon 

Featuring:

All I Want By Misha Elliott

Excerpt:

She wanted to know what would happen if she dared to kiss him. The boy who filled so many of her dreams and fantasies was here, right now with her. How hot would it be to feel his lips against her own? 

Their playful game sparked a flame. She could only hope that a kiss would ignite an inferno. 

~*~*~*~*~*~ Author Bio and links: Misha Elliott is an old movie watching, wine drinking, book-lover. Once a northerner she now calls the Lone Star state her home. She can’t remember a time when books weren’t a part of her life. Writing gives her a reason to talk to the voices in her head. When she isn’t writing you will find her talking about books with friends or at the beach with her toes in the sand.   Website:www.mishaelliott.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/elliottmisha

Twitter: www.twitter.com/elliottmisha

IG:  www.instagram.com/elliottmisha

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway