I Invited her in by Adele Parks ~ Excerpt

About I Invited Her In

Hardcover: 432 Pages

Publisher: MIRA; Original edition (February 5, 2019)

Imagine the worst thing a friend could ever do.

This is worse.

When Mel receives an unexpected email from her oldest friend Abi, it brings back memories she thought she had buried forever. Their friendship belonged in the past. To those carefree days at university.

But Abi is in trouble and needs Mel’s help, and she wants a place to stay. Just for a few days, while she sorts things out. It’s the least Mel can do.

After all, friends look out for each other, don’t they?

I Invited Her In is a blistering tale of wanting what you can’t have, jealousy and revenge from Sunday Times bestseller Adele Parks.

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About Adele Parks

Adele Parks one of the most-loved and biggest-selling women’s fiction writers in the UK. She has sold over 3 million books and her work has been translated into 25 different languages.

1500+ 5 star reviews have kindly been written by her fans on Amazon.co.uk 

She has published 15 novels in the past 15 years, all of which have been London Times Top Ten Bestsellers.

Adele was born in the North East of England, in 1969. She enjoyed a traditional 1970’s childhood, watching too much TV and eating convenience food because nobody minded if kids did that in those days. Since graduating from university, where she studied English Language and Literature, she worked in advertising and as a management consultant. In 2010 Adele was proud to be awarded an honorary doctorate of Letters from Teesside University.

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“It’s just been so hard. Such a shock,” she mutters, staring at me, her big black-brown eyes filled with incomprehension. How could this have happened to me? she’s asking, as about a zil­lion women before her have asked.

Ben is a faithful sort of man, and for that I’m infinitely grate­ful. His father played around and then eventually left Ellie when Ben was fourteen; he swore he’d never cause the same hurt. But just because my husband is faithful it doesn’t mean I don’t have a clue about men who are not, of which there seem to be very many. Working in a dress shop gives surprising insight; once women are inside the changing room, they think they’re in a confessional box. People tell me stuff. A lot of stuff. It’s rarely good.

But Abigail is surprised it’s happened to her. I reach towards her and gently put my hand on her arm because I’m not capable of finding the correct words.

“Married affection,” she corrects herself, “married love, is often undervalued just because it’s reliable. That’s a tragedy, isn’t it?” I nod. “It’s a tragedy that we don’t value reliability. If our fridge breaks, we throw it out. We don’t try to fix it and we don’t care what becomes of that fridge, if it’s left to rot, if it makes the earth bulge. Landfill.” She’s warming to her metaphor. “People treat their marriages like that a lot of the time. I think I’m an old fridge. He’s got himself a new model, the sort that dispenses ice and has a fancy drawer to keep vegetables fresh.”

“You’ve lost me,” I murmur.

“Yeah, I’m dragging out the comparison, but you see my point. I’m on the scrap heap.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true. It was Valentine’s Day. Did I tell you that?”

I gasp and shake my head. Ouch, that’s cruel.

“He hadn’t mentioned any plans for the evening, which was unusual. Normally we make quite a thing of Valentine’s night, a celebration, you know?”

“Mmm,” I mumble, not committing. To be honest, Ben and I are not big celebrators of Valentine’s Day. We might remem­ber to pass one another a card across the breakfast table, or we might not. Valentine’s Day often falls in the half-term holiday, and we’re usually more wrapped up in balancing childcare. The most romantic thing Ben can do for me around then is work from home.

“Last year, we went to Hawaii. It seems like five minutes ago. I can still smell the flora and fauna. I can still feel the warm, tranquil waters. It really is a breathtaking place. We had a can­dlelit dinner on the beach, prepared by the islands’ top chef and served to us by a butler.”

“Wow.” I know she’s telling me about the romantic gestures of a man she found with his pants around his ankles, but wow. It’s hard not to be a tiny bit impressed.

“One year, he flew me to New York and we went ice-skat­ing in Central Park, then drank hot chocolates in a cutesy log cabin café. Another year we had a helicopter tour of LA at night. He always sent me two dozen red roses. We always did something. This year he hadn’t mentioned what we’d be doing. I just thought he’d planned something extra special. I wanted to be prepared, so as soon as I finished at the studio I dashed to the beautician. Had the usual: a manicure, pedicure, a Brazil­ian. You know?”

I do not know. I mean, of course I know in theory that this is what women do to prepare for a special night but I can’t re­member the last time I went to a beautician. I can paint my own nails and, as for the other business, well, let’s just say Ben has learnt to love the retro look. He’s lucky if I pluck my eyebrows. I just find life busy and tricky enough without having to inflict extra pain on myself for an aesthetic that precisely one person is going to benefit from. I mean, I’d never ask him to put hot wax on his best bits. Ben has never complained about my lack of grooming in that area; it’s not as though he needs help find­ing his target.

I don’t interrupt Abigail to tell her as much. I know she’d be shocked and think I’m slovenly.

“I popped to the salon for a blow-dry and it was just chance that my stylist was running ahead of schedule. What were the odds, on Valentine’s Day? Normally there’s a backlog. I was just going home to get changed, and then my plan was to return to the studio so that he could meet me there. I wanted to look fresh and fabulous but without admitting to making the effort. When I saw his car on the driveway, I was excited. That’s the worst of it, Mel, I was actually excited to think he was home. I thought maybe we’d have a little afternoon delight, sod the blow-dry.”

I realize that she means the sex she was planning would be the sort to mess up her hair. It’s a bit more detail than I need.

Shattered Silence (Echo Falls, #3) by Marta Perry ~ Excerpt & Giveaway

A woman on the run seeks sanctuary in a peaceful Pennsylvania Dutch community—and finds a protector in the most unlikely of men…

One moment Rachel Hartline is secure in her career and community. The next, she’s in the wrong place at the wrong time—watching her ex-husband commit a crime that puts her in unfathomable danger. Fear and hurt send her home to an Amish farm and the family she’s always trusted. But a private investigator is close behind—and he may be a threat to her in more ways than one…

Cold, calculating Clint Mordan isn’t convinced Rachel is as innocent in her ex-husband’s schemes as she claims, but when her ex’s enemies target Rachel, Clint is driven to keep her safe. Maybe the terror in her beautiful eyes and the target on her back aren’t an act. But as his feelings toward her deepen, Clint realizes he’s the only one who can keep Rachel alive in a game where only the killer knows the stakes.

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They reached the quiet suburban street she lived on, and Rachel pulled into the driveway leading to the garage. Leaving her car outside, she got out quickly. She headed for the front door, a set of keys in her hand, and she pointedly didn’t glance his way.

Ignoring him wasn’t going to help her now.

Clint parked at the curb and followed her up the walk while assessing the house she and her ex-husband owned. A small Craftsman-style bungalow, it was undoubtedly one of the older houses on the block, but it was also in immaculate condition—freshly painted, the planters overflowing with mums in bright oranges and yellows. Nice place, making him wonder how she could afford it on a teacher’s salary. But maybe Hartline was still paying his share.

He overtook Rachel before she reached the door. “We haven’t had our little talk yet,” he reminded her. She stiffened, then spun and flung an annoyed glance at him. “We can have as many little talks as you want, since you seem prepared to make a nuisance of yourself to get them. But I still can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

The last sentence came out loudly, and he glanced toward the next-door neighbor, who’d stopped clipping his hedge to stare at them. Best not to give the man any excuse to interfere.

“Sorry,” he said, not meaning it. “But the situation is too serious to wait.”

Rachel met his gaze briefly and then looked away. He thought he read resignation in the movement. “I suppose you’d better come in.”

Success, it seemed. She fumbled with the key as if her fingers were cold, and he moved closer to her, just in case she had any idea of bolting inside and slamming the door in his face.

She finally got the key to turn. “I didn’t…”

The words cut off, and he followed her shocked stare toward the inside of the house. The door opened directly onto what had probably been a neat, pleasant room, judging by what he’d seen of the outside.

Not now. It had been tossed, and by someone who hadn’t bothered trying to hide his actions.

“No.” The anguish in the word was as acute as if she’d been attacked herself. She started in, but Clint grasped her arm.

“Wait. Someone might still be there. Call the police first.” He suspected bringing the police in might not sit well with James Attwood, but Clint was still too much of a cop to do anything else.

Rachel shook his hand off, her green eyes stormy. “You—you probably did this yourself.”

“I didn’t.” He hung on to whatever patience he possessed. “If I had, would I be telling you to call the police?”

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A Dangerous Game by Heather Graham ~ Excerpt

About A Dangerous Game

Hardcover: 336 pages

Publisher: MIRA (March 13, 2018)

TROUBLE ALWAYS FINDS HER…

Wrapping up a normal day at the office, criminal psychologist Kieran Finnegan is accosted by a desperate woman who shoves an infant into her arms and then flees, only to be murdered minutes later on a busy Manhattan street.

Who was the woman? Where did the baby come from? Kieran can’t stop thinking about the child and the victim, so her boyfriend, Craig Frasier, does what any good special agent boyfriend would do—he gets the FBI involved. And asks Kieran to keep out of it.

But the Finnegans have a knack for getting into trouble, and Kieran won’t sit idle when a lead surfaces through her family’s pub. Investigating on her own, she uncovers a dangerous group that plays fast and loose with human lives and will stop at nothing to keep their secrets—and they plan to silence Kieran before she can expose their deadly enterprise.

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About Heather Graham

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the RWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award, and the Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information on Heather and her work, check out her websites:

TheOriginalHeatherGraham.com, eHeatherGraham.com, and HeatherGraham.tv. You can also find Heather on Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

“KIERAN? KIERAN FINNEGAN, RIGHT?” THE WOMAN ASKED.

She was wrapped in a black trench coat, wore a black scarf that nearly engulfed her face, and held a dark blanketed bundle against her chest as if it were the greatest treasure in the world.

Kieran wasn’t sure when the woman had come in; the of­fices of psychologists Fuller and Miro were closed for the day, the doctors were gone, and Kieran had just about left herself. The receptionist, Jake, usually locked the office door on his way out, but apparently tonight he had neglected to do so. Then again, Jake might have already left when Kieran’s last patient had exited a little while ago. Whether Jake had been gone or he had forgotten to lock up, the door had been left open.

And so this woman accosted Kieran in the reception area of the office just as she was on her way out.

“I am Kieran, but I’m so sorry, I’m the therapist, not one of the doctors. Actually, we are closed for the day. You’ll need to come back. Both the doctors are wonderful, and I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you another time.”

And this woman certainly looked like she needed help. Her eyes were huge and as dark as the clothing she was wearing as she stared at Kieran with a look of despair.

“All right, let me see what I can do. You seem distraught,” Kieran said, and winced—wow. Stating the obvious. “I can get you to a hospital. I can call for help—”

“No. No.” The woman suddenly thrust the bundle she’d held so closely into Kieran’s arms. “Here!”

Kieran instinctively accepted it. Reflex? She wasn’t sure why.

It began to cry. And writhe. Of course. The bundle was a baby.

“Ma’am, please— Hey!” Kieran protested.

The woman had turned and was fleeing out the door. “Wait! Hey!” Kieran cried. She reached immediately for the phone, hoping that she’d be in time to reach the building’s security desk.

Ralph Miller answered the phone at the lobby desk. “Hey, pretty girl. What are you still doing at work? I’ve got a few hours to go, and then I am out of here. I hear that the Danny Boys are playing at Finnegan’s tonight. Can’t believe your brother snagged them. I would have thought that you’d have gotten out early—”

 “Ralph, listen, please! There’s a woman who was just up here, and she ran out. Can you stop her from leaving the building?”

The baby wailed in earnest.

“What?”

“There’s a woman in black—”

“In black, yeah. She just left.”

“Stop her—catch her! Now.”

“I can’t hear you, Kieran. I hear a baby crying. A baby! Whose baby is it?”

“Ralph! Get out in the street and get that woman!”

“What?”

“Go catch that woman!”

“Oh! Gotcha! I’m gone.”

She hung up, then quickly dialed 9-1-1.

Emergency services probably couldn’t move quickly enough to help, since no matter how quickly they arrived, the woman was already on the run.

She was running on the busy streets of New York City where rush hour was a swarm of humanity in which to get completely lost. But Kieran still explained the situation, where she was. The operator was efficient; cops would quickly be out. Child Services would arrive.

But no matter. The woman would get away.

Kieran tried to hold and rock and soothe the baby while dialing Craig Frasier.

If you were living with an FBI agent, it made sense to call him under such circumstances, especially since he—like Ralph—would want to know why she was working so late when the Danny Boys were playing at Finnegan’s. To Craig, it was still a normal night—and a Friday night! A nice, normal Friday night—something that would be very nice to enjoy, given their chosen professions.

“Hey, Kieran,” Craig said. “Are you already at the pub?”

She apparently wasn’t good at rocking and soothing and trying to talk on the phone all at the same time. The baby was still crying. Loudly.

“No, I—”

“Whose kid is that? I can’t hear a word you’re saying!”

“I’m still at work. Can you come over here, now, please?”

“Uh—yeah, sure.”

Kieran hung up the phone. She didn’t know what Ralph was doing; she didn’t know where the police were. She glanced down at the baby as she hurried from the office, ready to hit the streets herself. How old was the tiny crea­ture? It was so small!

Yet—nice lungs!

Was the woman in black the mother?

She had looked older. Perhaps fifty. Too old for an infant.

Ralph wasn’t at the desk; Kieran heard sirens, but as yet no police had arrived.

Bursting out onto the New York City rush hour sidewalk, she looked right and left. There, far down the block, she thought she saw the woman.

“Hey!” Kieran shouted.

Despite the pulsing throng of humanity between them, the woman heard her. She turned.

There was something different about her now.

The way she moved. The way she looked, and the expres­sion on her face.

She didn’t try to run. She just stared at Kieran, and then seemed to stagger toward her.

Kieran clutched the screaming infant close to her breast and thrust her way through the people; luckily, she was a New Yorker, and she knew how to push through a rush hour crowd when necessary.

The woman was still staggering forward. Kieran was clos­ing the gap.

“Listen, I’ll help you, I’ll help the baby! It’s all right…”

It wasn’t in any way all right.

The woman lurched forward, as if she would fall into Kieran’s arms, if Kieran had just been close enough.

She wasn’t.

The woman fell face-first down onto the sidewalk.

That’s when Kieran saw the knife protruding from the woman’s back and the rivulets of blood suddenly forming all around her and joining together to create a crimson pool.

Theif's Mark by Carla Neggers ~ Excerpt & Spotlight

About Thief’s Mark

Series: Sharpe & Donovan (Book 8)

Hardcover: 336 pages

Publisher: MIRA (August 29, 2017)

A murder in a quiet English village, long-buried secrets and a man’s search for answers about his traumatic past entangle FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan in the latest edge-of-your-seat Sharpe & Donovan novel

As a young boy, Oliver York witnessed the murder of his wealthy parents in their London apartment. The killers kidnapped him and held him in an isolated Scottish ruin, but he escaped, thwarting their plans for ransom. Now, after thirty years on the run, one of the two men Oliver identified as his tormentors may have surfaced.

Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan are enjoying the final day of their Irish honeymoon when a break-in at the home of Emma’s grandfather, private art detective Wendell Sharpe, points to Oliver. The Sharpes have a complicated relationship with the likable, reclusive Englishman, an expert in Celtic mythology and international art thief who taunted Wendell for years. Emma and Colin postpone meetings in London with their elite FBI team and head straight to Oliver. But when they arrive at York’s country home, a man is dead and Oliver has vanished.

As the danger mounts, new questions arise about Oliver’s account of his boyhood trauma. Do Emma and Colin dare trust him? With the trail leading beyond Oliver’s small village to Ireland, Scotland and their own turf in the United States, the stakes are high, and Emma and Colin must unravel the decades-old tangle of secrets and lies before a killer strikes again.

New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers delivers the gripping, suspense-filled tale readers have been waiting for.

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Emma folded her hands on her middle, eyeing her grandfather with a cool steadiness Colin had come to know and appreciate. “Thank you, Granddad, that’s generous of you, but we’d have been happy in your guest room.”

“You’ll be happier here.”

Emma unfolded her hands and touched a fingertip to the rim of her champagne glass, nothing casual about her move. “Are you sure this is a wedding present and you’re not having your place painted, or you didn’t suddenly discover mold in the walls? It’s not a problem if it’s inconvenient for you to put us up. We could find somewhere to stay. The Shelbourne is gorgeous, but having a drink with you here is a great wedding gift. We don’t want you to go to any big expense.”

Her grandfather looked around at the bustling bar. “Princess Grace stayed here back in the day. You’ve seen pictures of her. She was a beauty. Tragic end to her life.” He shifted back to his guests. “This place was built in 1824. I saw that when I booked your room. These walls ooze Irish history.”

Wendell was engaging in pure, in-your-face evasiveness. No wonder he’d stuck to sparkling water. Colin snatched up his pint glass and nodded to Emma. “Do you want to get the truth out of him or do you want me to…or just forget it and pretend drinks and a night at the Shelbourne are a last-minute wedding gift?”

“They’re a surprise wedding gift,” Wendell said, unruffled. “They’re not last-minute.”

Emma sipped her champagne, returned the glass to the table and turned to her grandfather. “But Colin’s right, isn’t he, Granddad? You are hiding something.”

Wendell leaned forward, plucked the slice of lemon out of his glass, squeezed it, then tossed it back in and took a drink. “You two missed your jobs while you were on your honeymoon, didn’t you? You’re rested and ready to pounce on an old man. I shouldn’t have mentioned expensive whiskey and being retired. Put you on alert.”

“When someone does something out of the blue, out of character, most people will notice,” Emma said. “It doesn’t take being an FBI agent.”

“Helps, though.”

Colin gritted his teeth. “Spit it out, Wendell. Why don’t you want us at your place?”

The old man locked eyes with his new grandson-in-law. “All right. I give up.” He paused. “My place is a crime scene.”

Emma stiffened visibly. Colin noticed a renewed strain in her Sharpe green eyes. “What kind of crime scene?” she asked quietly.

“Break-in. Someone slipped inside while I was out for a walk after lunch. I didn’t have much time to think before you two arrived in town. Putting you up here was the easiest way to handle you until I could figure out what to do.” He waved a bony hand. “One of the hazards of having FBI agents in the family.”

“You didn’t call the police,” Colin said, making it a statement.

“No point. Nothing they can do.” Wendell gave another sigh. “Damn, I’m getting old. Fifty years ago I wouldn’t have spilled the beans this fast. Ten years ago. I should have just had you over to the house and handed you a broom to clean up the glass.”

Emma’s chin shot up. “Glass?”

“Guest-room window. That’s how they got in. Do you have a car? Where are your bags? You can check in after your drink. I booked your room under Donovan. I assume you’re using Sharpe professionally?”

“Unless you land in prison,” Emma said. “Then I might reconsider.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“We turned in our rental when we arrived in Dublin and took a cab here. We left our bags with the bellman while we had drinks with you.” Emma leaned toward Wendell and put a hand on his thin wrist. “Why don’t we finish our drinks and then walk over to your place and have a look?”

“Check in and get settled first. I’ll take a cab back to my place and meet you there. A one-way walk’s my limit these days.”

“You can call the gardai in the meantime,” Colin added.

Wendell scowled at him but turned to Emma with a smile. “Take your time. I won’t touch anything, but I’m not involving the gardai and the FBI has no jurisdiction here. Just so we’re clear.”

“Have you told anyone else about the break-in?” she asked.

“No, and I don’t plan to. I didn’t plan to tell you but Colin here had his thumbscrew look on and I caved.” Wendell raised his glass. “Bottoms up, kids.”

About Carla Neggers

Carla Neggers is the New York Times bestselling author of more than 60 novels, including her popular Sharpe and Donovan and Swift River Valley series. Her books have been translated into 24 languages and sold in over 35 countries. A frequent traveler to Ireland, Carla lives with her family in New England. To learn more and to sign up for her newsletter, visit CarlaNeggers.com.

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The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky by Summer Heacock ~ Interview & Spotlight

A humorous novel about a cupcake shop owner with a physical ailment that's kept her from having sex for two years, and the desperate antics that ensue as she tries to overcome it.

Having sex wasn't a big priority while Kat Carmichael's successful cupcake shop was taking off. But when she realizes that it's been nearly two years since she and her boyfriend, Ryan, have been intimate, she makes a pact to break her dry spell-and cure her vaginismus, a muscular condition that can make sex physically impossible.

Out of guilt, Kat calls for a break in her relationship with Ryan, so that he can see other people while she attempts to fix the issue on her own. She throws herself into physical therapy, but soon discovers her solo mission is more complicated than she anticipated. Fortunately, Ben Cleary, the shop's best (looking) customer, is also a physical therapist, and volunteers to help out.

As time goes on, however, the boundaries Ben and Kat have set between friendship and love quickly become blurred, leaving her more confused than ever about what to hang on to and what to let go.

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About Summer Heacock

Summer Heacock is an author of contemporary women’s fiction and prances through life like a Disney cartoon that says the “F” word a lot. She lives in a teeny Indiana town, where she’s a stay-at-home-mom to two scampy tots, wife to an amazingly understanding husband, herder of a rescue critter menagerie and collector of life-size celebrity cardboard cutouts. When not writing or hoarding jellybeans, she’s a member of the Midwest Writers planning committee and a cohost of PubTalkTV. She can be found at www.Fizzygrrl.com and on Twitter as @Fizzygrrl. The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky is her debut novel.

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