Thursday, 22 March 2018

 #BlogTour #WhispersInTheDark #LeTeishaNewton #DarkRead #KindleUnlimted

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My review

Whispers in the Dark is such a brilliant dark read. If you like dark reads then you will love this one. From start to finish I was absolutely gripped. 

One moment in time changes Alanas life. She’s kidnapped, tortured and raped for two years. When she escapes her life will never be normal again. This is told in two points of view, Alana and Jacob. 

I absolutely loved this story. Heed the trigger warnings but if your like me and have no limits you’ll love this story. 

Really hope this author writes more dark reads.

Tuesday, 20 March 2018

Title: Where We Ended
Series: Where We Began #2
Author: Nora Flite
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Release Date: March 20, 2018

Laiken has finally heard the dark rumors about me.
Everyone who hears runs away. But she can't.
She's trapped here, in my house—with me.
Each minute we're together I'm driven to swallow her up. To see if the electricity that moves between us will grow or vanish. I thought we were falling in love.
Now, I'm sure that she hates my very existence.
But when she glares at me... I see a flicker of desire in her blue eyes.
The way she fixates on my mouth reminds me of how filthy we've been.
How filthy we could be.
My father has warned me to stay away from her. He knows she's become my weakness.
All my life, I just wanted to be the perfect soldier for him.
To do everything he asked so he'd be proud.
I thought I could.
She's doing her best to prove me wrong.




Free in Kindle Unlimited


#1 Where We Began – 99c for a limited time


Free in Kindle Unlimited


USA Today Bestselling Author, Nora Flite lives in SoCal where the weather is warm and she doesn't have to shovel snow—something she never grew to love in her tiny home-state of Rhode Island.

All of her romances involve passionate, filthy, and slightly obsessive heroes—because those are clearly the best kind! She's always been a writer, and you'll probably have to pry her keyboard/pen/magical future writing device out of her cold, dead fingers before she'll stop.

She loves when people say hello! If you see her in the wild, walk up and start chatting. Or hey, just email her—




This is book two of a duet. As I loved book one Where We Began my expectations were high. I wanted this to flow like one book. I wanted more twists and I wanted a perfect ending. Did I get what I want?? Well let me just say the author exceeded my expectations. 

This starts where book one finishes. Laiken finally hears Dominic’s secret but still loves him. Her heart and mind are not saying the same thing. They’ve both been told to stay away from each other but the attraction is strong. Dominic will do everything he can to keep Laiken and her sister safe. 

I seriously could not see how this book was gonna go. So many scenarios entered my head. Some great twists that I didn’t see coming had me totally gripped. 

I’m so looking forward to reading more from this author. A huge five stars for this duet.


I’ve tried to write this review a few times and failed as this book had me in a twist. I just couldn’t get the words together so I guess I’ll have to give it a shot. 

Told in the past and present we are told this story through the two main characters, a married couple, Corinne and Jude. Corrine is a busy ER doctor and Jude is a therapist who feels he’s not spending enough time with his wife. 

This is a fast paced well told story full of suspense. There’s a lot going on and the twists and turns were brilliant. A fab read. I’m looking forward to reading more from this author.

Author:  Courtney Evan Tate (Courtney Cole) 
Genre:  Psychological Thriller 
Publisher:  Mira (Harper Collins) 
Release Date:  March 20, 2018

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I thought I knew him. He thought he knew me. We were both wrong…

Dr. Corinne Cabot is living the American dream. She’s a successful ER physician in Chicago who’s married to a handsome husband. Together they live in a charming house in the suburbs. But appearances can be deceiving—and what no one can see is Corinne’s dark past. Troubling gaps in her memory mean she recalls little about a haunting event in her life years ago that changed everything.

She remembers only being in the house the night two people were found murdered. Her father was there, too. Now her father is in prison; she hasn’t been in contact in years. Repressing that terrifying memory has caused Corinne moments of paranoia and panic. Sometimes she thinks she sees things that aren’t there, hears words that haven’t been spoken. Or have they? She fears she may be losing her mind, unable to determine what’s real and what’s not.

So when she senses her husband’s growing distance, she thinks she’s imagining things. She writes her suspicions off to fatigue, overwork, anything to explain what she can’t accept—that her life really isn’t what it seems.

Thursday, 15 March 2018


Author bio 
After leaving the corporate working world, Jenn J. McLeod decided to travel 
Australia in a fifth-wheeler caravan and fulfil her lifelong ambition to write. She has 
since published four novels. 

Book description 
A multi-generational contemporary romantic saga set in a cattle ranch in Central 
Queensland, Australia. 
A man loses five years of his life. Two women are desperate for him to remember. 
Running away for the second time in her life, twenty-seven-year old Ava believes the 
cook's job at a country B&B is perfect, until she meets the owner's son, John Tate. 
The young fifth-generation grazier is a beguiling blend of both man, boy and a 
terrible flirt. With their connection immediate and intense, they begin a clandestine 
affair right under the noses of John's formidable parents. 
Thirty years later, Ava returns to Candlebark Creek with her daughter, Nina, who is 
determined to meet her mother's lost love for herself. While struggling to find her 
own place in the world, Nina discovers an urban myth about a love-struck man, a 
forgotten engagement ring, and a dinner reservation back in the eighties. Now she 
must decide if revealing the truth will hurt more than it heals... 

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Memories and Packages 
Ava Marchette was no longer the doyenne of dough and director of an award-winning 
bakery franchise operation. This morning, with her mother’s hair hanging loose, the 
usual drive in her eyes replaced with a blend of curiosity and concern, Nina was 
reminded that the woman who’d always been there for her children, now faced an 
unwinnable battle with the condition time-stamping her heart. 
Lost in the view outside her hospital-room window, and still in her tailored slacks 
and shirt – no sign of the requisite paper robe and disposable slippers – it was hard to 
believe anything was wrong. 
‘Hey, Mum, the nurse said you were still waiting.’
‘Nina, darling, what are you doing here?’
Her mother’s hand touched both sides of the hair above her ears, but rather than 
smoothing the bun she ordinarily secured from morning until night with assorted hair 
clips and bobby pins, Ava’s fingers snagged in the fine silver-grey tendrils falling 
softly around her tired face. The tangle forced a rare expletive to slip from her mouth, 
and Nina saw the once feisty businesswoman. Ava did not wait well. 
‘And what have you got there, Nina?’ Her gaze shifted to the big red and blue 
nylon bag. 
‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ Nina propped it against the wall before leaning 
down to peck Ava’s cheek. ‘When I called by your villa, Mrs Hense told me she’d 
found a package at your door.’
‘Mrs Nosy Neighbour found it at my door? Surprise, surprise! I suppose she had a 
good look?’
Nina stopped ferreting in her handbag. ‘I certainly did.’
‘You opened a parcel addressed to me?’
‘It’s a brown-paper package with a chook-scratched address. I had to check. Porn 
is the only thing I know gets wrapped in brown paper.

‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t think the contents would be so. . . so personal. The corner 
was already torn. Not hard to see it was a painting.’
‘Ah, yes!’ Ava forced a smile and tried to steady her voice. ‘The portrait.’ 
‘So, you can explain it?’ Nina asked. 
‘Of course!’ Several explanations came to mind. If only panic hadn’t pricked holes 
in every thought balloon that popped into Ava’s head. The truth, or some of it, was 
usually the best option. ‘I sat for it, darling.’
‘Why? You don’t even like having your photo taken.
Ava slapped at the air. ‘You’re over-thinking, Nina. I read recently a portrait is an 
old person’s selfie and the portrait painter a dying breed.’
‘What’s with the “old”, Mum? You’re only fifty-eight.’
‘This silly heart of mine makes me feel older and a little fragile some days.’
‘I understand that, but not this portrait idea.’
‘You know the Bark Hut Bakery supports the arts. I don’t see why you might think 
me sitting for an artist strange.’
‘What about when this is the end result?’
When Nina released the final bit of bubble-wrap, every reasonable explanation 
Ava might have offered her daughter whooshed out on a single exclamation. ‘Oh!’
‘Not quite as colourful as Miriam’s reaction, Mum.’
‘You showed her?’
‘She was in the car. I dropped her at the office and came straight here. I couldn’t 
wait. Family trait, I guess,’ Nina quipped. 
‘I see.’
‘Tell me what you see, Mum.’ Nina stood back to appraise the picture. ‘Even 
Miriam thinks it looks more like me than you and, well, I wasn’t sure what to say. 
The note attached didn’t help.’
‘There’s a note?’
‘I’m sorry, but it kind of fell out.’ Nina fished the slip of paper from the side 
pocket of her trousers. She handed it to her mother. ‘It reads, “When you didn’t come 
back I had to finish you from memory.”’
‘From memory?’ Ava pressed the note against her chest, tears dampening both eyes ‘It wasn’t my imagination. There was something. He remembers.’
Who, Mum?’ Nina grabbed the box and handed her mother two tissues. ‘Talk to 
me. Who remembers? What’s upsetting you? Do you need a doctor?’
‘Nina, please, I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not, you’re crying.’ Nina sounded both surprised and a little 
accusatory. ‘Why?’
‘Well, this is. . . It’s all. . .’ Ava dabbed her eyes as she repositioned herself in the 
chair and let the note rest on her lap ‘. . . a little unexpected.’
‘So, Mum, can you explain this to me?’
Could she, enough to satisfy a worried daughter? Did it have to be the truth? Or 
did she lie to protect the precious connection between mother and child, as Marjorie 
Tate had done? 
Ava relented. ‘All right, Nina. I’ll tell you what I can.’ First, she needed to clear a 
path in her mind to the past, the one she’d buried in a distant corner and sown over 
with happier memories to grow in their place. ‘I waited for a miracle once and I. . . ’
‘And what?’ Nina perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair. ‘Mum, what are you 
thinking? Where are you?’
‘I’m twenty-seven again, darling.’ Ava wished for the second time in as many 
months that that was possible. 
‘The note says he painted you from memory, but how can that be? I mean, look at 
you.’ Both women turned towards the framed work. ‘Was it meant to be an abstract?’
Ava had no words. In the painting she was both young and old, a skilful fusion of 
then and now, of wayward red curls and blue eyes. But those eyes seemed dreamy and 
distracted, not so much focused on the artist but on the space behind him. Maybe Ava 
had been looking back thirty years. Perhaps the artist had unknowingly done the 
same, which was why he’d painted her in that way. The way Ava Marchette had looked three decades ago.


Publication Date: 1st March 2018 • Price £2.99
It’s been two years since mass murderer, Giacomo Riondino, disappeared after killing Greta Alfieri…
Dr Claps, devastated and guilt-ridden by Greta’s death has been on a man-hunt for Riondino ever since.
Meanwhile, an American girl disappears on the 382nd step of the Cerro trail in Guayaquil, Ecuador. No one saw her disappear. Who took her? And how?
When the US authorities contact Claps, he is certain that it must be Riordino. But, unlike Riondino’s other victims, the girl has disappeared into thin air… Will Claps solve the puzzle, or will he lose his mind in the process, blinded by his own obsession?
A gripping thriller full of twists you won’t see coming… The next serial killer read from the author of MISSING and HUNTED. Perfect for the fans of Angela Marsons and Jeffrey Deaver.

Buy link


The Alitalia Boeing 747 had begun its final descent to Hartsfield International in Atlanta a few minutes earlier.
The passenger looked out from the window at the sea of white clouds below obscuring the ground. He had left Milan Malpensa over ten hours earlier after having exchanged a final email with the United States the day before. During the long intercontinental flight he hadn’t slept for a single minute, nor eaten or drunk anything, or looked at a book or a magazine. He had sat motionless, locked inside his thoughts and waiting for the journey to end. When, with a little turbulence, the Boeing began to pass through the clouds and for about fifteen seconds everything disappeared into a thick fog, he began to feel anxious. Or rather, he began to feel the vague fear that came over him with every take off and every landing. He could see the ground beneath him now. Green fields and trees broken up by roads and tracts of houses that became increasingly clear as the plane lost altitude. The sun and the blue sky above the clouds had vanished, replaced by rain, the real intensity of which he couldn’t assess.
The vibration of the undercarriage being lowered increased his anxiety.
The plane banked gently one last time to align itself with the runway, and the passenger closed his eyes and waited for the aircraft to make contact with the ground.
He finally reopened them and breathed a sigh of relief only when the reverse thrust of the jets was already slowing the Boeing’s progress along the tarmac.
As the plane taxied slowly along before eventually coming to a halt, he adjusted his watch to local time. 15:26: two minutes before the scheduled landing time…
Not long now and he would know if the journey had actually been worth making.
“He’d always been one step ahead of us. Always, right up until that last damn day.”
After several days of intense cold, it was unusually mild in Milan that evening. Commissioner Sensi and dottoressa Manara, the director of the LABANOF – the Forensic Anthropology and Dentistry Laboratory – sat in a crowded bar in the navigli area, a glass of Lagavulin on the table in front of each of them.
It had been two years and two months since Giacomo Riondino had disappeared, leaving behind him the charred corpses of his accomplice and of Greta Alfieri, and this was the first time since then that Sensi had talked to anyone about the whole atrocious story.
Two years during which Sensi had never forgiven himself for letting the man escape when he thought he’d him in his grip, for not having saved Greta, and above all for not managing, during all that intense manhunt, to understand. To see what was right in front of his face and would have allowed him to stop Riondino before he’d left that trail of blood behind him.
The commissioner took a deep breath. “He always knew that sooner or later we’d catch up with him, but he had a plan, and every time we took a step forward, he’d already taken one himself.” Sensi hesitated a moment before concluding bitterly, “We’ve only got ourselves to blame. We always gave him enough time to make that step.”
“You did nearly catch him, though,” said Manara.
“Yeah…” said Sensi, lowering his eyes. “But only after he had killed eight more people in the space of a few days.” He took another sip of his whiskey before continuing. “We discovered that he had an accomplice who had been helping him – first to escape from the institution he was transferred to from the high security psychiatric hospital, then to find a safe hiding place in the city. An accomplice we’d had right in front of us from the start but hadn’t managed to pick up in time. Anyway, the long and short of it is that we discovered he was hiding Riondino and that he was holding Greta Alfieri hostage there.”
“Were you and Greta close?” asked Manara.
“Nowhere near as close as she and Claps were…” replied Sensi slowly, emphasising each word. “There’d been a very deep bond between them since the time he’d saved her life.” He took another small sip. “Claps was with me that night when we all went over there. But Riondino had already gone. It was probably only a matter of minutes, but we missed him. The house was empty and the accomplice’s car had disappeared. It was sighted in Como less than an hour later, with Riondino at the wheel and Greta lying on the back seat as though she were sleeping.”
“She was already dead…” remarked Cristina Manara sadly. “When I did the autopsy I didn’t find any trace of smoke in her lungs.”

Sensi just nodded and turned his eyes away before continuing. “The sighting wasn’t coincidental: Riondino wanted to be recognised. He planned it all out. He stopped at a petrol station and only set off again when he was certain that the manager had recognised him and seen Greta apparently sleeping on the back seat. With cars already on his tail, he took a back road that went through the hills to Switzerland. A narrow road, full of bends, and the tarmac was slippery from the rain. It was pouring down that night.” Sensi stopped for a moment to suppress the wave of emotion the memories were evidently causing. “He was carrying the corpse of the accomplice he had killed only a few hours earlier in the boot. He fastened him into the driving seat and pushed the car off a cliff, making it look like they’d gone off the road, and then he set fire to the car. After that, all he had to do was walk across the border.” Another brief pause, another deep breath. “When we arrived, we found the two carbonised bodies, and we had no reason to think that the corpse at the wheel wasn’t Riondino… We only found out thirty-six hours later, thanks to you, when you did the autopsies. By which time it was too late.” Sensi’s voice seemed no longer able to hold back his anger. “Always one step ahead of us…”

Tuesday, 13 March 2018


Author bio 
Catherine Jones lives in Thame, where she is an independent Councillor. She is the 
author of eighteen novels, including the Soldiers' Wives series, which she wrote 
under the pseudonym Fiona Field. 

Book description 
Trouble comes to the sleepy market town of Little Woodford - a world of allotments, 
pub quizzes, shopping and gossip - the heart of middle England. 
Little Woodford has a sleepy high street, a weekly market, a weathered old stone 
church and lovingly tended allotments. A peaceful, unexciting place, the very heart 
of middle England. 
In Little Woodford no one has fingers in more pies than Olivia Laithwaite, parish 
councillor, chair of the local WI, wife, mother and all round queen bee. So of course 
it's Olivia who is first to spot that The Beeches has been sold at last. 
Soon rumours begin to swirl around the young widow who has bought this lovely 
house. Why exactly did she leave London with her beautiful stepdaughter and young 
sons? Are they running from someone? Hiding something? Though if they are, they 
won't be the only ones. Sometimes the arrival of newcomers in a community is all it 
takes to light a fuse... 

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Heather walked up the road, under the ancient oaks and yews, across the brook and 
past the cemetery, the old, rather higgledy-piggledy gravestones basking in the ever-
strengthening April sunshine. Above her the rooks cawed incessantly as they wheeled 
over the rookery in the trees behind the Norman church, with its weathered grey stone 
walls and squat tower, and the only other noise was the distant hum of the ring road, 
the other side of the cricket pitch. The peace of the scene was deeply calming. 
Sometimes, in the summer, when there was a cricket match on and the bell-ringers 
were practising, she felt it was the kind of place that John Betjeman could have 
immortalised in a poem; leather on willow, an occasional spattering of applause, cries 
of ‘howzat’ and the slightly arrhythmic bing-bong-ding-dong of a peal of bells. Utter 
cliché but utter English bliss. 
She strolled on knowing that she could have phoned Joan to ask about the flowers 
but she always liked an excuse to take this walk, and besides, she was mindful that 
neither Joan nor her husband Bert had been in the best of health since the winter –
Joan had had a nasty virus and was only recently on the mend – and they might 
appreciate a visit. Plus, there was every possibility that Bert would offer some of his 
own flowers from his allotment for the church, and every little helped. Bert’s 
allotment didn’t just yield a cornucopia of vegetables every year, but dahlias, 
hellebores, foxgloves, hollyhocks and a dozen other types of flowers that Heather 
would accept gratefully for the church arrangement whilst having only the vaguest of 
idea as to what they were called. And, even if it was a bit early for the best of Bert’s 
flowers, he would certainly have foliage which, in itself, was very useful. 
Towards the top of the road, the quiet was dissipated by the bustle of the high 
street but Heather didn’t mind. She loved the town’s wide main street with its wiggly 
roof line, its big market square and pretty Georgian town hall. It mightn’t be the sort 
of place you moved to for the shopping – Bluewater it wasn’t – but the boutiques and 
delis, the cafés and the pub and the hanging baskets full of winter pansies and the tubs 
of daffs and tulips more than made up for the lack of major retailers. And today was 
market day so there was the extra bustle and activity that that always brought. It was a 
proper small market town, she always thought. Perfect – well, perfect as long as you 
didn’t scratch too deep. Like everywhere they had problems with poverty, drugs and 
the occasional crime but there were worse places to live in the country. Far worse. 
She knew that – Brian had been a vicar in one or two. 
She was looking in the window of the cake shop and wondering about treating 
herself and Brian to a custard tart each when she heard her name being called. She 
turned and saw the pub’s landlady. As always, Belinda had a smile on her face. She 
was a life-enhancer, thought Heather. Brian might deal with the town’s moral well-
being but Belinda provided an equally important service on the mental health side of 
things by listening to their woes, being unfailingly cheerful and totally non-
judgemental. Her sunny outlook radiated out of her and sparkled out of her blue eyes. 
‘Belinda, hello. You well?’
‘Yes, thank you. You?’
Heather nodded. 
‘I’ve just been to the hairdresser,’ said Belinda. ‘That always makes me feel better. 
Good for morale, don’t you think?’
Heather gazed at Belinda’s beautifully cut bob that framed her smiling face and 
wished she knew. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a professional hair-
do. She washed her own hair and pinned it up to keep it out of the way. Not smart or 
fashionable but suitable for a vicar’s wife. Cheap to maintain, and when it got too 
long, she hacked bits off with the kitchen scissors. 
‘It must be,’ she said, smiling and quenching the tiny pang of envy she felt. ‘By 
the way, Amy says someone is moving into The Beeches.’
‘Well, if Amy says so it must be true. Anyway, I’d better get on; not long till 
opening time and I mustn’t keep the punters waiting. Will you be coming to the next 
book club?’
‘I will. I can’t say I was thrilled by the last choice but it was an interesting read.’
‘Good. Well… Good you found it interesting, at any rate. If everyone did, it’ll be 
the basis for a lively discussion.’
‘Will you be there?’
‘Should be if the new girl shows up. We’ve had so much trouble with our part-
timers recently. Don’t the young want to earn extra money? And don’t they realise 
that letting an employer down is more than just bad manners…’ Belinda stopped. ‘

Sorry I was about to go into rant mode.