Monday, July 24, 2017

Promo Blitz: Going Down & Man Candy by Elise Sax




Romantic Comedy
Date Published: June 2017

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

Five Wishes Series, Books 1 & 2
The Five Wishes Series: Novellas about wishes that go terribly wrong…fortunately. Five Wishes...A happy ending is just a coin toss away. Each novella is approximately 100 pages with NO cliffhanger.
Book 1: Going Down:
Marion MacAlister wants to nail her audition, not get nailed. Truly. Honestly. All right...maybe she does want to get nailed, but that's just because her hottie landlord and local diner owner Mack Ryan is confusing her. Can friends become lovers? Especially friends who might not even be friends in the first place?

Book 2: Man Candy:
Raine Harper is in love with Wade Gates. But Wade likes women who are model thin, and Raine is model thin plus a whole lot of pounds. Desperate to make him love her, she trains just a little too hard and passes out in the arms of superstar movie star Dirk Adams. Dirk thinks Raine’s junk in the trunk is perfect and proposes to make Wade jealous by becoming her pretend boyfriend. Pretend soon seems very real. Is Dirk a great actor, or is something really developing between Raine and the movie star?

Praise for Author Elise Sax

“Elise Sax will win your heart.”—NYT bestelling author Jill Shalvis
"Elise Sax will make you laugh. Her larger-than-life characters jump off the page and make crazy seem like a fun place to hang out."--Christie Craig, New York Times bestselling author of Texas Hold 'Em
“Elise Sax belongs on every bookshelf." -- Melissa Foster, New York Times Bestselling Author


About the Author


Elise Sax worked as a journalist for fifteen years, mostly in Paris, France. She took a detour from journalism and became a private investigator before writing her first novel. She lives in Southern California with her two sons. She loves to hear from her readers.
Don’t hesitate to contact her at elisesax@gmail.com, and sign up for her newsletter at http://elisesax.com/mailing-list.php to get notifications of new releases and sales.

Contact Links


Purchase Links


FREE at Amazon



Reading Addiction Blog Tours

Wednesday, July 19, 2017

Release Blitz: Melisande by Philippa Lodge

Châteaux and Shadows, Book 5

Historical Romance
Date Published: July 19, 2017

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

Lucas de Granville—pious, respectable, impoverished, lonely—will do nearly anything for the godfather who raised him, even though his godfather doesn’t seem to want to do anything for him.
Melisande—mundane, illegitimate, dirt poor, lonely—will do nearly anything to make sure her mother and brother have shelter and food, even though they are critical of her lack of magical talent.
When Melisande’s father, a pious comte, sends his godson Lucas to bring her to Versailles and help him train her to be a fine, staunchly religious lady, their attraction is immediate, but so is their distrust.
Her eagerness to get as much money as she can as quickly as possible gradually changes into a wish for something higher, better, and holier. Something that Lucas can help her achieve: love.


Other Books by Philippa Lodge:

The Indispensable Wife
Châteaux and Shadows, Book One
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: October 2015

Aurore was delighted when a marriage was arranged with the boy she loved, her older brother’s friend Dominique, Comte de Bures. But in a few years the first rush of joy has worn off, and their promising life seems ruined by loss, betrayal, and misunderstanding. One terrifying morning mercenaries overrun their château and usurpers take Aurore hostage. Miles away at Versailles, where he is required to dance attendance on Louis XIV, Dominique is nearly killed by a crossbow bolt. Escaping, Aurore travels with a troupe of itinerant musicians, hiding in the open while discovering hidden resources within herself. Dom sets out to find his wife. He needs his old life back. He needs revenge. But his lands, his title, and his honor mean nothing unless he can win back the love of his indispensable wife.

The Honorable Officer
Châteaux and Shadows, Book Two
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: April 2016
France, 1668

Hélène de Bonnefoi’s spirit has been squashed by the ever-critical aunt and uncle who raised her. Serving as nanny and stand-in mother to her cousin’s child has saved her from the convent, especially after her cousin’s death. When suspicious accidents threaten the toddler, Hélène overcomes her near-blindness to seek the help of the child's father, a colonel in Louis XIV’s army.
Jean-Louis, Colonel de Cantière, has spent his life proving his worth, integrity, and honor, first to his family and now in the army. When his daughter’s caretaker appears in his camp during a siege, claiming someone is trying to kill the girl, his loyalties are sorely tested.
Hélène must convince Jean-Louis the threat is real. But the true danger is to the heart of a shy young woman who has always loved her cousin’s husband from afar and to the colonel’s desire to resist complicated emotions.

The Chevalier
Châteaux and Shadows, Book Three
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: September 2016

Emmanuel, Chevalier de Cantière, youngest son of a baron, is happiest raising horses far from his complicated family. When news comes his mother is deathly ill, he races to her side only to find she has apparently recovered and moved on, leaving behind her companion, Catherine.
Catherine de Fouet blends into the background, saving up so she’ll never have to wait on waspish, scheming old ladies like the baronesse again. She has no interest in a resentful gentleman, estranged from his mother, no matter how broad his shoulders or intriguing the wounded soul behind his handsome face. She just needs someone to escort her back to Versailles.
But Catherine is suspected of poisoning the baronesse. She rebuffs a pushy courtier who tries to use blackmail to make her his mistress, and her reputation hangs by a thread.
The chevalier wants more than anything to protect this woman whose prickly exterior hides sweetness and passion. They need his family to help him through court intrigues—almost as much as they need each other.

Henri et Marcel
Châteaux and Shadows, Book 4
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: January 2017

Henri de Cantière has been surly since he returned from visiting his family at Versailles, but he doesn’t want to burden Marcel Fourbier, his longtime lover, with his problems. He can’t sleep and hurts all over at exactly the time when everything else seems to be falling apart.
Marcel can barely keep up with his usual duties of running their household and creating beautiful furniture in the de Cantière factory when more burdens fall on his shoulders. His estranged Huguenot family condemns him to hell but wants his help, a stranger attacks him in a dark street, an arsonist tries to destroy the factory, and Henri’s beloved sister-in-law, who has been like a sister to Marcel, is weakening after being in labor for several days.
Most of all, Marcel wants to find a cure for Henri, the man who holds his heart.


Excerpt
Chapter One


Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in France, there was a witch with no magic.

“Mélisande!”

The stranger’s shout echoed inside the damp walls of the tiny house she shared with her mother and her younger brother. If it were the house’s owner, who didn’t know they were squatting there, he wouldn’t have known her name. It didn’t mean the voice wasn’t trouble.

Her gut whispered unease. Well, who wouldn’t have a whisper of unease about a strange man shouting one’s name? In one’s home? After being the target of more than one lecherous oaf in the streets? And the target of religious people?

She leaned her scrubby straw broom in the corner and peeked up the hall, glad to be shrouded in darkness, grateful for the first time that there was no window except for the tiny, grimy one looking onto the narrow, dark street.

The front door stood open, letting in cold wind, the reek of filth, and weak evening light which left the man as nothing but a silhouette. Even so, Mélisande had another frisson of what her mother would have called premonition but was probably just fear. She was trapped in her house by a large, faceless man with a booming voice. What was not to frisson about?

She drew back into the room, hoping he hadn’t seen her. The front door scraped and thumped shut, leaving her in complete darkness. She waited, pressed against the wall much like the plaster: crumbling away from the inside. She held her breath and listened.

Maybe he’d left.

A footstep. Of course he hadn’t left; that would be too simple. This was more than her everyday fear: fear the other witches would discover she wasn’t one of them, fear they would starve, fear they would be arrested, fear a man would pull her into a dark room and rape her. Everything could go wrong in a heartbeat.

Footsteps in the front room, where her mother read palms and sold the potions her uncle —her half-brother’s uncle—made. She hoped the yelling man hadn’t tracked anything foul in, as she had just scrubbed those rotting floorboards. A pause as the man listened. At least there was only one man and Mélisande had a sharp pair of scissors, which rattled against the tabletop as she picked them up.

“Mélisande?”

The voice was softer now. Kinder. Lilting. Tempting. The man was going to try to lure her from her hiding place. She hoped he meant her no harm.

A scuff and heavier step as the man tripped on the uneven floor. He halted at the head of the hall, only a few feet from her.

“Ecoutez.” He cleared his throat, waiting for her to say she was listening.

Oh, she was listening, but she was hoping he would leave.

He cleared his throat again. She should offer him a tisane of ginger and honey. She shook her head at her rambling thoughts, swishing her hair against the wall.

“Right. I was told you were here. Your mother said you would welcome my news. I’m sorry, but… Well, my shouting is unforgiveable. Your brother and mother angered me on purpose, I believe. They said I wouldn’t find you unless you wanted to be found. I suppose it’s true, what with witchcraft…”

He paused, listening. Probably expecting her to blast him with a curse. Too bad the worst curse she had ever doled out was when she was ten and made her brother’s nose bleed. Of course, she’d hurled a cup at him at the same time.

“Your father wishes to claim you. I’m to take you to Versailles.”

****

Once upon a time, there was a French nobleman who didn’t belong anywhere: a younger son with no portion, fostered with his godfather.

Someone gasped softly in the dark room to Lucas de Granville’s left. She really was there. Or someone was, anyway. Some woman.

If it was the right woman, the bastard witch daughter of the Comte d’Yquelon, and she came with him, the count had promised Luc a reward. He needed new breeches and a new hat for Easter and was counting on the supplement to his tiny allowance to buy the fabric.

Of course, the girl would get a larger reward, eventually. If she could be trained and refined and her soul purged of evil, d’Yquelon would give her a large dowry. Luc smiled sourly, sure the woman would be a hag and thoroughly wrapped in satanic rituals. Her mother had been positively deranged and her brother snide and crude.

Three feet from him, a girl slipped out of dark gloom into the slightly lighter gloom, her footsteps silent and her pale bodice picking up just enough light so she appeared to float like a ghost, her face a skull in the shadow. Only by the way she raised her arm did he notice she was holding something – a knife? He staggered back, flinging out his hands to hold her off.

He really hadn’t meant to die in a dirty, smelly back alley of Paris while running an errand for his godfather. He stumbled over the uneven floor again, catching himself on the wall beside the door. She stepped into the feeble light from the oilcloth-covered window and he caught his breath.

She was pretty. Beautiful. Regal. From death’s head to beauty? Magic. He crossed himself.

He had seen her in a dream the night before as he tossed and turned and dozed intermittently in the rundown inn on the edge of this slum. Dark hair, pale skin, and irises so light they appeared almost white. In his dream, he had been fascinated and frightened. He shook his head to clear his mind.

She sighed and lowered her hand slightly to reveal a pair of pointed scissors.

Then her chin came up, and she was beautiful in spite of pallor and gauntness. It didn’t stop him being wary of her, though the fear was dissipating.

“I am Mélisande.” Her voice was low and soothing. Another witch’s trick, probably, to lull him. “I don’t approve of intruders in my home.” She raised her eyebrows imperiously, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling at this bit of bravado. “And yet, if my mother invited you here, I suppose you are meant to be a guest.”

He was afraid his curled lip betrayed his disgust at the pitiful room and stench of semi-frozen rot and sewage seeping in from the street. At least he hoped the rot and sewage weren’t inside the hovel. He shuddered.

She scowled. “What, exactly, did my mother say to you?”

Luc shuddered again. He had cornered her mother in a different dark room off an alley, off a small street that led to a dirty little market. “She laughed at me and told me about a premonition she had about the Comte d’Yquelon. She said I should pick my friends more carefully.”

He hadn’t picked the comte so much as been abandoned in the comte’s household at the age of three. His parents’ money had run out and all the boys except the heir had been dropped off with their various godparents.

Mélisande’s lips pursed as if she were trying not to laugh at him. “What brought about this desire to seek me out?”

“His son died.” Even after six months, Lucas felt the weight of Charles’ death. 

“Oh.” Her face fell. “I am sorry to hear it. I wish I had known him.”

Was she mourning her half-brother?

When Charles died suddenly from a fever, the count raged about witchcraft and curses. Six months later, the comte recalled Luc from Normandy and told him where to find this bastard daughter, child of the witch who had cursed his son. None of those words had made any sense at all to Lucas, who had known the comte only as a fierce, strictly pious gentleman.

I’ve never seen her. Her mother was a beauty. I told the comtesse she used a spell or potion on me, but, of course, it was just normal lust.

Just normal lust certainly described the feeling growing inside Luc. This girl might be using a spell on him, but he was fairly sure she was tempting enough without it.

“He had no other children?” She sounded wistful. Not at all lusty.

“Just me.” He grimaced. “I’m not related by blood.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“He’s my godfather. He raised me. I’m the seventh son of a duke’s seventh son, and there were far too many mouths to feed.”

Her face lit up with her smile. “Seventh son of a seventh son? And you’re not a warlock?”

Luc jerked back and crossed himself to ward off the evil eye.

“Sorry.” She dropped her head. “It’s a rather coveted place in a family of witches, you know. Though I guess if you’re strictly religious...”

Luc cleared his throat. He had to bring Mélisande back. He needed the reward the comte promised, if just to have something to tide him over as he looked for employment.

“You wish to take me to my father?”

She looked around the room, presenting her profile, and he caught his breath at the sight of the huge knot of dark hair, braided, pinned, and tied at her nape. There was probably enough there to hang past her waist when she let it down. If it were styled properly, she could wear it on top of her head in a rich swirl. Her nose was a touch too large. In fact, it was much like the beak the late Charles had inherited from his father. Luc had still to see her in better light to know if her eyes were her father’s pale, icy blue, but he was sure he had the right woman.

“It’s the task I was assigned, yes.”

“You do not wish to accomplish the task? I suppose he’s paying you well.” She sounded like she was laughing.

Luc stiffened. “I wish to please my godfather, the man who was a father to me, whose son was like my brother.”

“Yet you don’t particularly wish to take me.” It was a statement, not a question. Her lips quirked up wryly.

No, he thought it was a fool’s mission for his godfather to try to civilize her. Luc let his eyes travel around the room, taking in the single, rickety table with two stools; the chimney with a few chunks of charred wood; the damp, crumbling plaster; the uneven, rotting floorboards. He wanted to take Mélisande away from here. He would want to take anyone away from here.

He shrugged. “I will be rewarded, but not as much as you. I won’t kidnap you. I won’t drag you bodily to Versailles. You will need to say goodbye to your family. When the comte gives you gold and fine clothing, you will have to decide if you wish to share with your mother or keep it to yourself.”

She sighed, her narrowed eyes never leaving his, her face wary. “I wish I knew what to do.”

The door flew open beside him, and Luc spun to face the threat. As the man moved away from the backlit doorway, Luc saw it was Mélisande’s brother, who had needled and taunted him in the marketplace before leading him to their mother.

“Of course she’ll share with us,” the young man announced, strolling in, bringing the odor of muck from the street with him.

Lucas coughed, trying to force the stench from his nose and mouth. He wished he had adopted the affectation of carrying a perfumed handkerchief as so many nobles did.

“We’ve supported her all these years, and she’s not good for much more than carrying messages and cleaning. Since she refuses to marry or take a rich lover, we’ll look to her father to make our fortune.”

Luc clenched his jaw at the mention of a lover, relieved she was not a prostitute. Or her brother said she wasn’t a prostitute, which could be a lie. At least she had one fewer sin than he expected. He immediately wondered why she wasn’t good for more than carrying messages.

As if answering his thoughts, Mélisande’s mother swept into the hovel, leaving the door wide open.

“Well, Mélisande! Your father has finally sought you out. He certainly sent a handsome enough little lord to do it. Are you sure you don’t want me to read your palm, little lord?”

Luc pulled himself up straight and stuck his chin out. “My godfather frowns on any of the witch’s arts. Palm reading reeks of the devil.”

The old witch cackled, just as he thought witches should. Her hair was as thick as her daughter’s, though light brown threaded with gray instead of dark. Their faces were the same shape, with full lips. She would have been seductive twenty years before. “Oh, you pious prigs are so easy to tease.”

“Maman, would you please…” Mélisande looked embarrassed.

“That wasn’t always the Comte d’Yquelon’s attitude, you know. How do you think he got me with child? He was quite adventurous when he was younger. I heard he turned prudish and preachy.” The older witch strode across the room and dropped a cloth bag on a box in the corner. “Well, at least you have nothing to worry about from Mélisande. We’ve kept it secret around here, but she has no special powers. Weak premonitions, sometimes, but those don’t count for much. Healing skill, but not healing power.”

Mélisande looked down at her hands, her cheeks pink.

“And like Thomas said, she doesn’t want to be a whore. She does deliveries, cleaning, and cooking. She’d make some merchant a good wife, if we knew any merchants who wanted a bastard witch. Bunch of prudes they are, too, probably worse than you nobles.”

Her brother shoved Mélisande’s shoulder. “Go get your things. The sooner you get your inheritance, the sooner we can live someplace nice.”

“If you go, daughter”—the witch spread her arms—“don’t bother to come back without enough for all of us to live on. Better yet, just send us some gold.”

Mélisande’s mouth fell open in shock. “Maman…”

“You won’t wish to come back, and you’re no use to us here.” Her mother turned away.

No, Mélisande wouldn’t want to come back once she had a taste of a better life, but Lucas felt a pang of sympathy anyway. He didn’t remember his parents leaving him behind when he was three, but he had grown up separated from his family and without much contact with children his age. “The comte will make sure you have all you need. He will find you a husband. You’re his only surviving child.”

The witch looked him over. “The heir died? I foresaw it years ago. D’Yquelon thought I was cursing him, which would have been different magic, of a type I don’t approve of. What was your name, again, little lord?”

“Lucas de Gran—”

“Lucas, I foresaw the heir would die. I told your count he should recognize the child he would leave me with and raise her alongside his doomed son.”

Mélisande slipped from the room into the stygian hallway.

“He laughed at me. He didn’t believe I was pregnant. I knew, of course. When I had my Mélisande, I sent him word, but he replied I should leave him alone. He’s going to tell you I cursed him and his family. It was only later, when we realized Méli was hopeless in magic that I thought I should have cursed him when I had a chance. I still thought Méli would be worth something. And now maybe she will be.”

Luc pursed his lips. He wondered if the woman’s mercenary attitude toward the worth of her daughter was any worse than nobles paying a dowry to buy an influential husband.

The brother grunted. “Well, she’s a good sister, I have to say. It’s been hard to cover up her mundaneness, but she’s a good draw at fairs and such, as long as no one expects her to do any magic. Her sweet smile gets the gentlemen’s attention and the ladies trust her. They rush in to consult with me and Maman because she looks so wholesome.”

The sound of Mélisande stumbling made Luc turn. She had a kerchief in her hand, something rattling inside it. Probably those wicked scissors. For some reason, the thought reassured him. She was going to need protection in the coming weeks.

“Are you ready, Mademoiselle?”

She kissed her mother and brother goodbye. They responded perfunctorily and waved her off.

Luc led her off to her future.

****

Mélisande stumbled through the muddy streets, gripping the handsome young nobleman’s arm as he strode far too quickly up and down the streets. The neighbors stared. She spied her uncle bent double with mirth. She ignored them all as best she could.

“Finally found a protector, chérie?” an elderly man cackled as she passed by.

She stood up straighter. “I’m going to meet my father.”

The warlock pursed his lips, suddenly sober. “I guess we won’t be seeing you again.”

His hunchbacked wife made a sign of blessing with her claw-like, arthritic hands, bringing Mélisande to tears again. “Go with the goddess.”

Monsieur—What was his name? de Grandeur?—pulled on her arm as Mélisande made the same sign back.

They wove through the dirty streets and doubled back several times until they were a short walk from her house. In her shock at her mother and brother’s hard hearts, she hadn’t thought to point out that they were parading up and down seemingly at random.

“Monsieur de Gran…?”

His frowned ferociously. “De Granville.”

“I hate to question you, but where, precisely, are we going?”

He looked around. “I met your mother just over there.” He nodded toward the alley where her mother met with clients.

Mélisande nodded silently.

“From here, I believe I can backtrack my way out of here.”

“Or you could tell me where we’re going, since I know the quartier.”

De Granville went still. Mélisande ducked her head, afraid she had injured his pride. Her uncle or brother would have slapped her.

His chest expanded against her arm as he sighed. “I’m not really sure which way I came along this street.”

She risked a glance at him as he wrinkled his nose and stared down the street. He smiled just slightly. He was pleasant to look at when he smiled. His jaw became less sharp and his dark eyes squinted with amusement.

He told her at which inn he had left his carriage. Not a rich one, and Mélisande knew she wasn’t welcome inside, but she knew where it was.

When she resisted at the door, de Granville said, “I just need to ask them to summon the carriage.”

She shuffled in, head down, trying to look as if she belonged.

The innkeeper’s memory was long. “Witch!”

“I’ll wait outside.”

She darted toward the door, but de Granville caught her hand.

“She’s with me.” He faced the innkeeper, looking cool and confident.

“I will not rent you a room for a few hours. This isn’t that sort of inn.”

De Granville scowled, his eyes dangerous slits. Mélisande looked down at her feet, her heart pounding, Run, run, run.

“I paid you for last night. I only wish to reclaim my carriage and be off. I am taking the girl to her father. But it is not any of your affair.”

“Is her father a witch, too? And you? You looked respectable, but maybe you aren’t. Maybe you’ve stolen the fine carriage. Maybe I should call the guard.”

“The carriage belongs to the lady’s father.”

“The lady? What lady? All I see is a whoring witch.”

She stood up straighter. I am not a whore. I’m not even a witch.

De Granville banged his fist on the rickety table serving as a counter. His actions were fire, but his voice was ice. “Bring the carriage. I will pay the rate agreed on for stabling it and feeding the coachman. I am more respectable than you could comprehend.”

Mélisande sidestepped away from him as the innkeeper went out back, grumbling. Her brother would have taken out his anger on her. She stood in silence, waiting for the blow to come, but de Granville did nothing but cross his arms and breathe.

Several minutes later, when a boy came in and called his name, de Granville, jaw still clenched, held out his arm gallantly and led her out front to a small, dark carriage, an elderly man on the driver’s seat.

“That’s her, then, Monsieur Lucas?” The driver glared, taking in her stained, patched dress, not approving.

De Granville helped her up. “It will be night in only a few hours, Grosporc. Let’s get out of Paris and try to get to the usual inn before dark. It will be clean there. Unlike here.”

The innkeeper shouted his outrage from the doorway of his inn.

Mélisande wondered if this Lucas de Granville was really who he said he was and if she weren’t instead being kidnapped to be used, sold, and discarded. Her mother had not been worried, but there was very little that bothered her mother. Of course, her mother usually claimed she knew what was going to happen before it did.

De Granville held out his hand and helped her up.



About the Author


Philippa Lodge has a hundred stories in her head and a social media addiction.

She writes historical romance set in Louis XIV’s France; New Adult romantic women’s fiction set in small-town, small-college America; and contemporary romance with nerdy beta heroes and cranky heroines whose pasts can be healed with the love of a good man.

She lives with one husband, two cats, and three kids in the inland valley of California.

Contact Links


Purchase Links

Friday, July 14, 2017

Blitz: Heart & Soul series by Robyn M. Ryan

Sports Romance

Midsummer Madness Sale—or Sunstroke creates crazy ideas! For the first time, you can buy the first two books in Robyn M. Ryan’s Clearing the Ice trilogy for just $1.98 (or $.99 each). This offer is good only July 10-14. Regular price for the set is $6.98 ($2.99 and $3.99). Grab this red hot deal and add some semi-sweet romance to your beach reads!



This Piece of My Heart
Published: May, 2016

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

She wasn’t looking for love.

Struggling to live up to the high expectations of overprotective parents and a hefty family name, Caryn Stevens only wants one Summer of Fun before focusing on finishing her college degree. She knows her destiny: to follow her dad as CEO of his multi-million dollar business. But that plan changes forever one day when she runs into—literally—sexy and single major league hockey player, Andrew Chadwick.

But love came looking for her.

Sparks instantly fly between the two, and Caryn can’t resist his charms as she discovers that Andrew has a reputation of winning – both on and off the ice. One of the most eligible singles in Toronto, Andrew could have any woman he wants, and he’s got Caryn in sights. But, when Caryn’s parents disapprove of the match and threaten to disinherit her and his hockey team trades him to a new city, it make take more than love for the couple to survive this penalty play.




This Piece of My Soul
Published: January 24, 2017

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

They believe love conquers all.

One of pro-hockey’s golden couples, Andrew and Caryn Chadwick live in the limelight reserved for elite professional athletes. On their second anniversary, Andrew receives an unexpected contract offer to join the Tampa Suns. As they look forward to a new adventure, neither foresees an event that challenges their love and threatens their marriage.

Until it doesn’t. 

A sudden and senseless accident threatens Andrew’s life and inexplicably drives a wedge between the couple. Shattered by the incident, paralyzed by fear that it could happen again, Caryn finds herself at odds with her husband and unable to provide the support he needs—at the time he is most vulnerable.

As their perfect world crumbles, each makes choices that take Andrew and Caryn further apart. Distrust, fears, and secrets construct walls. This Piece of My Soul follows the joint and separate paths the couple navigate as each hopes to rediscover the love that can conquer all.

This Piece of My Soul ends in a cliffhanger. The trilogy will conclude in This Piece of Our Being, anticipated release date Fall 2017


Excerpt from This Piece of My Soul

After a freak accident nearly takes Andrew’s life, he faces months of rehab. His goal—a complete recovery that will enable him to rejoin the Suns and compete at an elite level again. Caryn, however, fears that this accident wasn’t just a fluke. If it happened once…
Caryn decided to surprise Andrew one day when she visited. She’d gotten in the habit of pulling on the same old pair of jeans and whatever shirt was handy. She looked through her closet, finally selecting a brightly flowered dress that matched her mood. She took a little extra care with her makeup and hair, and even added a touch of perfume behind her ears.

Andrew’s surprised expression quickly turned into a warm smile when she entered the room, and he set aside his iPad and held his hand out to her as she walked toward the chair.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He grasped her hand and pulled her toward him. “You look sensational.” She perched on the arm of the chair, the warmth in his eyes spreading through her.

“Good day so far?” She kissed him, a brush across the lips.

“Right now I’d say freaking fantastic. Unless you’re wearing that dress just to torment me.” 

“Not my intent.”

Andrew pulled her onto his lap, his fingers tracing the edge of the bodice. “My favorite dress, you know.”

“I thought you liked it.” Caryn’s stomach contracted expectantly at his touch. Her skin tingled beneath his fingers, and she kissed him gently. His arms closed around her, and Andrew held her tightly as his lips accepted her kiss, quickly deepening it. His hands grazed her skin, and tenderness quickly yielded to passion in a seemingly endless kiss.

Caryn knew her cheeks were flushed when she pulled back to catch her breath. Andrew touched her chin gently, his darkened eyes casting a spell she didn’t want to resist. He started to speak, then changed his mind, and guided her lips toward his again.

They might have forgotten they were in the hospital and allowed their emotions to lead them, finally given in to the desire Caryn knew raged within both of them, but Andrew unexpectedly pulled back. Caryn murmured a protest. He placed a finger gently against her lips, and then looked over her shoulder. She followed his gaze, feeling her cheeks burn when she saw Dan Forster.

“Doctor, your timing is incredible.” Andrew smiled wryly.

“Sorry to interrupt, Chadwick,” Forster retorted. “Busy day or I’d come back later.” 

Caryn stood awkwardly and moved away from the chair, noticing that Andrew’s eyes followed her every movement. She shivered slightly, suddenly cold without his arms around her, every nerve in her body alive to his touch. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, even after he turned his attention to the doctor’s questions. She tried to concentrate on their conversation, but only a few words penetrated the haze of desire.

“I suppose you’ll be asking about putting a lock on that door,” Forster commented as he completed his entry on Andrew’s electronic chart.

Caryn blushed, but Andrew laughed. “Sounds like a good idea to me. When do I get some R&R with my wife?”

“Negotiate that at your own risk. You know the comings and goings of the staff better than I do. You’re making good progress, Andrew. You will move to the Rehab Center in the not-so-distant future.”

“Other than a relocation, how will that change anything?”

“More types of therapy than you are receiving now. We’ll focus on all your sensory systems, push you beyond your comfort zone. I’ll remain your primary doctor.”

“So we could incorporate the plan Pettit outlined?”

“That would serve as the center of your PT program.”

“And to move there, I have to…?”

“Andrew, I need to see significant improvement with your balance, the ability to walk with a cane, and no assistance with your personal needs.”

Caryn watched as Andrew processed this, then nodded with a smile. “I like goals.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“I especially like goals when I’m scoring them during a game.”

Forster laughed. “Patience, Chadwick.”


Scoring goals in a game. The words literally knocked the wind out of Caryn as her mind flashed back to that night. Andrew diving to block the puck… the instant she knew he’d misjudged the angle, the puck crashing against the side of his head. Caryn turned her head, her heart racing and reached inside her purse. She grabbed the container for her anti-anxiety medicine, and fingered one into her hand while Andrew continued to chat with Forster. Neither appeared to notice as she swallowed it dry, and then Caryn concentrated on taking deep calming breaths. As soon as Dan walked from the room, Caryn stepped to the counter and opened a Diet Coke. 

“Can I get you anything, Drew?”

“I’m good. Headache?”

Caryn looked over her shoulder at him and shrugged. “Just trying to avoid one.” She felt his eyes searching hers, and then he beckoned her to his side. He grasped her waist and pulled her onto his lap.

“You got so pale all of a sudden. Are you okay?”

Caryn shrugged. “Skipped breakfast again. You know how that affects me.” She managed a quiet laugh. I can’t keep burdening him with my fears. He needs positive support, not a whiny, frightened, unsupportive wife. I can deal with my fears later.

“So do I need to send you a text each morning to remind you?” His eyes teased her.

Caryn looked at him with a light laugh. “If you don’t forget.”

“I’ll do my best.” He slipped his hand to her neck and gently massaged her shoulder. If he noticed the tense muscles he didn’t mention it. “Today, you looked so beautiful when you walked in. I just wanted to get up and carry you away.”

She touched his cheek. “You will soon, Andrew.”

“It’s taking forever,” he complained. “I’m tired of this hospital. I can’t even remember what ‘normal’ is anymore.”

“Maybe you could come home for a weekend?” Caryn ventured tentatively.

“Yeah, maybe when Dan releases me to the Rehab Center.”

“How was therapy today? I never had a chance to ask you.”

“For the most part I’m done with the parallel bars. Now I’m working with weights to strengthen my legs and arms, and of course, balance activities.”

Caryn rested her hand on his bicep. “This feels plenty strong to me.” A smile crossed her face. “So you’re going to come home even more ripped than you are now?”

Andrew laughed. “I’m hardly ‘ripped’ as you put it. I’m losing muscle tone and strength every day.”

Caryn ran her hand against his chest, and then playfully lifted his shirt to peer at his abs. “If you say so, Drew.” She lightly outlined the muscles with her fingers. “Enough to get my heart racing. You just keep that shirt on during therapy, understand?”

“How about when I get a massage?”

She knew by his tone that Andrew was teasing. “Just keep it on.” She tried to maintain a straight face, but the look in his eyes caused her to break into giggles. “I love you, Drew,” she managed. “And I don’t want any other woman’s hands on you.”




About the Author

By the time she was an eight-year-old tomboy growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, Robyn M. Ryan definitely knew what she wanted to do when she grew up—play major league baseball or write. She wrote throughout elementary and high school, first composing novels featuring favorite TV and music personalities, and then venturing into sports writing.

Attending UGA’s journalism school launched her career in public relations, which included an internship with the Atlanta Flames NHL hockey team. With the encouragement of a writers group on twitter—WritersThatChat—This Piece of My Heart, a hockey romance, and the first book in Robyn’s series Clearing the Ice was published May 2016. This Piece of My Soul, published January, 2017, continues the series and introduces the Tampa Suns professional hockey team.

Besides writing, Robyn’s passions include following the New York Rangers, NASCAR, and the Atlanta Braves; splitting time between homes in Atlanta and Palm Coast, and visiting Paris as often as possible. Two brilliant Westies rule both homes.

As do many writers, Robyn chooses to write using a pseudonym—hers is a combination of her sons’ names, a contribution from her youngest nephew.

Contact Link



a Rafflecopter giveaway


Reading Addiction Blog Tours

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Promo Blitz: Surrender by J.G. Sumner

Romantic Suspense
Date Published: June 6. 2017
Publisher: Limitless Publishing

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

The cartel was certain they had wiped out the entire Bertalucci family…but they were wrong. 

Tony Bertalucci is fighting to get the hell out of Italy before the cartel realizes their mistake, and one woman might be the key to his plan. 

American Katherine Anderson is nursing a broken heart in Italy, but moving on becomes a whole lot easier when a handsome Italian man saunters into her life. 

But Tony’s scheme goes south, and now they’re both on the run. As more clues start to surface, exposing the real reason Tony’s family was murdered, it leaves him facing an impossible situation… 




About the Author


JG Sumner is a Registered Nurse who went rogue.  As good as she was at starting IV's, she enjoys writing the down the stories in her head even more.  Most of the time the characters won't stop pestering her until she has them down on paper.
JG can often be found with a glass of red wine or prosecco in front of her computer.  When she's not creating, she enjoys the outdoors hiking, bike riding, snowboarding, and camping.
JG has a very dry sense of humor, and should never be taken too seriously.  She loves to hear from her fans, and even those who aren't and would love to hear your opinion on her books.
JG writes romantic suspense/thrillers including: A Shot in the Dark, Into the Light, The Surrender Trilogy including Surrender, Shattered, and Saved which will be available through Limitless Publishing soon.


Contact Links

Twitter: @jg_sumner

Purchase Links

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Pomo Blitz: A Promise of Fireflies by Susan Haught


Women’s Fiction/Romance
Date Published: January 2016

 photo add-to-goodreads-button_zpsc7b3c634.png

Questions never asked don’t always remain unanswered.

A blood-stained journal holds the answers to secrets her mother took to the grave, but an enigmatic old man knows the answers–truths she never expected.

Another round of turmoil isn’t on her agenda, but when Ryleigh Collins discovers a blood-stained journal among her deceased mother’s belongings, her curiosity leads her to a puzzling Mark Twain look-alike who shatters her family history–and her sense of belonging.

Bearing a treasure chest of secrets and a deeply scarred heart, Ryleigh returns home to her ex-husband’s appeal to take him back. Overwhelmed, she seeks refuge in the quiet majesty of the Rocky Mountains. But as the snow deepens, so do her feelings for Logan Cavanaugh, the distinctly reserved resort owner.

Two lost souls collide in a paralyzing snowstorm, but when the skies clear, Logan surrenders to a deepening guilt he can’t fight. Ryleigh’s sense of abandonment is further compromised with his sudden departure, though she refuses to believe they’ve left their shared memories frozen in the mountains of Colorado.

She’s struggling with shocking truths while trying to move on; he’s caught in a crossfire of a battle he doesn’t know how to fight.

One woman. Three promises–one honored, one broken, one pledged.



Other books in the Whisper of the Pines Series:




Whisper of the Pines, Companion Novel
Publisher: Four Carat Press
Published: March 2016

Their paths never crossed, but their destiny is bound by blood.

Strangers separated by forty years and a bloody war, their only bond is a name engraved on The Wall. He walked in the shadow of fate. She stepped into the shadow of love.

A restless intimacy followed Ryan through the jungles of Vietnam, the fear, loneliness, and death camouflaged by the beauty of a country twelve thousand miles from home. He walked courageously toward his destiny and left his legacy—words written in a bloodstained journal—for the woman he loved and their infant daughter.

Encouraged by an enigmatic old man who sends her a journal identical to her father’s, Ryleigh composes her words when a second chance at love is cut short by ghosts from the past. No blood stains her journal, only the souvenirs of a broken heart.




Whisper of the Pines, Book 2
Publisher: Four Carat Press
Published: December 2016

What if the price of your wish is living without it?

Rachel Gowen wishes for nothing more than to escape the past decade—to safely lock away the memories that keep her from a future she can only dream about. But a Native American butterfly legend, Ambrose, a mysterious stranger who knows things he can’t possibly know, a cast of quirky characters long past their prime, and Nico, a tenacious and caring nursing assistant, plunge her down a path that will ignite the very memories she’s desperate to escape.

Rachel begins her new life as a nurse in a retirement facility. After all, how risky can it be working with the elderly? She quickly forms deep attachments to her patients, helping them in ways far beyond her duties. And when a casual stroll turns into a budding relationship with Ben, the handsome British doctor who’s too busy, too unromantic, and too distant—it may be exactly what she’s looking for.

But Rachel can’t conform to the rules. Nor can she deny the connection she shares with Nico. With her job in jeopardy, Rachel’s priorities and relationship with Ben are challenged. But one thing is certain—Ambrose knows the wishes she sent on the wings of the butterflies will be granted, but the price she’ll pay will upend her life.

Rachel is promised a thousand butterfly wishes—but all she wants is one.



Excerpt

Dreams die every day
Some drown in the endless churn of a washing machine,
some get lost under an avalanche of responsibilities
and still others suffocate in the wake of a broken promise.
Dreams die—disappearing with the sun in the western sky.
But a sprig of grass will sprout from a blanket of snow,
new life will be born when two become one,
and a phoenix will rise from the ashes left behind.
Dreams reborn—blooming with dawn’s radiant new light.
~sh~
Chapter One
SCARRED CORNERS FRAMED the small journal she pulled from the old shoebox. She
traced the cover with one finger, dark stains and pebbled leather disquieting, yet as oddly
familiar as the stale odor of cigarettes her mother promised to quit smoking and never did. Now
the tenuous reminder, void of the peppermints her mother nursed to disguise the smell,
threatened to unravel the tethers holding her together.
God, how she wished she could rewrite the last year.
With her legs crossed beneath her, Ryleigh Collins clutched the journal to her chest,
leaned against the wall of her mother’s apartment—as empty of her possessions as the world was
of her—and let the shadows of the waning morning swallow her.
“I can’t do this.” She grabbed a loose thread in the denim stretched over her knees and
yanked hard.
Two feet bundled in thick navy blue socks appeared in front of her. “Can’t do what?”
Ryleigh raised her eyes, moist with remembrance.
“Ah.” Natalie crossed her feet, lowered herself with the grace of a toned dancer, and
placed a firm, yet gentle hand on Ryleigh’s arm. “The personal stuff’s the hardest.”
After a pause, Ryleigh tucked the knot of emotions neatly back where they belonged and
turned. “I’m such a wimp.”
“You’ll get through this.” Natalie Jo Burstyn’s perfectly manicured brows knitted
together in a scowl that masked her usual playful grin. “I intend to see you do.”
The lump in her throat strangled the words she’d rehearsed since Natalie had offered to
drop everything to help. Of course she would. Her meddling best friend always seemed to know
exactly what to do. Or say. She grasped Natalie’s hand and squeezed.
Sometimes words got in the way.
Ryleigh released a long breath and straightened her legs. The journal tumbled to her lap.
“What’s that?”
She swiped a hand across the journal’s cover and then wiped them on her jeans. “An old
journal,” Ryleigh said, brushing away the dusty handprint.
“Don’t just sit there fondling it, open it.”
The binding creaked. Timeworn pages fanned in a graceful arch as if her touch had
resurrected them. Faded ink swirled across the unlined parchment, and the musty balm of old
paper and ink tapped at a recollection, distant and unformed, yet ripe for picking—but couldn’t
pluck it from her memory. Smudged and watermarked, the words danced across the aged pages.
She turned each one with care.
Nat leaned in. “Well?”
Ryleigh frowned. “Looks like a collection of poetry.”
“I didn’t know your mom wrote poetry.”
“This isn’t her handwriting,” Ryleigh responded without thought, “and my mother never
wrote anything more literary than a grocery list.”
Natalie peered over her shoulder. “Then whose?”
“Don’t know. Just an ‘R’ at the end of the entries.” The pages crackled as Ryleigh turned
each one. “And the year. ’66. ’67 on some.” A shiver feathered its way from her neck to the tips
of her fingers.
“Want to read it?” The familiar weight of Nat’s head settled on her shoulder. “Like old
times?”
She’d never considered not sharing something with Nat and quickly harnessed the
prickling urge to slam the book shut to prying eyes.
Careful not to damage the pages, she smoothed them flat, the tickle of selfishness
nibbling at her consistent, rational side. As she scanned the pages, she muttered lines at random,
the only autograph the watermarked scars of blurred ink. “The air is thick, gray ashen snow, the
ghost returns, its presence unfought.” She flipped the page. “Fireflies flicker against azure skies,
frolicking hither in reverent riverdance.” The weight against her shoulder anchored a covey of
troublesome thoughts, but Ryleigh continued to pluck lines from the pages. “Sodden showers of
infected rain, across crystal skies littered with fire.” She dragged a finger across an eyebrow.
“Intriguing.”
“You’re mumbling.”
“They dance to their reticent song.”
Natalie frowned. “Who?”
“Fireflies.” She tapped the page with her index finger. “One of the poems is about
fireflies. I wonder if they’re really like that.”
“Seriously?”
Ryleigh tucked a strand of hair behind an ear and closed the book with a finger marking
her place. “I’ve never seen one.”
“C’mon,” Nat said, crossing her arms. “Kids catch fireflies in jars all the time.”
“Not this small-town, sheltered Arizonan.”
“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen one since moving here.”
“They’re on my bucket list.”
Natalie opened and then shut her mouth. “You added to your bucket list without telling
me?”
The concentrated effort Nat used to curb her bewilderment caused Ryleigh to forget her
grief for a fleeting moment. “I’ll see one someday,” she said and reopened the book to the last
page.
“Read to me, Riles.” Nat folded her long legs beneath her, anticipation deepening her
eyes to warm chocolate. “Like when we were kids.”
Ryleigh glanced sideways at her. “I had to explain them to you.”
“So?” Nat said, the short word long on sarcasm. “It’s nostalgic.”
“Okay.” Ryleigh took a deep breath. “This is the last entry. It’s called ‘Lost.’”
“‘I placed my love inside your heart
and softly called your name—
I placed a hole inside of mine
as God’s heavenly angels came.
I placed a kiss of golden tears
upon your tiny chest—
I placed a rainbow at your door
the day you came to rest.
I placed a single pure white rose
upon your tiny feet—
I placed my hand against your cheek
and said good-bye, my sweet.
I placed a gentle autumn breeze
within your tiny space—
I placed with you, a piece of me
and let you go in God’s embrace.’”
~R~’67
The words stuck in her throat with painful intensity. Ryleigh dragged her finger over the
‘R’—the last letter in the journal. “Forty-three years ago.”
Natalie picked at a stray thread in the shredded knee of her True Religion jeans. “I’m not
very good at analyzing poems, but—”
“Whoever wrote this lost a baby.” Careful fingers traced the cover, the stained leather
unsettling, yet somehow comforting beneath her touch. Ryleigh’s neck prickled. A tear trembled
on the edge of her eye. “I feel like I’m eavesdropping,” she said and closed the book. Sheer will
eased the roiling in her stomach.
“Sounds like something you’d write.”
Ryleigh shook her head. “Cozy articles for The Sentinel on county fairs, care packages to
our soldiers, and Mrs. Grayson’s baby quilts don’t count. I haven’t written fiction or poetry in
years.”
“You should.”
Ryleigh raised the journal. “This is raw passion,” she said, sniffing back the telltale signs of
her emotion. “Emotion stripped naked.”
“Your work is like that. Peeking inside the places of your heart no one ever sees.”
“Maybe I don’t want anyone to see.”
Nat paused, and then wrapped her arm over Ryleigh’s shoulder. “Things will get better. I
promise.”
Nat’s words soothed her, a spoken ointment soothing a fresh wound.
* * *
The women sat cross-legged in the empty apartment sorting a mish-mash of items. One
scrap at a time, Ryleigh placed the pieces of her mother’s life into neat piles, turning each one
front to back, puzzled at how little she knew about the odd trinkets, mementos, and letters
safeguarded inside worn-out cardboard boxes. With one pile marked “Save” and the other to be
discarded, it occurred to her what a parallel her mother’s passing was to the death sentence
Chandler had given their marriage. Nothing remained but the pompous flashbacks of one and a
handful of useless trinkets from the other, and with one flick of the wrist (or philandering penis
in Chandler’s case), they are tossed aside with yesterday’s trash. Yet the part that remained—the
part that had wrapped itself around her heart—seemed useless to try to dismiss. Love doesn’t
stop with someone’s absence. Sometimes it grew heavier, the ache deeper, until the hurt no
longer gave in to tears.
The gravity of grief had exhausted her, and she felt as overused as the boxes that held her
mother’s meager belongings. Ryleigh pressed her fingers hard against her temples as if the
pressure would numb the ache and quench the niggling urge to leave it all behind and walk away.
Yet that wasn’t entirely true—the impulse to run bulldozed past any rational thought.
“You okay?”
Ryleigh rubbed the back of her neck. “Just tired.” Her hands fell to her lap. “It’s just,”
she said with a sigh, “none of this makes any sense.” Ryleigh picked up a patch embroidered
with an open-mouthed eagle’s head and tugged at the broken threads. “Who keeps junk like
this?”
Natalie shrugged.
“Or this?” She held up a single brass button. “Mom had hundreds of orphaned buttons.
Why isn’t this one with the others?”
“Don’t know,” Natalie said, straightening, “but I’m curious about the letters.”
Ryleigh stilled. “What letters?”
Natalie reached for the stack bound with a rubber band. “These,” she said, “postmarked
forty-something years ago with no return address.”
Fragments of Eleanor’s life lingered in Ryleigh’s hands—tokens she never bothered to
share. Or had she simply not paid attention when her mother spoke of these things? In either case
it was a moot point: she’d never bothered to ask. And now it was too late.
The items were meaningless, but an ambiguous feeling tapped at her like the annoying
click of a retractable pen. “I don’t want to save this crap, but it feels strange to think about
throwing it away. Does that sound weird?” She voiced the question with no expectations of a
reply.
“Of course it does,” Nat said, the usual lilt returning in her tone. She rose and brushed the
dust from the backside of her jeans. “But it doesn’t surprise me. You are weird.”
“Thanks,” Ryleigh said, reaching for the shoebox. The penciled sketches on the front had
faded, but the drawing of the stylish low-heeled dress shoes remained intact. Over the years, the
corners had become torn and sloppy and the lid slipped easily free. She placed the items inside
and then pressed the lid into place, concealing portions of her mother’s life, remnants absent of
explanation.
An empty feeling swept over her. “Something isn’t right, Nat.” In truth, it felt as if she’d
been yanked from the pages of a fairy tale and didn’t know how to find her way back.
Or if she truly wanted to.
“We’re almost done, Riles.” Natalie offered a hand up, her deep brown eyes glistening
with tiny flecks of copper in the afternoon light. “All that’s left is the desk.”
Ryleigh’s shoulders slumped. “I forgot.” She clasped the journal with one hand and
grabbed Natalie’s outstretched hand with the other. Nat had been her rock when she needed a
steady hand, yet waggish enough to celebrate the good times with all-out regale. Always there.
No matter what. With an achy groan that migrated through every forty-three-year-old bone, she
allowed her best friend to pull her upright.
A photograph fell to the floor between them.
Ryleigh reached it first. They rose together and turned toward the apartment window,
light spilling across the photograph. Yellowed and creased, and deckled edges crimped in several
places, it wore the markings of time.
“Wait…is that your father?”
Ryleigh nodded.
“Where’d this come from?”
“Must’ve been inside the journal.” She pushed the hair from her eyes. “Why didn’t Mom
ever show this to me?”
“Don’t know, but check out your father’s friend. The Kodak is faded, but he’s gorgeous.
Killer eyes,” she said, letting loose an exaggerated whistle.
Ryleigh flipped the photograph over. “Look at this,” she said, tracing a finger over faded
ink, a ghostly impression of time long passed. “Today this may be nothing, but tomorrow it may
be all that’s left.”
“An ‘R’ and 1967.” Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Just like the journal.”
“I wonder if my father’s friend is still alive? Is he the author?”
“Be fun to find out.”
“Fat chance. I’m a fair hand at research for inconsequential feature articles for my
column, but I’m no sleuth. I can’t find my phone half the time.” Ryleigh slumped. “Or keep track
of a husband and where he’s sleeping. Or with whom.”
“Ouch.” Natalie paused, cleared her throat, and then pointed to the photo. “The jungle
background. The dates. This was taken in Vietnam. It’s as good a place as any to start.”
Ryleigh tapped the photo three times against her fingers. She worried her bottom lip in a
series of successive tugs and slipped the photograph into the shoebox.
Natalie grinned. “Well, Sherlock? Shall we find him


About the Author

Susan Haught–award-winning author and Australian black liquorice addict–lives in Arizona’s Rim Country with her husband and spoiled Shih-Tzu, Mercedes, who believes her princess status earns her the right to sleep on pillows, ride shotgun, and train her peers in the fine art of squeaky toys. Her husband is almost as spoiled and almost as noisy with a proficiency in elk bugling. Susan and her husband have one son.

Susan writes contemporary women’s fiction & romance with the belief that Love is Ageless and has the power to change lives–one step, one touch, one kiss at a time.

Contact Links


Purchase Links



Reading Addiction Blog Tours