(The Deceit Trilogy, #1)
Publication date: October 4th 2025
Genres: Fantasy, Young Adult
The nation of Seity.
Four ruling families.
One merciless tyrant.
When Eldon Durane executes a noble family and extinguishes all magic, he ignites a war that spans generations.
Two decades later, Lady Rosalie Yorke and her best friend, Silence, are uprooted from their comfortable lives to escape the spreading war. But Rosalie’s world shatters when ruthless raiders kidnap her—only for her fate to collide with Crowe, the notorious pirate captain of the Deceit.
Crowe wants nothing to do with Seity’s political turmoil, but the thirst for revenge leads him to Rosalie. Hoping to change his luck, he decides to extort Rosalie’s father for a ransom.
Rosalie refuses to be anyone’s pawn, and Crowe has no patience for nobility. As the two bicker and dodge danger, Seity’s long-buried secrets begin to emerge from the shadows.
With Eldon’s deadly plan looming, Rosalie and Crowe must set aside their differences. Should they fail, Rosalie may lose everything.
Perfect for fans of Adrienne Young’s Fable and Amie Kaufman’s The Isles of the Gods, The Silence of Deceit is a seafaring tale of betrayal, friendship, and survival. A must-read for fans of pirate fantasy, enemies-to-lovers tension, and sweeping adventures filled with magic and rebellion.
“You left your book lying around.” She picked it up and held it out to him. “Don’t want to lose one of your precious first editions.”
“I didn’t—I left that for you to read.” He didn’t move from the doorway to take it from her.
“You said—”
“I know what I said. But that’s not a first edition, and I was being generous. Don’t get used to it,” he said, and backed out of the cabin.
Rosalie lowered the book but didn’t release her grip.
“Every time I think I have him figured out,” she muttered.
Silence didn’t seem to hear her as she stifled a yawn. “I was up all night, so I’m going to take a nap.”
“Thank you for keeping me safe.” All the doubt in the world couldn’t put a wedge between her and Silence. “I wish I could do something for you in return.”
“I don’t need anything in return because I know you’d do the same for me.” She squeezed Rosalie’s shoulder before heading over to the pile of furs.
Rosalie’s legs were shaky as she stood and left the cabin. After a night of suffering a fever, the ocean air felt incredible on her skin. She found Crowe watching Danny spar with another crew member. She stood next to the captain and pressed the book to her chest.
They watched the duel side by side without saying a word. It was fun to watch two experienced fighters without the threat of harm. It almost looked like a dance—an art of quick steps and clever maneuvers. Out of nowhere, she felt a burning passion to wield a blade. The thought had never crossed her mind before. Before, she had only wanted to take
on the role of a lady who didn’t need any weapons aside from wit and charm.
But seeing the sabers glint in the sunlight sparked a deep desire. Maybe she’d spent too much time among pirates.
“Can I help you?” Crowe broke her fixation.
“What’s the book about?”
“I suppose the point of reading books is to find out what
they’re about,” he replied without looking at her.
“What changed your mind?”
“Nothing changed my mind. It’s an act of grace; savor it, because that’s the only book you’re getting.”
Although he was back to acting prickly, the gesture of giving her a book said more than his words did. “Why did you pick this one? Is it your least favorite?”
“On the contrary,” he said, still avoiding eye contact. “It’s my favorite, so I’d prefer nothing happen to it.”
She made a noise of interest but didn’t say anything else. The captain had lent her a book—not just any book, but his favorite one. It was hard to unravel, but in a way, she felt like she had won at least one round of bickering.
In her victory, she threw Crowe a smirk. But it faded when she saw the late morning sun beaming down on him. His eye color warmed, and the wave of his dark hair caught every ray and rustled a bit in the wind.
At the worst possible moment, he looked her way. When their eyes met, he looked… nervous? “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Huh?” she blurted with too much gusto. “Why are you looking at me?” When his eyebrow quirked up, she shuffled backward. “Thanks for the book.” She ducked her head and made a quick escape to hide her blush.
.
About Author Jillian Eagan:
Jillian Eagan is an indie author from Massachusetts. She received her BA in Creative Writing from Emmanuel College. Currently, she lives in Cape Cod, where she reads and writes on the beach.
A relentless thriller that explores the unbreakable bonds
that transcend time.
.
.
What Goes Around
by Michael Wendroff
Genre: Thriller
‘Relentless and gritty, Wendroff
expertly weaves a narrative that begs, “just one more page”.’ J.D. Barker, New York Times bestselling
author
EVIL HAS MANY FACES Chilling murders terrorize a town and bring together two detectives to face
the hardest tasks of their lives. Jack Ludlum, who relies on his brawn to get
things done, is now paired with his archenemy, Jill Jarred, a brilliant
investigator with keen intuition. As they delve into the secret world of incels
and white supremacists, and conflict between local authorities and the FBI
rages, a media frenzy further complicates the mission.
Is there a serial killer on the loose? Or something entirely different? Will
the detectives’ clashing personalities be their undoing, or can they unite to
stop the killer before they kill each other?
What Goes Around is a
dynamic thriller that examines the intricacies of love, loss, and the
unbreakable bonds that transcend time. With its pulse-pounding pace,
captivating characters, and a revelatory twist that challenges the boundaries
of life and death, this novel will keep you hooked from the first page to the
last, and thinking long afterwards. ‘Starts off at a breakneck pace and doesn’t let up until it reaches its
unexpected conclusion.’ Lisa Black, New
York Times bestselling author of the Locard Institute thrillers ‘An adrenaline-fueled novel, the action breathlessly driven by two
detectives relentlessly pursuing the bloody trails left by a serial killer with
a dark sense of justice, deadly groups of white supremacists, and one lonely,
alienated boy caught up in the violence.’ Kathleen Kent, New York Times bestselling author ‘Fast-paced propulsive thriller that doesn’t let up – highly
recommended!’ Lori Brand, author
‘I could barely put this book down! The
twists and turns. The references to current political climate and the
unanswered “who dun it” questions kept me engaged until the last page. Great
read. Fast paced and an unexpected ending. Kudos for Wendroff’s debut novel!’ –
Amazon review
‘I thoroughly enjoyed this book. The story
keeps you on the edge of your seat. He is a colorful writer and the characters
just come to life. They become very real, and the interplay between them is
really intriguing. I highly recommend this book.’ – Amazon review
**Paperback
edition just released Oct 7, 2025 – Get it now!**
“It was midnight in the garden-less apartment. Good and evil were still at odds.
A cold wind whipped by, rustling the leaves while he was wrestling with his thoughts.
He hadn’t slept at all the prior night and couldn’t think straight now. He didn’t want to be
there but ended up going along—mostly to make sure things didn’t get too out of hand.
He and Dylan had watched Jose enter the basement apartment a few minutes
earlier. They checked their supplies one more time under the moonless sky. They peered
at each other, dressed in black, faces covered in charcoal powder, the whites of their eyes
the most evident part of their visages. A cat screeched in the distance. An owl fled to the
heavens. Dylan nodded to him.
He took out his hammer, and with one loud crash, he smashed through the window,
pieces of glass exploding around him.”
.
.
When did the title “What Goes Around” come to you?
I have to admit that it came from my publisher, not me. My name had been “Perennial.” My publisher came to me and said that for a thriller, they thought they could do better. Now, in my marketing career I would often have ad agencies come in and show me a number of ads and I would normally end up having them make revisions or come back with new ads. I thought the same thing would happen here, but it didn’t. As soon as they suggested What Goes Around, I knew that was it! Not only does it sound like a thriller, but it totally ties into the entire book’s theme. Plus I also think the potential reader that sees the title completes the phrase in their own mind, so I’ve already made a connection with them.
Described as relentless and gritty and about to go into second print…what do you want us to know about the book?
It’s actually now into its third printing, I’m proud to say. It was published in the USA,UK and Australia in hardcover. You can get it at The Island Book shop in Venice. It is also available on Amazon in eBook and audiobooks. I’m amazed how popular audiobooks have become. And to my surprise, my agent sold foreign translation rights in Japanese, Hungarian, and Italian.
You mentioned, “relentless and gritty,” and I was thrilled to see that the author who said that has now made it to #1 on the bestseller list. In fact, JD Barker’s full quote was, “Relentless and gritty, Wendroff weaves a narrative that begs, ‘just one more page…'” And that’s exactly what I wanted to achieve–a page turner that the reader can’t put down.
Promoting the book is a challenge but with an MBA in marketing and your background in the publishing field in a literary agency you may’ve seen what it takes. And now that you’ve achieved a lifelong goal of writing your own book, what’s next?
I always wanted to write a book and it was really the pandmic that got me going-there was that periodof time when you couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even play tennis or go to the beach. So I was out of excuses and went at it. Rightnow, I’m spending a lot of time promoting it. Authors have to realize that today, writing is only 50% of their time, the other 50% is marketing. I’ve done a lot of podcasts, been reviewed by a lot of bloggers (I’m really happy the reviews have been great), and attend a lot of events, including book clubs. The bookclubs sem to really enjoy having a real writer at their meetings, providing insights about the novel as well as the writing and publishing process. In fact, I’d be happy to join any of your readers book clubs (contact me at wendroffm@gmail.com).
My next goal is to write my second book. I’ve plotted it and researched it, so now time to start writing! It will be another thriller and feature the two main characters from What Goes Around, as publishers tend to like series. It’s like building a brand.
What inspires you to write and tell us about your process. Do you write at a certain time, place…You mentioned your office and pool area.I notice you recently enrolled in the Citizens Police Academy in Venice to learn to shoot a taser….what are other things you enjoy researching for your stories. Do you feel it worked for you starting with an outline?
I love writing, and my process is plot, research, write, and edit.
I usually write in the mornings, when I’m freshest, either in my office or at the pool. The water inspires me, that’s another reason Venice is great-beaches, ponds-I don’t even mind the alligators staring at me. I usually sit at my pc to get the story going, and not worry about things like grammer or the specific words, I just want to get the writing flowing. The next morning I will reread what I’d written, and try to make it real writing. Make sure every word fits with the others, make sure each sentence fits with the others. Add the analogies and metaphors. After that’s done, I’ll start scribbling out the next party of the story on my pc, which will be re-written the next day. That process of write then rewrite continues everyday, until I can write my favorite two words: The End
But before I actually start the writing itself, comes the plotting. There are actually two types of writers-plotters and pantsers.Pantsers simply sit in front of their computers and write by the seat of their pants. They have no idea where the story is going. That’s not be. I have to know everything upfront, so after ideating I write a detailed plot outline. I need to know not only what the ending will be, but where I’ll plant the red herrings, and where I’ll put the twists and turns. Nut it’s not like things won’t change. Once I became really attached to one of my characters, and the plot called for the character to die, but I couldn’t do it. I had to change the plot. Another time I did kill off a character I loved, but my wife yelled at me because I was walking around for a week in depression. She said “They’re not real!!.” But to an author, they are real!
The other thing I do before writing is the researching. Sure there’s Google and Chat GPT, but what I found is best is talking to people who do the types of things that are in your book. Living in Venice, I had a lot of resources. I’d come to know FBI agents and police officers and chiefs. And the Venice Police department is great. It was important for my book to talk to a female detective and they put me in touch with one of their own, Courtney Zak. She was great, and a lot of her insights are in the book. The Venice Police Department actually runs a “Citizens Police Academy” where you can learn about all the different facets of the things they do, and I just finished it, which I highly recommend for anyone.
So talking to people for research is critical. Now, I don’t think I spoke to any serial killers…
Anything you want to share about family, kids, upbringing? I like that quote your mother said when you were born, “Nice to see you again.”
My mother was an editor at major New York City publishing firms. I distinctly remember her on a weekend sitting cross-legged on her bed, manuscript pages, strewn about, and red pen in hand writing editorial comments all over the pages. So at least I was prepared for my editor’s comments on my book. They weren’t in red pen, but the comments in the margins of the word document were as instructive. But I wasn’t surprised.
She remarried a literary agent, who had many thriller and mystery writer clients, so I probably got my love of the genre from reading all those books, free! Unfortunately he’s no longer with us, but I think still had an impact. My agent had been shopping around my manuscript to publishers, which takes a lot of time. But the very next day after my stepfather died, my book was sold! So I think I had a little help from above.
Is there an anecdote you could share about authors you ran into when growing up?
Actually, I’ve got one for both!
My stepfather was a literary agent and one of his clients was the bestselling author, Robert Ludlum (many know him for the Jason Bourne movies with Matt Damon). Once I got to stay at his winter home in St. Thomas. I remember waking up one morning, going into his living room and seeing him on the couch writing on a yellow legal pad with a pencil. That’s how he wrote his 450 page novels, by hand! While I admired Ludlum’s plotting and prose, I couldn’t do that! Thankfully, when it came time for me to write What Goes Around, I had a PC!
Regarding Capote, I grew up in a bit of a literary milieu, then went to NYU for business. It was when writing my MBA thesis that I was able to marry my love of books with my new love of marketing, as my thesis was on “Marketing in the Publishing Industry.” In fact, the industry’s trade journal, Publishers Weekly, excerpted my thesis in 3 editions, and paid me. That was the first time I got paid for my writing–I liked that!
During the research for it I interviewed a lot of publishing executives. One time I was waiting outside the office of the Editor-in-Chief for Simon& Schuster, and finally the door opens, and I’m ushered in and who do I meet–Truman Capote! As a thriller writer, meeting the author of In Cold Blood was amazing! And he looked exactly as you’d imagine.
What advice do you have for aspiring writers?
Believe in yourself and never give up.
Write every day, even if it’s only 10 minutes.
Learn your craft–there are so many opportunities! Online courses (I took courses on BBC Maestro from Lee Child and Harlan Coben). Conventions-Thrillerfest in NYC puts on great craft seminars. There are writing groups too. Read in your genre and never stop learning.
What advice would you give to your neighbors about life?
Wow,that’s a big question.
But I guess it boils down to be nice. Because, What Goes Around, Comes Around!
Michael Wendroff
is the author of What Goes Around, a
debut thriller published by Bloomsbury, which bestselling author Eric Rickstad
calls a “brilliant debut,” and bestselling author Lisa Black says, “starts off
at a breakneck pace and doesn’t let up until it reaches its unexpected
conclusion.” Plus, #1 bestselling author J.D. Black says, “Relentless and
gritty, Wendroff expertly weaves a narrative that begs, ‘just one more page…’”
The book was
inspired by what his mother said to him the second he was born: “Oh! How nice
to see you–Again!”
Michael has an MBA
in marketing from NYU, and was inducted into their Hall of Fame. He is a global
marketing consultant. He shares his time between New York City, Sarasota,
Florida, and Lake Garda, Italy. He is married and has three wonderful children.
His mother was an
editor (watching his mother scribbling in red ink on manuscript pages at home
on weekends prepared him for his own editor’s comments!). She remarried a
literary agent, so Michael was friendly with many authors, and even spent a
vacation with Robert Ludlum. Watching Ludlum hand-write his 450 page novels on
yellow legal pads didn’t dissuade Michael from trying to write a novel (though
he’s thankful for his PC).
What Goes Around was launched in the USA, UK, and Australia,
and foreign language rights have been sold in Italian, Japanese, and Hungarian.
The hardcover went through 3 printings, and now the trade paperback is
available (along with audio book and e-book).
Fun fact:
Michael’s great-grandfather was brought over by Thomas Edison from the
University of Copenhagen to work with him. He holds a number of patents,
including for plastic buttons. Michael proudly wears button- down shirts
whenever he can.
Forensic handwriting expert Claudia Rose never expected much from her high school reunion, just the usual mix of mean girls, jocks, nerds, and bullies. But when she stumbles upon the lifeless body of someone she knew, the night takes a deadly turn. As secrets resurface and old rivalries ignite, Claudia finds herself caught in a dangerous game where the past is more than just a memory—it’s a motive for murder.
.
Praise for Maximum Pressure:
“Fun high school reunion story…until, well, the murders. The ending will surprise you. Intelligent read.” ~ Karen Fox 5 star Amazon Review
“A fantastic read!! Sheila Lowe, as always, delivers a compelling story that’ll have you in the edge of your seat!” ~ MattsHonestReviews 5 star Amazon Review
“I love this series… So well written I could see these characters very clearly. I love this series and this may be my favorite case! The suspense was edge of your seat & I loved it.” ~ K-BRC 5 star Amazon Review
“Another great book from Sheila Lowe–Hard to put down ’til the end… This is a fun and exciting story, face-paced, and as always with Sheila Lowe’s books, full of great HWA insights and comments. I think this is one of her best stories and right up my alley as an amateur handwriting analyst!” ~ Vera 5 star Amazon Review
“Excellent, well-written mystery that takes off like a jet from an aircraft carrier in the opening pages and never lets up! With every book she writes Lowe continues to sculpt her craft and gets better & better. The characters are likable & attention holding. The plot and the sub-plots were both well-developed.” ~ Roger Fauble 5 star Amazon Review
Book Details:
Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Write Choice Ink Publication Date: June 2, 2024 Number of Pages: 314 ISBN: 978-1970181487 (print) Series: A Claudia Rose Forensic Handwriting Mystery, #9
Everything had changed in Edentown, and nothing had changed. Twenty-five years ago, when Washington Boulevard was the main drag, the high school crowd hung out at the Fox theater on Saturday nights, then walked in a pack to Carl’s Jr. for burgers. There had been a shoe store, a drugstore, a barber shop and a hair salon, a couple of high-end dress boutiques. The no-tell hotel above Guido’s Café that rented rooms by the hour.
Those businesses were gone now, replaced by boxy modern high-rise office buildings, an ultra-modern museum, and a refurbished warehouse that housed upscale fast-food vendors, cheese shops, and a yoga studio. Enterprises that meant nothing to Claudia Rose in the context of her hometown. Making a right turn at Olive Avenue, she felt like Alice in Wonderland—as disoriented as if she had stumbled into an alternate reality. As she made another right, more than a little uneasy that she might not recognize the old neighborhood, the breath she had held too long whooshed out like a popped balloon. Her shoulder muscles let go. She needn’t have worried. Aside from the odd paint job here and there, the residential streets were much the same as when she had graduated from Edentown High School in 1999. She had driven the seventy miles from Playa de la Reina to work the registration desk at the opening event, a cocktail party in the school gym, with her best friend, Kelly Brennan. How many of her classmates would she be able to identify at the reunion, her first in all those years? Despite running late due to the standard stop-and-go traffic that made the 405 famous, she refused to hurry. It was a long time since she had last visited Charter Street, and now that she was here, it felt weirdly like peeping in on someone else’s life. There was the home her parents had bought when she was in junior high. It had been brand new, part of the creeping gentrification that devoured neighborhoods whole—Godzilla chomping its way to tracts of larger dwellings. Claudia had loved that house, not least because she no longer had to share a bedroom with her younger brother. With its three-car garage and faux-French Country kitchen, the two-story rambler had seemed like a mansion after their old two-bedroom apartment. Now, her eyes were seeing it for what it was: an ordinary house on an ordinary street, looking smaller than the picture she’d held in her mind. She stopped the car and sat there, calling up flashbacks of summer parties in the backyard. Hiding behind the bushes with her friends and getting high on weed; drinking beer filched from their parents’ coolers. What had happened to the families she had once known? Some of her classmates must have kids attending Edentown High. Her first wedding reception had been held in that backyard. Within five years, the marriage had tanked. More years after that, her parents put the house on the market and moved to Seattle. Today, it would sell for close to a million. Claudia loosed a long, nostalgic sigh. It felt as though she was sitting in the front row at a stage play that had ended long ago, the drama wrung out of it. The curtain had been raised; the scenery revealed as a plywood façade. The sound of her phone startled the melancholy out of her. Kelly’s ringtone. She touched the answer button. “Yes, ma’am?” “Where the blipity blam are you?” “Keep your panties on. I’m five minutes away.” “I need you here now, girlfriend. Here I am, womaning the desk all by my lonesome, and people are showing up early.” Claudia knew better than to take the gripe seriously. Parties lit Kelly up brighter than fireworks on the Fourth of July. In the background she could hear the tuning-up sounds of a rock band. “Who’s there?” “The committee members of course—the three Cathys—” Three friends who shared a name, each with a different spelling. Cathi Soden, Cathy Brewer, Kathy McCarty. Kelly reeled off more names. “Sharon Bernstein, Espie Rodriguez, Ginny Vernon, Eleni Boukidis, Becky Condren. Lemme think … Mark Lukeman, Don Baker—” Claudia broke into the litany. “Got it. I’ll see you in a few.” “No detours.” Too late. “No detours.” She ended the call and entered the school’s address into the GPS—something she had not needed to do twenty-five years ago. The mile-long walk straight up Charter Street had terminated at the rear entrance to the school’s swimming pool. Not anymore. The snippy electronic voice directed her to an underpass constructed years after she had left home.
Chapter two
Claudia entered the gym through the back door, at once hit by the disembodied voice of a young Christina Aguilera singing about a genie in a bottle. She paused there to take in the frenetic preparations for the reunion: A custodian on a ladder, hanging a “Class of 1999” banner. Caterers hurrying to offload chafing dishes of hors d’oeuvres onto a long buffet. Early arrivals milling around the portable bars, waiting for them to open. Volunteers decorating the round tables with baskets of chrysanthemums dyed in the blue and gold of the school’s colors. Her eyes were drawn to the back wall, where “EDENTOWN HIGH SCHOOL” was freshly painted in six-foot-high letters. The bleachers that normally stood there had been folded away for the evening’s event, but Claudia had not forgotten the countless times she and her friends had stood on them cheering on their basketball team, the Pioneers, to a long string of winning games. The registration desk was set up on the other side of the gym from where she had entered. Crossing the highly polished polyurethane floor, she could see Kelly laughing and bantering with a handful of classmates lined up to receive their name tags. Whether the reunion committee was ready or not, the party was getting started. Claudia gave her friend a quick appraisal and dropped into the vacant chair beside her. “The dress rocks,” she said approvingly. Kelly had dragged her along on a shopping trip, determined to dazzle the mean girls with her adult fashion sense, even if most of the mean girls had matured and forgotten her existence. She had found a sultry blue-grey A-line that brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Claudia’s pick was a one-shoulder black number that her husband, Joel, had judged as “extremely sexy.” Her eyes were sparkling, her extra-white smile gleaming as Kelly pushed a box of name tags towards Claudia. “You look a-mayzing, you auburn-headed hussy.” Cathi Soden, the reunion chair, had told them that almost half of the class was expected to attend one or more of the weekend events, which meant they had more than two hundred classmates to check in. “What took you so long?” Kelly asked. “I thought you’d gotten lost.” “As much as this town has changed, it would be no big mystery if I had.” Now that there were two of them, several people at the back of Kelly’s line moved to stand in front of Claudia. She looked up at the first woman in line and got a vague sense of familiarity, but no name. The woman wore a pink chiffon dress that billowed on a slender frame, making it look a size too large. And something about the glossy chestnut brown pageboy hairstyle jarred with her pasty complexion, and hazel eyes that burned brightly. The woman gave her a knowing smile, challenging her with a winding “wrap it up” motion with her index finger. “C’mon, Claudia, I sat behind you in AP English our entire senior year. We passed a bazillion notes to each other—” Before she could control her face, Claudia’s brows shot up and she felt her eyes widen in surprise. How could this pale shadow be the pudgy, rosy-cheeked classmate of her memory? “Omigod, Andie Adams. I didn’t—I’m sorry, I—” Andie’s expression relaxed into a good-natured grin. “It’s okay, I’m not the only one here who doesn’t look like they did in high school. Unlike you, I might add. You haven’t changed much.” She glanced around the gym. “Isn’t it weird, seeing all these ‘old’ people and knowing you’re one of them?” Claudia, thumbing through the “A’s” for her name tag, felt compelled to protest. “Hey, forty-two is not old.” Andie laughed. “Depends on your attitude, I guess.” She pointed to the box of names. “Could I get Nat’s, too? You remember my cousin, Natalie Parker?” A clear image of two teenage girls popped into Claudia’s head—Andrea, sweet and shy—the ever-ready gopher to her bossy cousin, the bubbly captain of the cheer squad. “It would be hard to forget her,” she said “Are you two still ‘Nat’nAndie?’” The two had borne the nickname throughout their school years, as though one name covered both of them. Andie shook her head. “I work for Nat, but these days we have separate identities.” Wondering whether there was a silent “finally” behind the remark, Claudia handed the badges over with a warm smile. “It’s great to see you, Andie. Have fun.” “Why don’t you come find us when you’re done here. I’ll save you a seat. We can catch up.” “Thanks, I will.” The invitation pleased Claudia. After all these years, it felt good to reconnect with old friends. As Andie started to walk away, Kelly chimed in, “Save a seat for me too.” She turned back. “Of course! See you both later.” Waiting until Andie was out of earshot, Kelly cupped a hand to Claudia’s ear and whispered, “When was the last time that girl got some sun? She’s as white as tofu.” “Her hands were like ice. Maybe she’s been sick.” “Yeah, sick of following Nat around like a slave, doing her bidding.” “Let’s hope they’ve both outgrown that by now.” Kelly gave a small snort of derision. “I doubt it. She just picked up Nat’s badge for her, didn’t she?” *** *** Excerpt from Maximum Pressure by Sheila Lowe. Copyright 2025 by Sheila Lowe. Reproduced with permission from Sheila Lowe. All rights reserved.
.
About Author Sheila Lowe:
.
Sheila Lowe is a forensic handwriting examiner, author, and educator with over fifty years of experience decoding the written word. Her nonfiction books include Reading Between the Lines: Decoding Handwriting and her memoir, Growing From the Ashes. In the bestselling Forensic Handwriting suspense series, Sheila’s real-world expertise drives unforgettable fiction as she bridges science and mystery with every stroke of the pen. Her Beyond the Veil paranormal suspense series features a woman who talks to dead people.
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway! Click here to view the Tour Schedule
Don’t Miss Your Chance to Win! Enter Today!
This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Sheila Lowe. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
Two rival interns. One art museum. And a missing art museum exhibit.
Dylan Alexander doesn’t need a boyfriend. Having one will only slow him down.
Freshly graduated from university, Dylan’s arrived in London, England from Vancouver, Canada for a summer internship at the London Art & Design Museum. He’s also looking for strings-free fun and a fresh dating scene. This is Dylan’s dream chance to start his career and land a permanent job in London—or else he must return to Vancouver where museum jobs are rare, and the dating pool is old news. Everything’s going great in his new life—except for one thing. Dylan must put up with rival museum intern William Martin-Greene.
Will is everything Dylan can’t stand: flashy, arrogant, and entitled. Forget that he’s too handsome for his own good and knows it. It’s bad luck that they both started on the same internship program. At least they work safely apart in different departments—until one day, they’re forced to work together when Will unexpectedly joins Dylan’s Curatorial team. So much for the avoidance strategy that had worked so far. Will’s arrival on his team is also not helping his unmistakable attraction. When Dylan and Will end up stranded together while collecting exhibits, with only one bed to share, they can’t deny their chemistry.
With only one permanent job on offer at the end of the summer, the competition is on to be the best intern. They both share the blame when an important design exhibit goes missing and risks the unexpected summer romance between them. Then, everything is on the line—including hearts, careers, and a chance at love.
A rivals-to-lovers, opposites attract, only one bed, and boy-next-door romance!
Keep going, Dylan. I splash along a London street that must be hundreds of years old. It’s lined with brick buildings, a mirrored office tower reflecting the moody sky, and followed by even more brick buildings. Then, at street level, there’re all the glass-fronted shops. The museum’s got to be close. You’ve gotten halfway around the world, after all.
With the help of printed out maps and free Wi-Fi, of course.
It’s not far now.
And I can’t stop smiling. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Forget the rain.
It’s a soggy, blustery London day, which admittedly does no favors for my leather shoes or my styled hair. Or for making a good impression on the first day of a new job in a country I landed in three days ago. And it’s the first day where jet lag isn’t totally kicking my ass.
I get a little lost on my way from London Bridge station somewhere along the modern gray tiled path leading past the Old London City Hall. The problem being something called Old London City Hall looks very modern and new, with its endless windows and curved oval structure, which is part of what got me confused. Because everything old in London’s supposed to be, well, old. Like really old. And this building is anything but. I squint at the building through the rain at the edge of an equally sleek plaza, dotted with leafy trees boxed in with low hedges, concrete benches, and contemporary art installations, all overlooking the Thames.
Old London City Hall looks like it was built yesterday.
This must be some prank to play on the tourists.
I pull out a slightly crumpled page from my pocket with one hand and hold on to the umbrella with my other hand. I haven’t sorted out my phone yet, and I don’t want to pay roaming charges. My printed-out map reliably shows Potters Field Park beside the Thames and the Old London City Hall plaza. Plus, there’s the iconic Tower Bridge nearby as a key landmark, and an X in blue pen marks the museum to the east. Raindrops splatter the page with dark spots before I hurriedly tuck it away.
I’m back on track.
The museum must be straight ahead, past the park—my destination—down at the end of the road or the block or whatever people call it here. I start walking again with purpose. Like I belong here amid the Londoners who happen to know where they’re going.
At least, I think it’s the museum at the end of the street. I haven’t actually seen it before, except on Google Street View.
Distracted, I end up making an unscheduled detour down a side street to see more of the surrounding area, which has one-way traffic. But there’re more modern buildings again down this way, and I work on figuring out how to loop back on course before I’m late.
Look right, then left. I keep repeating my new mantra when I cross the street, then hurry up another street toward the museum as the weather worsens. Everyone drives on the opposite side of the street from what I’m used to.
I grip my umbrella tight against another gust of wind.
A red sports car screams past as a wind gust turns my umbrella inside out.
Then an icy tidal wave hits me like a slap, and I reel.
“What the fuck—” I yelp, the umbrella useless in my hand.
An airborne puddle soaks me. Right from my head down to my now very ruined—rather than partly ruined—new shoes. Leather never deserves a flood of water, never mind my face.
Water pours off me in sheets. I’m left sopping wet, gasping and spluttering.
Me and my wet rage, dressed in soggy smart casual. My light cotton blazer, perfect for actual summer, turns out to be incredible at soaking up water like a sponge.
I stare after the red car rocketing up the road toward the museum, its taillights a sharp dazzle against the soft gray world even through the rain. My fists tighten while I drip.
Too bad I didn’t pack a towel in my bag, but I didn’t expect impromptu bathing today.
Asshole.
.
About Author Hayden Stone:
More animal than mineral, Hayden Stone is a writer of fun queer fiction, especially with kissing. He currently lives in Victoria, Canada, and has previously lived in Vancouver, Canada and London, UK. He likes strong coffee and is owned by two cats. You can find out his latest news on Twitter or Instagram, or at his website: haydenstonebooks.com
Publication date: October 13th 2025
Genres: Adult, Horror, Paranormal, Suspense
A girl who feels invisible finally faces her worst fear on her sixteenth birthday and hastily makes a dark deal.
An old man returns to the same place every year on the anniversary of his wife’s death, to have one last moonlit dance with her.
A woman’s health concerns are ignored, and it leads to global chaos.
A young woman goes home to bury her father and sell his house but finds that the home is no longer hers.
An old man with Alzheimer’s becomes increasingly lost in his own house, which seems to be doing its own forgetting.
Two young girls find a Ouija board, thinking they’re communicating with a deceased relative, but find something much more cunning.
A woman, grieving the loss of her baby, takes a trip to a remote cabin in Tahoe. Her worried sister goes after her and isn’t prepared for what she finds.
A woman’s drive through California’s winding roads leads her to a perilous and sinister discovery lurking in the woods.
A woman takes a job as a nanny for two troublesome kids, only to find that the children aren’t the problem.
Once she was gone, the house grew quiet, the house got dark, even in daylight, even with all the lights on. He had taken to turning all the lights on most of the time, hoping it might give him some clarity, some help in understanding and navigating the house he knew inside and out. He’d flip the lights on, and then the nurse would come and shut most of them off behind him once he left the room. It was as if the house’s memory was beginning to slip, just like the old man’s. Things seemed to make less sense to both the man and the house. What might happen if the house couldn’t remember what its curving walls gave way to? What if it forgot where a door should be? Or even where the entrance and exit of the labyrinth in the backyard must be? He was certain the forgetfulness wasn’t all on him. Yes, his mind was playing tricks on him, but there was more to it than that. He played a part in it for sure, but there was something about the house. It was part of him, after all. His blood, sweat, and tears had gone into building it. The house was as much a part of him as his daughter was, perhaps even more.
—
SUNNY DAYS AHEAD
Tommy took a long sip of his milk, leaving a trail of a white mustache above his top lip. “She died.” He took the sleeve of his pajamas and wiped it across his lip, removing the stain. “She got sick. Sad sick.” He leaned back against a pillow on the sofa and pulled the corner of the throw blanket up to his chest.
“Oh, I am so sorry.”
“She got confused a lot. And cried a lot. She confused me and Danny. Didn’t know who was who. Sometimes she yelled at my father for no reason. Sometimes she got so sad and nervous that she would itch her arms until they bled. That’s what Dad said.”
Terry pulled her sleeves down low, so as not to call attention to the long red marks that now plagued her arms. They began to itch and tease at her, but she resisted the urge. Instead, she locked her hands around her teacup. “That is very sad.”
“When everyone went to sleep, she stayed awake. She would walk up and down the halls. Open our doors and just stand there at the bed watching us sleep.”
A chill of recognition swept over Terry.
“If we were bad, she would lock us up in our room.”
—
HYSTERIA
If only women’s health had been taken more seriously, perhaps the invasion would never have happened. If the Earth were a woman, it would be giving the human race the middle finger and saying, I told you so!” right about now. What’s left of Earth anyway. It might as well be called something else entirely. Or perhaps that is a human ego’s way of thinking. Since human life on this planet changed, why couldn’t it still be Earth?
I’d spoken to my doctor more in the past few months than my literary agent. It was my third visit in six months for the same problem. What started with what my doctor had called vague, benign symptoms, turned into a nightmare. Even she recommended we might have to consider more invasive methods to deal with it. Hysterectomy: that’s what she’d called it. Such a strange word. Such an offensive base. In ancient Greece, hysteria was thought to be caused by the uterus, thus hysterectomy, so the removal of the uterus would cure the hysteria. If anything in life was that easy. In hindsight, I’d have preferred to have been hysterical and called it a day.
,
About Author D.M. Siciliano:
DM is a lover of all things creative. From the moment she could speak, growing up in Massachusetts, she had a passion for flair and drama, putting on concerts for anyone who was even remotely interested (and even for those who were not). A storyteller by nature, she first pursued her young dream of becoming a singing diva while living in Arizona. She soon found that stage life wasn’t the only form of storytelling she craved, so she dropped the mic and picked up a pencil instead. She still hasn’t given up on her diva-ness, and hopes her pencil stays as sharp as her tongue.
A dark sense of humor and curiosity for haunted houses and things out of the ordinary led her down the path of completing her first novel, Inside. Several other projects are constantly floating around in her head and her laptop daily, and sometimes keeping her up much too late at night. Occasionally, those projects are so dark and twisted, she needs to leave a nightlight on.
She now lives in Northern California with her two fluffy furbabies, Cezare and Michaleto.
When the body of a visitor is found in the woods by the local Shaker community, suspicion immediately falls on them. Rees is reluctant to believe anyone in this peaceful community committed murder. And Hans Bergin arrived with his wife, his brother-in-law and sister-in-law. They had their own reasons to want Bergin dead.
But as Rees investigates, he discovers everyone, including a recent Shaker convert, have secrets of their own, some stretching all the way back to the Revolutionary War.
Who, among the many suspects, decided to take matters in their own hands? Bergin’s wife and other family? The new Shaker? Or someone else entirely?
Book Details:
Genre: Historical Murder Mystery
Published by: Indie Publication Date: May 15, 2025 Number of Pages: 292 ISBN: 979-8312662825 Series: Will Rees/Shaker Series, #12
Constable Rouge and Will Rees rode south on Surry Road, past the Shaker community, until they reached the entrance at the southern end. They pulled into the small clearing and Rees parked his wagon. When he had first gone to town for supplies, Lydia needed both flour and sugar, he had not intended to join the constable in his search for a missing man. But, hearing of the disappearance, Rees’s curiosity had driven him into joining Rouge in the search.
“I still think we should have questioned the Shakers first,” Rouge said critically as he dismounted and tied his bay to a nearby tree. “On Sunday, Mr. Bergin told his wife he was going to Zion. He might still be there.”
“Was he planning to join the Shakers?” “No,” Rouge said with a grin. “Hardly. He came to Durham because he heard that the Shakers danced naked, and he wanted to see the ‘fair white forms’ of the women.” Rees could hear the quotation. “Huh,” Rees said. Although aware of the scurrilous slander concerning the Shakers, he could not understand why anyone would be foolish enough to believe it. The Shakers were a modest, quiet and industrious people. “The gullibility of men constantly amazes me.” “You should hear what I hear at the tavern,” Rouge muttered. “Besides,” Rees continued, ignoring the constable’s aside, “if there had been a problem at the Shaker community, wouldn’t someone inform you?” Rouge shook his head. After a moment, Rees reluctantly nodded in agreement. Maybe not. The community was notoriously insular and tried to handle any issues themselves. During the smallpox epidemic last year, the one that had sickened Rouge and left him severely scarred, they had refused all offers of assistance. “We may have to speak to them,” Rees agreed. He was not enthusiastic. Elder Jonathan was beginning to display some irritability towards Rees and his frequent requests for help. “Since you were told by Mr. Bergin’s friend that he rode this way, I suggest we begin our search here, in these woods. Maybe his horse threw him. Or,” he added, looking at the muddy track across the road, “he might have taken the lane across the street back into town?” Rouge shook his head. “Mr. Bergin did not return to town. I’m certain of that. We looked.” “It’s unlikely he disappeared on that path,” Rees said. It was just past midday, and the sun felt warm on his shoulders and face. They were at the end of April. Although snow from the last storm still lingered on the shadowed down – slopes of the hills and under the trees, he could see bright spring green beginning to fringe the trees. “Farms line both sides of that little road and all the farmers will be out in the fields now, beginning the spring planting. If something happened to Mr. Bergin, and his body was dumped there, most likely someone would have seen it. He disappeared during the day, yes?” At Rouge’s nod, Rees paused a moment, thinking. “Did his horse return?” “No. That’s gone too. Of course,” Rouge added cynically, “Mr. Bergin might have continued riding south, hoping to find a new life. His disappearance does not mean he was murdered.” “Someone was here,” Rees said, pointing to a relatively fresh pile of horse dung. “And recently too.” “So, Mr. Bergin stopped here,” Rouge said. “Close to Zion.” “It wasn’t necessarily Mr. Bergin. It could be another visitor.” Rees hoped that was so but feared the constable was correct. It was still too early in the spring for many visitors. Rees squatted to examine the soft slick mud underfoot. Although his wagon wheels had cut across the older tracks, he could see the horseshoe shaped indentations left by a shod horse. “Whoever rode in here,” he said, pointing out the marks to Rouge, “he tied up over there. See?” He pointed to a tree. “There are boot prints where the rider dismounted.” Rouge crossed the dirt and stared down at the impressions. “Look at the toes,” he said. “Riding boots.” “Yes. And here are the nicks left by the spurs,” Rees agreed, pointing. “Did Mr. Bergin wear riding boots? Could they be his prints?” Grimacing, Rouge nodded. “You were right.” Rees looked at Rouge. “Mr. Bergin went into Zion.” Rees followed the tracks to the bridge that went to Zion’s main street. When he crossed the bridge, he saw the same footprints on the other side. But, a few yards in, the riding boots were met by farmer’s boots. The riding boots turned around and returned to the other side of the bridge. “One of the Shaker Brothers prevented him from entering the village,” he said. “He walked back out to the road.” Rouge said. “Here are the marks of those boots here.” Taking care to avoid the boot impressions, Rees jumped across the soft earth. He misjudged his landing, and his right foot went into a deep puddle. Cold muddy water began seeping into his shoe. Rouge laughed. “It’s not funny,” Rees said, lifting his foot to shake it. Water flew in all directions. “Hey,” Rouge complained, jumping back. “Serves you right,” Rees muttered but without malice. He was too focused now on following the tracks. The riding boots went to the road where they were joined by another pair of shoes. The soil on the edge of the road was drier, more solid, so the imprint was shallow and harder to see. “I think these are ordinary shoes,” he muttered to himself. “Do you see any signs of another horse?” he called out to Rouge. “No,” the constable replied, adding sourly, “But I am not the great tracker you are.” “He met someone who walked here,” Rees said. “One of the Shaker Brothers, then,” Rouge said with the air of a man who has solved the problem. “Perhaps not,” Rees said. He was well used to Rouge’s propensity for jumping to the easiest and most obvious solution. “The second fellow could have tied up in the lane and then walked across the street to meet him here. Or,” he added quickly to forestall Rouge’s objection, “he could have even walked down the lane.” Rouge eyed Rees for a few seconds and then nodded. “Yes, all right. He could have seen Mr. Bergin from the lane,” he agreed. “It would have taken no time at all to cross Surry Road from town. But then where did they go?” Rees did not reply. Instead, he began following the tracks made by the riding boots south along the Surry Road and away from Zion. From the impressions, it seemed the man was walking slowly. Not running, not afraid, just ambling along. Every now and then, Rees spotted a footprint or two produced by the other boots. It seemed the two men were talking as they followed the road. He found the spot where the two people paused. But when he walked further down the road, he discovered he had lost the trail. There were no discernible footprints. He turned and walked back to the last spot he had seen them. This time, when he looked around, he saw scuff marks through the leaves descending the slope into the forest. “Here,” said Rouge, pointing to a downed tree several yards in. Muttering under his breath, Rees followed the constable further into the woods. Rouge’s path had obscured the marks left by the two men. But when Rees fought his way through the brambles and the stand of small fir trees, he saw why Rouge had summoned him. Right in front of the downed tree was a mess of overturned leaves, where the feet of the two men had disturbed them. “They sat down to talk,” Rees said, staring at the disordered leaves on the ground. He was beginning to believe these two men had nothing to do with Mr. Bergin’s disappearance and that this entire search had been a waste of time. The absence of the horse also made him wonder if Rouge was correct and Mr. Bergin had simply chosen to disappear. Rees was disappointed. Without really articulating his desire to himself, he had been hoping for something more serious. After several months spent inside at home, he was ready for some excitement. With a sigh, he examined the disturbance in the leaves. It looked as though one of the men had risen to his feet and begun pacing. But, as he neared the thicket, he smelled the barest whiff of the coppery rotten smell of old blood. The odor was so faint he wondered if he’d imagined it. Pausing, he lifted his face and took a deep inhalation into his nose. “What are you doing?” Rouge asked, staring at Rees in fascination. Rees threw him a glance but did not reply. Instead, he plunged forward, following the disturbances in the pad of last year’s leaves. Although the oaks and maples were just beginning to show the first bright green new leaves and the sun shone through the bare branches, the tall pines kept the ground below in shadow. Rees tracked the trail around tree trunks and through slick muddy patches. But he was halted by a large expanse of flat granite. He could not tell which way the trail went: straight down the slope or to one side or another. As he stared at the rock in consternation, Rouge toiled up behind him, puffing. “Why have you stopped?” he asked, panting for breath. “Not sure which way to go,” Rees admitted. Nodding, Rouge joined Rees on the rock slab and for a moment they were silent. “Wait,” Rouge said, holding up a hand. “Listen. Do you hear it? A horse.” For a moment Rees listened. Yes, he heard the faint whickering of a horse. The sound came from below them, but he couldn’t tell exactly in what direction. Rouge started forward, moving so quickly on the muddy and leaf strewn slope that he fell. “Damn,” he grumbled, staggering to his feet and continuing down the hill. Rees glanced at the steep gully, the bottom slick with trickling snow melt, and turned to the bare rock. He started across the granite, angling down the slope toward the distant creek. The rock was not uniformly flat. As Rees clambered over a ledge, stepping down to the slab below, he saw streaks across the gray. Dark brown streaks. Rees knelt beside them and lightly touched the stain. Blood. *** Excerpt from The Long Shadow of Murder by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2025 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.
.
About Author Eleanor Kuhns:
.
Eleanor Kuhns is the 2011 winner of the Minotaur/Mystery Writers of America first novel prize for A Simple Murder. The Long Shadow of Murder is the twelfth in that series. She also has written a Bronze Age Crete series. A lifelong librarian, she transitioned to full time writing at the start of the pandemic. She lives in upstate New York with her husband and her dog.
Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway! Click here to view the Tour Schedule
Don’t Miss Out! Enter Now for Your Chance to Win!
This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Eleanor Kuhns. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
Publication date: October 14th 2025
Genres: Adult, Psychological Thriller
“Intense, a little bruising, and it doesn’t let you walk away untouched.”
— ★★★★★ Reader Review
Some weapons are born. Others are made.
She is the perfect operative.
A discarded orphan, remade by the very hands that broke her.
Trained to seduce. Conditioned to kill. Reborn as Elara Everhart.
They gave her new names. New faces. New identities, whichever the mission required.
Now, they call her Raina.
And they’ve sent her into the lion’s den.
Her target: Axel Voss. Billionaire. Powerbroker. Threat.
He’s everything she was trained to dismantle.
But he sees too much. Speaks too little.
And when he touches her, he wakes something she was never meant to feel.
She is the weapon they created.
But he’s the variable they never planned for.
What begins as a mission spirals into obsession.
And survival will cost more than her cover.
Because the most dangerous thing isn’t failing the mission,
It’s forgetting who the real enemy is.
If you love psychological thrillers with espionage, romantic suspense, and heart‑stopping twists, The Black Rose will keep you breathless until the very last page.
“To master the art of the strike, first let the target marinate in your charm and wit, until they are ripe for the taking.” – Elara Everhart
I stepped out of the cab and into the gallery, the air instantly changing around me. Heads turned. Eyes followed. The black Dolce & Gabbana dress I wore fit like it had been sewn onto my skin, elegant without trying, powerful without needing to speak. My hair, sleek and black, fell in glossy waves down my back, every strand precisely where it belonged. I walked with purpose, each step measured, as I took in the room.
It didn’t take long to find him.
Axel Voss stood in a more secluded wing of the gallery where the crowd had thinned. I spotted him across the space. His back was to me, dressed in a tailored dark gray suit that fit too perfectly to be anything but custom. His frame was lean and strong, his posture relaxed, hands tucked in his pockets as he studied a painting. He wasn’t just looking. He was dissecting it.
My attention moved to the guards. Two of them. Strategically placed in opposite corners of the room, trying not to look like security. They blended in well enough with the other patrons, but their eyes told the truth. Constantly scanning.
I inhaled and adjusted the strap of my dress. I ran my hands over my curves, making sure everything looked in place. My cue had come.
Each step felt burdened, as if what I was about to do had sunk deep into my limbs.
The rhythm of my heels against the marble echoed faintly. I moved closer, slipping into his orbit. I was near enough now for him to catch the light scent of my perfume, floral, soft, meant to linger without announcing itself.
I stopped beside him, eyes landing on the painting he was analyzing. It was abstract, wild with motion. Crimson slashed across the canvas, tangled with violent blues and fractured gold. The brushwork oscillated between jagged bursts and smooth sweeps, an unsettling mix of control and chaos.
I spoke, keeping my voice soft and level. Close enough to feel intimate, just loud enough to be heard.
“The intensity of the strokes is remarkable,” I said. “The way the colors collide feels almost violent, yet there’s a strange harmony in the chaos.”
He didn’t respond. Not verbally. But I felt it. His attention was on me now as much as the art. I let the silence stretch a second longer, then continued, my tone calm, analytical. “It’s as if the artist was fighting an inner battle. Conflict and catharsis, all bleeding onto the canvas. The jagged strokes speak of anger or defiance, but the way the hues blend reveals a deep vulnerability… like they couldn’t commit to full destruction.”
I leaned in just slightly, examining the layers of the painting, voice dropping.
“It’s the tension that makes it work. The pull between restraint and abandon. It feels… raw.”
The silence settled again, delicate but dense.
Then I allowed a smirk to touch my lips.
“Or maybe they just threw paint at the canvas after a bad day and decided to call it art.”
That broke it. He turned toward me, finally.
His eyes met mine.
Heat flashed between us. The force of his gaze hit harder than I expected.
My breath caught, not out of fear but from the pressure of it. He was already trying to read me.
I knew that look. He was hunting for the truth inside my performance.
I didn’t flinch.
Even when my pulse started to climb beneath my skin, I held my ground.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The gallery around us faded. It was just him. Just me.
Then I stepped back, breaking the moment on my terms.
I turned without hesitation and walked away, slipping into the flow of bodies beyond the archway. My retreat was smooth.
Behind me, I felt his gaze linger, and so did the eyes of his guards.
I didn’t need to look back to know he was still watching the space I had just walked away from.
Back in the main gallery, I finally exhaled. The encounter had gone as planned. I had said what
I needed to. Played the part.
But the crackle between us wasn’t part of the plan.
And I felt it. Still pulsing through me.
This was only the beginning. One step into a game layered with risk, manipulation, and consequences I wasn’t sure I fully understood.
But I had just stepped onto the board.
And Axel Voss had noticed.
.
About Author Frances Paul:
Frances Paul is an author of emotionally charged, high-stakes fiction that captivates readers with its mix of psychological suspense, romance, and intricate plotting. Her work explores the fine line between love and survival, delving into themes of resilience, sacrifice, and the secrets we keep.
She is the author of Sea of Scars, a moving story of loss and redemption, and The Black Rose, a gripping psychological thriller that draws readers into a world where trust is dangerous and every choice carries lasting consequences.
With a distinctive voice and a cinematic style, Frances creates unforgettable characters and layered narratives that linger long after the final page. Her passion for storytelling comes from a lifelong fascination with the human heart and its capacity to endure even in the darkest of circumstances.
Welcome to my stop on the virtual book tour for Playing rough organized by Goddess Fish Promotions.
Author Beth Pellino-Dudzic will be awarding a one set of the three books in the series to a randomly drawn winner. Don’t forget to enter!
.
.
And you can click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
.
Playing Rough
By Beth Pellino-Dudzic
Genre:Romance
Synopsis
Love. Lies. And the Road to Redemption.
After five months in rehab, Trevor McNaughton is finally sober—and ready to rebuild his life with Gina, the woman who never stopped believing in him. A road trip is meant to be their fresh start, but their plans are quickly derailed when their former publicist, Paul Ryan, emerges with explosive claims: an affair with Gina, dark secrets about their band Perfection, and vicious speculation about their marriage.
As the couple races to contain the fallout, the pressure mounts. Trevor must protect his fragile sobriety while defending the truth. Gina, fierce and unshakable, refuses to let their love be hijacked by lies. All the while, Gina’s cousin and bandmate Rio begs them to return home and help shape the next album—while wannabe rock star Brian Mayfield looms as another potential threat to the narrow threshold they already straddle.
With careers and reputations on the line, Trevor and Gina must confront the ghosts of their past and the chaos of their present. Can love outlast betrayal, and can anything silence a man set on destruction?
~~~~~
Enjoy this peek inside:
They pulled away from their Montecito home when Gina had a realization. “Trev, we know nothing about camping. The closest I can relate is the time my family had to stay at the Hyatt because the Ritz was full. We should stop at one of those huge camping and hunting stores and buy whatever we need.” Trevor agreed. They did some research and then drove to the nearest outdoor supply store.
A salesperson named Jonas recognized them. “What can I assist you with, McNaughtons?”
Gina stared at Jonas, then threw her hands up. “Everything … We have no idea what is needed for an RV trip.” The knowledgeable employee gave them a checklist of necessities and camping equipment. Trevor and Gina trusted him to compile what was needed.
Jonas asked, “How long of a trip are you planning on taking?”
Trevor simply said, “Probably a month, maybe longer.” Jonas also asked if they had an itinerary and RV locations picked out and reserved. The two rockers looked at each other— who knew they needed to reserve a spot? He told them there was a book on RV parks that should help design their plan.
Trevor didn’t vocalize what the exact plan was.
So, Gina suggested hers. “Trevor, I would enjoy driving up the coast, California, Oregon, Washington. We can take in beautiful sights on the way and continue to Vancouver. We can explore a bit of British Columbia and visit your father … and I would like to drive to Boise.”
~~~~~
About Author Beth Pellino-Dudzic:
.
Beth Pellino-Dudzic was born in the Bronx and grew up in Westchester County, New York. She earned a BA in Business Administration and worked at IBM. She has three adult daughters and a new Granddaughter. She currently lives in Alabama with her husband and their miniature dachshund, Truffle. Although The Perfection Saga is fictional, many of the stories hark back to Beth’s time in the Rock ‘n’ Roll world. Beth’s favorite pastime is football, everything football. She also is an excellent cook and baker.
(A Horde of Dead Poets)
Publication date: October 14th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Fantasy, Mystery
Beatrice Monroe is still getting used to the knowledge that she was born a champion for Good and Evil. She spends her days combing through her great grandmother’s journals trying to find answers to what this newfound ability means for her as a member of law enforcement.
When a woman walks into her precinct claiming her aunt was murdered, Beatrice discovers a link between their families that may just have the answers she needs. But those answers are not easy to find. Because this mystery’s roots are buried in the past with five young girls and what they gave birth to…in The Big House.
Descendants of the Big House is a standalone installment in A Horde of Dead Poets collection featuring seven authors and their stories inspired by famous literary poems. If you often find yourself steering toward a dark, mysterious, isolated location; if family curses haunt you and unreliable narrators keep you in suspense, you won’t want to miss a single volume in this gripping collection.
Perfect for fans of T. Kingfisher, Simone St. James, Stephen King, and Shirley Jackson.
“I think somebody did something,” Mr. Taylor announced suddenly, voice raised. “My wife, my children. Not right. Not right at all.” He started crying. “I can’t convince anybody to listen to me.”
I got up and kneeled by his chair. “I’m listening, Mr. Elijah.” It didn’t dawn on me that I might have overstepped. The pain in his plea just pulled at me. I understood the feeling of being lost so well, growing up in a home filled with abuse and no one listening to my own cries for help.
He looked down at me. “I appreciate that. You find ’em. You find the one that took my Mary. She was the only woman I ever loved. And our children. Godsend. No matter what that man told her at the crossroads.”
“What man?” I asked, my blood running cold. Of course, I knew what man he was referring to, but I didn’t dare say it out loud.
He flapped his hand in the air again.
I looked at Gautier and dipped my head toward my bag. I didn’t want to upset him further, but I needed to confirm what I already suspected. Mary had met Papa Sin at the crossroads.
Gautier pulled out the book Odette gave us, still in an evidence bag, and came over and gave it to me. I pulled it out and Mr. Taylor gasped.
“Get that evil book out of my house!” He tried to get to his feet and ended up falling back in the chair. I straightened and, after thrusting the book at Gautier, helped Mr. Elijah right himself.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Cherie asked, rushing over. “What evil?” She looked at the book. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but it’s upsetting my daddy.”
“I’m sorry about that, ma’am. But your sister Natalie sent this book to Odette along with a letter claiming she was going to…” I looked down at Mr. Taylor. His eyes were wild.
“She swore she’d gotten rid of that book. She swore.” He let out a sob. “That man told her she’d birth evil. That twins were broken.” He caved in on himself, chest heaving as he cried.
“I better take him to his room,” Cherie said, her face filled with concern.
Gautier got up and helped her take him in the back. I stood there berating myself for upsetting him. I shouldn’t have asked about the book. But I had to get answers, right?
,
About Author Carla Vonzale Lewis:
Carla Vonzale Lewis likes her martini’s shaken…never stirred. Though she was born in Georgia, please don’t mistake her for a Georgia peach. She’s more like a prickly pear. Speaking of being born, someone asked her recently if she remembered her birth, and all she had to say was, “Yes, I do remember that handsy doctor pulling me out into the cold. Right Bastard!!!”
Despite being born in the South, she grew up in the North. California to be exact. And every once in a great while, she gets to experience all four seasons. But mostly, it’s just heat.
Her debut novel, LINEAGE, was released July 16, 2019 and she fully intends to ride that joy for the rest of her life.
When she’s not concocting her next contemporary fantasy story, she enjoys reading, binge watching shows on Netflix, and trying to convince her husband that getting a dog is a wonderful idea.
What would you do if you woke up a different age and gender?
.
.
Switched
by Angela Lam
Genre: Dystopian Cyberpunk SciFi Fantasy
A global phenomenon is rewriting the laws of biology,
causing men over fifty-five and women between eighteen and forty to suddenly
and inexplicably switch their ages and genders. No one understands it, and no
one can stop it.
Maxine thinks she can stay on the sidelines, supporting her brilliant
boyfriend-turned-girlfriend Jo—an audacious biotech pioneer, who’s breaking new
ground with brain-to-brain communication. But when the transformation strikes
Maxine, her reality is flipped upside down.
Now facing an unexpected future, Max must grapple with their identity,
struggling to align who they were with who they have become. Can they reclaim
control over a life that’s no longer theirs, or will they be swept away by the
changes they never asked for?
That night, Maxine could not sleep. She lay next to Jo and rubbed a suddenly rough, large hand over her five-o’clock shadow. Her chest and back strained against the seams of her nightshirt. She sat up and tugged the shirt over her head. Through the slats in the plantation shutters, the moonlight illuminated the fact that her breasts had hardened and flattened. A few gray hairs sprouted around the nipples. When her toes pinched against her socks, she removed them too.
“Can’t sleep?” Jo rolled over and gasped. “Oh my.”
The shock in her voice propelled Maxine out of bed. Her legs had thickened, and her center of balance had shifted with the adjustment of the contours of her body. If she moved too quickly, she felt the strain in her muscles. Every motion existed in two timelines—the one in which she imagined the movement and the one in which the movement was accomplished. The discordant space between thought and action unsettled her. Her body no longer responded with ease, but inched along with mysterious aches and pains, much like she’d experienced during adolescence when she could not sleep because her bones were growing.
In the bathroom, Maxine flicked on the lights and grabbed the edge of the sink. Her broad hands were speckled with age spots. Feeling an urgency to urinate, she sat on the toilet seat. Something dangled between her legs, but she was too groggy to care. She released the stream until it tinkled to a stop. With an unsteady hand, she dabbed herself down there before she realized she no longer needed the tissue. Just a shake of her new penis, and she was clean.
Standing, she flushed the toilet and washed her hands. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she understood why Jo had gasped. She looked just like her father before he had died. A wizened old man with a crinkly face; beady, dark brown eyes beneath bushy gray eyebrows; and a bulbous nose. Turning away from her reflection, she dried her hands.
Back in the bedroom, she struggled to get into bed. Her knees were locked.
Jo rushed out from under the covers and padded around the mattress. “Let me help you.”
She told Maxine about the time her mother had been ill and how the in-home health aide had shown her how to get her mother to sit on the edge of the bed first before swinging her legs onto the mattress. The two-step process was odd and cumbersome, but with Jo’s assistance, Maxine was able to lie down again.
“I look like my dad,” Maxine said, her hands folded over her chest. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Dad.”
If only she could talk to her father, then maybe everything would be all right.
.
.
How long have you been writing?
I started writing professionally at sixteen years old when I went to work for the San Jose Mercury News.
Do you read yourself and if so what is your favorite genre?
I am a voracious reader. Before my concussion, I read 75 books a year in every genre, from nonfiction to fiction. My favorite genres are romance, women’s fiction, thrillers, science, humor, memoir, literary, and current events.
Do you prefer to write in silence or with noise? Why?
I prefer listening to music when I write. Most of my novels have a soundtrack. Switched includes the songs, “This Little Life” by Cordelia and “Birds of a Feather” by Billie Ellish among others.
Pen or type writer or computer?
I write my notes in a notebook by long hand, but I write the first draft on a computer.
What made you want to become an author and do you feel it was the right decision?
Having a voice was important, and when I wrote, people listened. Of course, I feel it was the right decision. Everyone needs to have a voice.
Advice you would give new authors?
I teach writing through Gotham Writers Workshop, and I always tell my students to write from their hearts without caring about the market. Some authors are good at pandering to the market, and others are better at creating a market for their unique style. But if you aren’t writing what you want and need to say, who cares if anyone is listening?
What makes a good story?
I’m an old-fashioned Aristotelian and believe in a beginning, middle, and end.
What is your writing process? For instance do you do an outline first? Do you do the chapters first?
I follow the principle of cause and effect based on character which allows me the freedom to write without an outline. I outline after the first draft to shape the story as needed in subsequent drafts.
.
Angela Lam writes across all genres, from romance (The Women
of the Crush series) to memoir (Red Eggs and Good Luck) to thrillers (No
Amends) and science fiction (Switched). Sometimes, she writes under a pen name
to keep things interesting (The Heroic Adventures of Madame X). The rest of the
time, she is busy exploring mixed-media art and teaching others what she knows.
