THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Covert Dreams, Michael Meyer {$2.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!}

April 8, 2013 By Leave a Comment

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Michael Meyer‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of Covert Dreams:

THIS INTERNATIONALLY ACCLAIMED SUSPENSE THRILLER by Michael Meyer has been compared to Robert Ludlum’s Bourne series, and the writing style has been compared to that of Dean Koontz. #2 on Recommended Thriller/Suspense list at Goodreads

Imagine waking up remembering intimate details about a country in which you have never traveled and fluently speaking a language that you have never spoken. B.J. is living the ideal life. He has a great wife, a wonderful job. And yet he is experiencing life-like vivid dreams of Munich, a city he has never visited.Stan Halsey is a professor in Saudi Arabia, who sends for his wife to join him. She arrives, and, in the blink of an eye, she vanishes, leaving no trace of ever being alive in either the United States or in Saudi Arabia.COVERT DREAMS is a fast-paced international suspense thriller that moves from Munich to the burning sands of Saudi Arabia. What is real, and who is responsible for the terrifying nightmare?

 

Accolades:

“I highly recommend this book to all readers who like to be totally captivated and swept away.” – Marilou George, THE KINDLE BOOK REVIEW

“Don’t start reading this book on an evening when you have to get up early the next morning, because you’re going to find it hard to put down!” – Nick Russell, author of BIG LAKE

“This story will not disappoint as it sucks you right into these lives from page one and doesn’t let go until the last page is turned.” – D. Everetti, author of PUNISHING

“Covert Dreams is “I got captured”-reading, as opposed to “escape”-reading.” – George Wier, mystery and crime writer

“Covert Dreams had me from the gripping opening scene to the satisfying conclusion.” – Dale Roberts, author of IRREFUTABLE

“I felt I was in the hands of a master. Terrific book. I would recommend it to anyone.” Christine Swinson

“Written with a gripping suspense, this story is sure to keep you up at night, as it left me desperately needing to know what happens next.” BTS eMag

 

Amazon Reader Reviews:

Covert Dreams currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4 stars, with 49 reviews! Read the reviewshere!


Excerpt from Covert Dreams:

The Munich all around her was bustling with activity. She could hear it from all directions. Munich was a wonderful city, a fun-loving place, the live and let live ebullience of the city emanating from its every nook and cranny. She had had a lovely stay here. All of it had been so adventurous, so new, so unlike life back home in Arizona. She could vividly recall the first time she had ventured into a Munich beer garden, where the liter mugs had been so huge that she had had to lift hers with both hands, and the giggles, from him, until he too had had to use both hands.

The fumbling noises he had been making came to an abrupt halt. He began stroking her cheek again. Gus looked so happy, so young, so full of life. It was so hard to imagine that he could be so heavily involved in all this horror.

Gus smiled at her once more. His eyes were soft, so gentle, so caring, so loving.

Maybe this was some kind of huge mistake. Maybe he wasn’t going to kill her after all. Maybe everything would turn out happily ever after. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

But then suddenly she saw it clearly. It was no fairy tale. There would be no maybe. This was real, as real as the mixture of sadness and fear that now flooded her brain.

And then she died, with her eyes wide open, challenging, piercing his to the end.

 

Covert Dreams is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99 or Borrow FREE w/ Prime!


Connect with Michael Meyer:

Website: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B005E7M8CW

Author Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MichaelMeyersWritingLife

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $5, FREE with Prime, Frugal Find of the Day, Mystery/Thrillers, Suspense Tagged With: , , , , ,

LOVE IS PATIENT, D.P. Memory {$0.99 or borrow FREE w/ Prime!}

April 4, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Fran Kadylak is recovering from surgery that has stripped her of any hope she had of ever bearing the children she and her husband Ken have been praying for. She is going to leave her darling husband because she loves him too much to deprive him of the children he longs for.

Fran’s mother and Ken’s aunt are scheming together to get the young couple back together again. Aunt Alicia came up with the perfect solution to their broken hearts. She volunteers to be a surrogate mother for Fran and Ken. Alicia’s family is dumbfounded that she would be willing to go through a risky pregnancy when her own two sons are already teens. Her husband, Jonathan, is demanding guarantees that his own wife’s health won’t be sacrificed in the bargain.

Fran and Ken can’t believe their good fortune when Aunt Alicia’s invitro fertilization goes so well she is pregnant with not one, but twin infants. Now Fran and Ken have gotten their lives back on track. Aunt Alicia’s pregnancy is well underway at home in Mars, PA. Fran and Ken are taking off to New York City for a job interview that could mean a big promotion for Ken. They will be meeting with a financial advisor at the famous World Trade Center to discuss how to invest some money Fran inherited from her grandmother. Fran and Ken are rejoicing; life is perfect.

The date is September 10, 2001.

What readers are saying:

More stories like this please.

This story leaves you with a good feeling.

Once I started reading Love is Patient I could not put it down.

EXCELLENT BOOK

Loved the characters

The average Amazon reader review rating is currently 4.5 stars, with 13 reviews.

Click here to read more about and purchase LOVE IS PATIENT for $0.99 or borrow FREE w/ Prime!

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $1, FREE with Prime, Romance, Suspense Tagged With: , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: The Lydecker Mysteries, William Cheevers {$0.99}

March 15, 2013 By Leave a Comment

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William Cheevers‘ Frugal Find Under Nine:

Frugal Find of the Day

Get it now, here

Description of The Lydecker Mysteries:

Frank Lydecker is an ex-cop with a penchant for diners, old buildings and streetcars. Volume 1 of “The Lydecker Mysteries” includes five stories from Lydecker’s case book as a private investigator in the changing world of Chicago in the 1950s. Who is recruiting young men to die in a string of bank robberies? Who hoarded phonograph records purported to be voice recordings of Mark Twain and why? The motive for stealing an antique wardrobe is insurance fraud or extortion. Or is it? Why has a rare 1849 gold coin not been seen in decades? Did Rhonda Shaw kill her father because she thought he had killed her mother for another woman or was there another more complex reason?


Accolades:

Frank Lydecker – a detective of cunning and determination
Humphrey Bogart with a scientific bent
A credible private eye, well-written stories
Good stuff

 

Reviews:

The Lydecker Mysteries currently has an Amazon reader review rating of 3.7 stars from 3 reviews. Read the reviews here.

 

The Lydecker Mysteries is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99


An excerpt from The Lydecker Mysteries:

THE OPENING SCENE FROM “THE TOWNSEND CHIFFEROBE”

In the morning when the streets are quiet I walk to Jack’s Diner, open the door and take in the smell of frying bacon with a great sigh of anticipation. I sit at my table in the corner with the morning paper, consume the artwork of the best fry cook on the north side, top it off with a second cup of coffee and the first of my five cigarettes for the day and walk to my office on the third floor of a vintage building. The building is graced by ornate masonry, high ceilings and oak woodwork. It is my symbol of something lost. I had just climbed the stairs and unlocked the office door when the phone rang. I knocked the snow off my shoes, walked to the window and turned the valve on the radiator all the way open, threw my overcoat and hat across a chair and picked up the receiver in the middle of the fourth ring.

“Lydecker Investigations.”

“I expected a receptionist,” said a male voice.

“I don’t have a receptionist,” I said.

“I take it you’re Lydecker.”

“All my life,” I said.

“I need to talk to you,” said the voice. “When’s a good time?”

“What about?” I said.

“I bought an antique chifferobe at an auction,” said the voice. “It was stolen. I want it back.”

“Call the police, burglary division,” I said. “Stolen property, among other things, is why we have a police department. Have you reported it?”

“Of course, but it won’t do any good,” said the voice. “Do you know how many reports of stolen property they get in a day?”

“I have a vague idea,” I said. “There are a lot of people who can handle your problem. I can recommend someone.”

“I don’t want someone,” said the voice. “I hear you’re Adrian Tiller’s hatchet man and you get results.”

“You’re starting to bore me,” I said.

“Look, let’s start over,” said the voice. “The chifferobe is important. It’s not just any chifferobe. Do you know anything about antique furniture?”

“Not a thing,” I said.

“Well, this chifferobe is very rare, possibly one of a kind, as these pieces go,” said the voice. “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to find it and put up another thousand as a reward.”

“That’s a great deal of money,” I said.

“Peanuts,” said the voice. “I paid twenty-five thousand for it and I was lucky to get it for that.”

“This may sound obvious, but is it insured?” I said.

“For thirty thousand,” said the voice. “But I don’t want the money, I want the chifferobe.”

“Just for the sake of argument, who is the insurer?” I said.

“The United Group,” said the voice. “The head office is in the Loop on Jackson.”

So, Harvey Logan, head of the claims division at United, was on the hook for thirty grand. He would handle this personally. I could cooperate with Harvey if I had to.

“How did you get my name?” I said.

“Adrian Tiller takes care of legal problems for my cousin,” said the voice.

“What kind of legal problems and who is your cousin?” I said.

“Nothing shady,” said the voice. “His name is Charles Anderson. He owns Anderson Construction up in Skokie and he does a lot of contracted work. Tiller’s office draws up the papers.”

“And your name is?”

“Townsend, Richard Townsend,” said the voice. “I deal in quality acquisitions for a select clientele. Occasionally I acquire something I wish to keep as an investment.”

At this point I decided to apply the insurance investigation test. “One thing, Mr. Townsend,” I said. “United has a very good investigative staff and I’m sure you know they are going to have a lot of questions.”

There was a pause. I listened to the static over the open line.

“What are you suggesting?” said Townsend.

“That they will ask questions and try to recover your property,” I said. “And if they do, it will cost you nothing.”

“Well, it won’t hurt for you to look around as well, will it?” said Townsend.

It was one of the right answers. “No, I don’t suppose it will,” I said. “First, what is a chifferobe?”

“It’s a wardrobe, half closet and half chest of drawers,” said Townsend. “Southerners call them chifferobes…the name has a ring to it.”

“Is that a standard usage?”

“Oh, sure, anyone in the antique business…”

“All right, how long ago was the auction?”

“Yesterday morning,” said Townsend. “They delivered the chifferobe to my house and it wasn’t there when I got home last night.”

“And you called the police right away?”

“Yes, as soon as I saw it was gone.”

“All right, Mr. Townsend, I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “I have a standard contract, thirty-five a day, a week in advance.”

“What about the thousand?” said Townsend.

“”Well, it goes like this,” I said. “I would certainly like to collect it, but there is a chance, maybe a good chance, that I won’t find your wardrobe. In that event you could take the insurance settlement or you could hire someone else who might have better luck or you could do both. Any of that will be fine with me, as long as I am paid for my time.”

“You don’t sound very sure of yourself.”

“I make the decisions, Mr. Townsend.”

“You’ll find it,” said Townsend.

“I certainly hope so,” I said. “Can you come around to my office about one or so?”

“About one?” said Townsend. “I’ll be there.”

“Fine. I’m on the northeast corner of Dearborn and Randolph, third floor. Just come in the main entrance off Dearborn and up the stairs.”


The Lydecker Mysteries is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $1, Frugal Find of the Day, Mystery/Thrillers, Suspense Tagged With: ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Therapy for Ghosts, Eric Praschan {$0.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!}

January 20, 2013 By 1 Comment

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Eric Praschan‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of Therapy for Ghosts:

Some memories will find you no matter where you hide…

Cindy James is a cognitive behavioral therapist in a quiet Missouri town, but her precisely patterned life spins into chaos when she is besieged by panic attacks. Forced to undergo counseling with a new, peculiar therapist in town, Tony Prost, Cindy defiantly resists both his unnerving charm and the truth behind the haunting images that are unleashing her anxiety.

As Cindy’s memory flashes increase in frequency, she is jolted by the terrible deed her beloved mother committed to gain their freedom from her father. That memory is one clue to the mystery behind her compulsive behaviors: carrying a headless Raggedy Ann doll throughout the five-story mansion in which she lives alone, spot cleaning the mansion’s thirty-one rooms, and crying herself to sleep in an empty red room. Cindy slowly recalls her grandmother’s dominating, divisive presence and a violent history shrouded by years of silence, binding three generations. She soon realizes that the key to her future is buried in her past, but finding the truth means embarking on a harrowing journey back into the heart of her darkest fears.

 

Accolades:

“Eric Praschan’s book comes with an amusing premise, charting the meltdown of Cindy James, a cognitive behavioral therapist, who is in critical need of…cognitive behavioral therapy. The story quickly turns serious, as Praschan explores her tortured psyche, leading us to the unimaginable trauma that keeps her imprisoned, like a ghost, in a house already haunted by her childhood tormentors. Judging from the crackling dialogue between Cindy and Tony, the therapist who loves and helps her, Praschan is well versed in the challenges of the doctor-patient duet. This is a fine and well-written psychological thriller. And I am partial to any male author who seeks – and succeeds – to create a full-dimensioned woman narrator.”
-By Sarah Kernochan, 2-time Academy Award winning screenwriter of “What Lies Beneath” and author of paranormal suspense novel, Jane Was Here

“Rich with imagery and wonderfully paced, Therapy for Ghosts is a deft tale of pain and redemption, smartly told via a struggling protagonist and an old house that, like all of us, has more history than we care to admit! Eric’s debut novel marks the launch of a brave new talent. Highly recommended!”
-By Ray Blackston, award-winning author of Flabbergasted

“Cindy James has some dark secrets. Her problem is she doesn’t remember them without great effort and sometimes trauma. Eric Praschan’s first venture into the novel format is a fast-paced psychological thriller. One in which the reader is immediately sucked into the underworld of a troubled psyche. Cindy’s efforts to recall and learn more about her past will keep you turning pages and wanting more from this writer.”
-Amazon review

“Deep family secrets. Classic Suspense. The quality of writing is original, engaging and seamlessly flawless. This is a hidden gem, that when discovered will gain many reviews and accolades. I was folded into the complex web of the story till the end. Bravo Eric, your talents run deep and it will be exciting to read your next book!”
-Amazon review

 

Reviews:

Therapy for Ghosts currently has an Amazon reader review rating of 4.2 stars from 27 reviews. Read the reviews here.

 

Therapy for Ghosts is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!

 

An excerpt from Therapy for Ghosts:

Chapter One

Mama, I’ve been remembering you, and that scares me to death. These static days and sleepless nights have brought her back to me, the young girl covering her ears and cowering beneath her bed in terror. Our unspoken pact to forget is at risk. I wish you were here to guide me through the darkness, to remind me how to rid ourselves of what she has seen and what she knows, yet I am glad you are gone, because you will not have to face her again. She is coming for me, and I have run out of places to hide.

I stir awake, feeling sweat burning my body. My foggy eyes stare at the ceiling, waiting for the shadows amid the candlelight to shift. All stays still in the room, reminding me that there is no one else with whom to share the nightmares. I peel back the freshly ironed bed sheets and slide my feet into cushioning slippers. After slipping on my robe, I tiptoe to the bedroom door, undo the two deadbolt locks, and step into the drafty hallway, all the while seeking to purge the vivid mental image of the little girl hiding beneath her bed and covering her ears in dread.

In the darkness of the interior, the house features are not clearly visible, but I have walked these halls enough at night to know them blindly. The middle section of varnished wood down each hall has a faint, grooved indention from my countless footsteps traversing back and forth during post-nightmare purging sessions. A gaping space sits at the center of the house’s five levels, forming an atrium around which the rectangular levels of each hallway are built. At the four corners of each level is a wooden staircase. Every night I walk up and down the levels, glancing through the open doorways of the rooms to see the shadow-pressed presence of candlelight burning with tiny vigor only inches away from closed window curtains.

When I return to my starting point, if the mental image still has not vanished—like tonight—I make my way to the cherry wood door which stands alone on the far wall of the third level. Upon prying open the only door besides my own which remains closed at night, I enter an empty fifteen-foot by fifteen-foot room. Tonight the windowless, candle-less space appears darker than usual, forcing my eyes to squint in an effort to detect the color consuming the room. The walls, ceiling, and floor are a distinct, rich red, a shade which has only seemed to darken since the day I painted it liberally with a brush that was just one inch wide. For the life of me, however, I still cannot remember why I painted the room red.

While moving to the center of the room, I find the only occupant lying in one of her sleeping spots. Kneeling down, I pick up the headless Raggedy Ann doll and hold her reverently. The image of the girl hiding beneath the bed in terror creeps into my mind, but I dismiss it abruptly, choosing instead to clutch the doll tightly to my chest. Then I pry her away from me and gently lower her back onto the floor. I stretch out, lie beside her, and press my face against the cold, spotless hardwood. Tears fall from my eyes to puddle on the comfortless floor. The memory flash bursts like a reckless spark, igniting my kindled thoughts with the urge to remember.
I open my eyes and the foggy features of my office come into focus. I see blonde-haired Samantha Jackson standing stiffly in the doorway with mascara smudges gleaming beneath her eyes. “What if he doesn’t think I’m worth the effort it will take to change his behavior?”

I smile knowingly. “Samantha, if you won’t breach this subject with him, then you’re going to keep pacifying the very thing that damages you. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I were any less honest.”

She gathers herself with a reassuring breath. “Thanks, Cindy. Talking with you helps give me the courage I’ll need to face him.Sometimes it feels like I’m still coming to you for therapy instead of just being a friend catching up. Well, I’ve got to get home and cook dinner. Hope he comes home sober tonight.” She expels a weighty sigh and then smiles grimly. “See you soon, Cindy.”

“See you, Samantha.”

After she disappears down the hallway, I move to the door and close it quietly. Then I slump down in the office chair, hoping the heaviness in my limbs will subside. Three stacks of paper sit in evenly distributed piles on the far right corner of the finely polished cherry wood desk. A “Time” magazine lies just below the paper piles, marked with today’s date, April 1, 1995. An ornate desk lamp rests beside a brass square holder filled with uniform pens. A single picture surrounded by a simple glass frame occupies the space on the far left corner of the desk, a wrinkled three by five photo of Mama and me in my pink walled bedroom when I was thirteen years old. I find myself staring at the picture far longer than I intended, beginning to travel back in memory, dazed in emotional fog.
Brushing off the sensation, I slip on my coat and grab my purse on the way out of the room, seeing Samantha’s jacket—which she always used to leave behind in my house when she was a patient ten years ago—still draped around the coat stand. As I lock the office door, an odd tingling pricks my thigh and calf muscles. My vision becomes blurry, almost double. I stagger to the outer door, open it, and scarcely step outside before my fingers fumble and release the keys. The sound of clinking metal rattles from the concrete below. I attempt to reach down and retrieve the keys, but my arm feels as if it is struggling against a wave of water. A bizarre, unbalanced sensation swarms over my joints. Each muscle feels plunged into molasses, wobbling in painful slow motion, as if weighed down by lead. I attempt to scream for help, but my mouth remains closed and unresponsive. My eyes grow wide with alarm. Both weightless and immensely heavy, my body teeters, m y knees buckle, and I ungracefully careen backward onto the concrete sidewalk. I lie motionless, sensing terror quicken my heartbeat and restrict my breathing.

Breathe, Cindy, keep breathing. You’re having a panic attack, nothing more. Focus on breathing.

A full minute passes and my limbs lay limp without response.

Just breathe, keep breathing.

Another minute passes. Still nothing.

Someone, please come. Keep breathing, Cindy. Someone has to come.

My consciousness ebbs and I surrender to the mental void.

The memory flash continues propelling me forward, pricking my thoughts with the pull of remembrance.

My eyelids quiver, trying to open themselves. The throbbing in my backside informs me I am lying on a bed of some kind. The joints in my arms and legs pulse with dulling pain. A disturbing calm blankets each nerve. The desire to rest and remain unmoving beckons strongly, but I do not want to sleep for fear I may not awaken again.

“While I was driving home, I realized I had forgotten my jacket, so I turned around to go back to her office.” Samantha’s excitable voice echoes throughout the room. “When I got there, she was on the ground, not moving or speaking.”

“I’m just glad you found her,” Jody Simon’s voice replies with an even higher pitch. I picture Jody’s sparkling blue eyes and fiery red hair, her pretty face frazzled with concern.

Authoritative footsteps enter the room, precise in their cadence and deliberate in their direction.

“Ms. James, can you hear me?” A man’s deep, commanding voice bludgeons my ears. “If you can hear me, open your eyes.”

My brain gives the signal, but my eyelids are defiant.

Concentrate, Cindy. The sooner you open your eyes, the sooner you can leave.

I open my eyelids shakily, overwhelmed by the blinding fluorescent light above. My eyes rove in his direction and detect a tall, bearded black man in an angel-white jacket.

“My name is Dr. Shipper. I’m the neurologist on duty in the hospital right now. Can you follow my finger?”

His slender finger appears in front of my face and he waves it from side to side while my eyes try to track it.

“Good, Ms. James. Can you speak to me?”

My eyes stare at him, desperate to communicate something, anything.

He smiles knowingly. “That’s all right. We’ll get there. The MRI, the CT scan, the spinal tap, and the blood work came back negative. The only logical conclusion we can reach is that you experienced some type of stress disorder reaction. It appears that either the unprocessed accumulation of stress or some unresolved trauma in your mind has caused your body to mimic symptoms of health conditions you do not have. The body is reacting in a physical manner to something psychological. I want you to see a cognitive behavioral therapist.”

The ladies stand speechless. My eyes search his helplessly.

Jody smirks. “She is a cognitive behavioral therapist.”

He smiles supremely, eyeing me with a knowing gleam. “Then I suppose it will be quite an interesting experience for you. I want you to see a friend of mine, Tony Prost. He’s new in town. I’ll schedule an appointment for you and write down his address and phone number on your discharge papers. I don’t want you working for at least a week. Your body should regain strength soon. Once you’re able to speak and walk, you are free to go. I’ll be back to check on you in a little while.”

Without another word, he nods and makes his way out of the room, leaving us bewildered.

The mental flash returns me to the red room floor. I close my eyes and continue grappling with images of the young girl hiding beneath her bed and covering her ears to block out the horrid sounds coming from somewhere else in her house. I reach out and pull Raggedy Ann tightly to myself. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the real agony is about to begin. Something is stirring deep within my memory, and I don’t know how to keep it a secret from myself any longer; this time, it will consume me.

 

Therapy for Ghosts is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!

 

Connect with Eric Praschan:

Author Website: www.ericpraschan.com

Author Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/EricPraschanAuthor

Author Twitter Page: https://twitter.com/EricPraschan

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $1, FREE with Prime, Frugal Find of the Day, Suspense Tagged With: , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Blue Coyote Motel, Dianne Harman {$3.99}

December 11, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Dianne Harman‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of Blue Coyote Motel:

You’ll never look at motel air conditioning the same way after you read Blue Coyote Motel.

Blue Coyote Motel is a suspense filled thriller about six travelers who stop and spend the night at a remote California desert motel. Each of them leaves the following morning “feeling good,” but unaware that they have inadvertently become addicted to a gaseous drug piped into their rooms. ‘

Jeffrey, the owner of the motel, is a scientist who was recently fired by a prestigious Southern California drug manufacturer for giving an anti-aging hormone he discovered to his beautiful Latina wife. Spinning slowly into the depths of insanity, he decides to test the effectiveness of another of his drug discoveries on unsuspecting motel guests. He calls the drug Freedom because it frees people from depression, anger, stress, grief, and aggression. Jeffrey has grandiose plans to make Freedom available throughout the world in order to bring about peace and harmony, but instead it causes grief and chaos in the lives of the motel guests. The cast of characters includes a defrocked priest, a Native American pediatrician, a wealthy widow, a Brazilian couple who owns gold mines and a salesman intent on finding himself.

Blue Coyote Motel presents an engaging look at the human frailties present in all of us.

 

Accolades:

I am really being “pulled in” to your creative plot and mysterious, unique, and complex characters. The various settings are great too and remind me of your many personal experiences. I was going to a meeting early tomorrow morning, but have decided that I “just can’t put it down” so am going to continue to read instead! What fun it is to be first to have read what you have done! Awesome! Congratulations! ~Susan

A good read! -Rhys

As you know, I have been known to speak my mind whatever the consequences. You asked for feedback and I will accommodate you. I finished your tome in record time considering my present workload and quite frankly I didn’t have any clue as to how you would wrap it it. What a finish! The last part took me to midnite but I just could not stop. I read a lot of mysteries and totally enjoyed your book. The characters were great and so super how you made Huntington Beach a part of it. All the things we know and love. Your use of the desert and the Indians brings back memories of your many adventures. Really neat. Congratulations on this effort, it is superb! Looking forward to your next writing. ~Tom Ganz


Reviews:

Blue Coyote Motel currently has a customer review rating of 4.8 stars from 10 reviews. Read the reviews here.


Blue Coyote Motel is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $3.99

 

An excerpt from Blue Coyote Motel:

PROLOGUE

Jeffrey Brooks believed that, with the use of Freedom, a drug he had secretly developed, there would be no more wars, hatred, or discrimination, which had plagued the world for centuries. They would simply vanish. Religious strife, dictators, and terrorism would all become things of the past. Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha; each had wanted freedom from strife, but each had failed. He, Jeffrey Brooks, would be the only person in the history of mankind to deliver the Holy Grail sought by so many, world peace. Surely he’d be awarded the Nobel Prize and wouldn’t those bastards at Moore Labs be sorry they had fired him.

Get a good job. Find a rich man. Get out of the barrio. These were the words of wisdom passed from mother to daughter, repeated over and over, day after day. The very beautiful and sexy Maria Rodriguez had grown up with those words. They became her sacred mantra and Jeffrey became her Savior.

 

Blue Coyote Motel is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $3.99


Connect with Dianne Harman:

Author Website: www.dianneharman.com

Author Facebook Page: dianneharman, author

Author Twitter Page: @DianneDHarman

Filed Under: 5 Star Frugal Finds, Fiction, Finds Under $5, Frugal Find of the Day, Mystery/Thrillers, Suspense Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Mad Dog House, Mark Rubinstein {$2.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!}

December 2, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Mark Rubinstein‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of Mad Dog House:

After thirty years, surgeon and family man Roddy “Mad Dog” Dolan reluctantly reconnects with childhood friends to open a Manhattan restaurant. For these three former delinquents from a bad neighborhood, the project is a dream opportunity–a chance to show the world they’ve become respectable.

When the business is a hit, Roddy is relieved. But before long, he realizes someone is stealing from the coffers. When a loan shark shows up, announcing the men have one week to pay him $500,000, Roddy must find out who’s behind the threat and how he can make it go away–before he loses everything. This gritty thriller examines loyalty, legacies of violence, and how far a respectable man will go to protect his family.


Accolades:

“In Mark Rubinstein’s Mad Dog House, the characters–all well-developed and dripping with authenticity–propel the novel along with style and edge-of-your-seat excitement. Word of caution: be prepared for an all-night, page-turning read where you will emerge exhilarated and begging for more.”

“Rubinstein, a master at his game, introduces us to a world of glitz, glam, sex, and intrigue. Slip into a chilled martini and settle in for a literary ride you won’t soon forget.” –- Judith Marks-White, author of Seducing Harry and Bachelor Degree, and columnist, “The Light Touch,” Westport (CT) News

“If you’re looking for a ‘can’t put down,’ fast-paced, superbly written thriller, then Mad Dog House is a must-read for you! The story hooks you from the get-go, with characters expertly drawn and placed in an evolving situation that takes them (along with you) from what seems to be an excellent business opportunity to a horrific reality, which reignites long-buried personal demons. You’ll still be reeling long after reading the knockout ending to this awesome thriller.” –Linda C. Sutter, former Director of Talent, CBS Sports, CBS Television Network

“A gripping, harrowing, and provocative psychological thriller, featuring a plot packed with action and intrigue, staggering and brutal twists, and deeply disturbing possibilities . . . the author . . . has a gift for delivering gut-punching surprises while raising unsettling questions about the basic nature of human nature and the inescapable hold of the past. The ending is a real shocker!” –Mysia Hiaght, www.pressreleasepundit.com


Amazon Reader Reviews:

Mad Dog House currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.9 stars, with 85 reviews! Read the reviews here!

 

Mad Dog House is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!

 

Excerpt from Mad Dog House:

Chapter 1

 

When he was twelve years old Mad Dog ripped off Cootie Weiss’s ear.

On the day it happened, Cootie—sitting at the desk behind him, as usual—drove his middle finger out from his thumb.

SNAP!

Pain seared through Mad Dog’s ear like a voltage-filled wire. A high-pitched ringing began in his head. Heat throbbed through his face.

The teacher, Miss Moreno, was still writing on the blackboard. Mad Dog’s face felt like it was on fire.

The finger snapped out again.

CRACK!

Turning, Mad Dog glared at Cootie. The older boy smirked.

The abuse had been going on for weeks. There was no civilized solution—not with Cootie Weiss. He’d been left back twice and was a head taller than anyone else. Everyone knew he was whacked out. Rumor was he sold drugs and was somehow connected. Cootie was a tough Brooklyn street kid, a real hard-ass. Nobody messed with him.

Miss Moreno was very attractive. And Cootie had been masturbating—every day, right there, behind Mad Dog. Their attached desks rocked back and forth as Cootie, hand in his pocket, rubbed away. There was muffled breathing and then the rocking accelerated until Cootie climaxed.

It went on for weeks, in front of the other kids. Mad Dog was forced into accepting Cootie doing his thing. Finally, he turned and whispered, “Hey Cootie, why don’t you whack off at home?”

After that, Cootie repeatedly finger-snapped Mad Dog’s ear. By the end of each day, the ear felt like a hot ember. Mad Dog held his temper—stayed calm and cool, thinking Cootie would tire of his little game.

But it went on until the day Cootie took the humiliation to another level.

After the fourth ear snap of the day, Mad Dog felt something on his right ear. It was wet, warm, and without thinking, he touched his ear shell. He pulled his hand away and peered at it. Sitting on his fingertip was a slimy wad of snot.

It was typical Cootie Weiss; he reveled in his nickname and even demanded to be called “Cootie.” He often dug deep in his nose and smeared the pickings on the girls’ coats. He was a filthy guy who loved sharing his bodily functions.

Mad Dog earned his moniker because when he lost his temper, he fought like an animal. He’d learned to brawl at home. His father, a violent man, had been shipped to Attica when Mad Dog was just a kid—an armed robbery during which he’d killed two men. His mother’s boyfriend, Horst, drifted in and out of their lives. An abusive man, Horst punched and kicked Mad Dog mercilessly. Though he always got beaten, the kid usually landed some good shots. And there was the boxing club where he mauled kids far older than he was. So early on, Mad Dog learned to fight.

But challenging Cootie? A tough guy? One who was so crazy he insisted on being called Cootie? It was suicide. But Mad Dog had reached his limit.

He turned back, looked Cootie in the eye, and said, “Meet me behind Leo’s.”

Cootie smiled. For him, this would be a clinic in street fighting: Punch-Out 101.

No one had ever—in the history of the earth—called out Cootie Weiss. It was off-the-wall-out-of-this-world. Word of the brawl-to-be spread through the school like a sea swell. For Mad Dog to punk out was guaranteed humiliation, complete disgrace.

“You’re nuts,” whispered Danny Burns, after class ended.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

“Look,” Danny said, “this isn’t Herbie’s Boxing Club. There’re no rules. This Cootie’s a serious psycho. Just ask Moreno to change your seat.”

It was pure Danny Burns. There were certain things Mad Dog loved about Irish Danny Burns. He was smart, had common sense, and always thought things through. But Mad Dog shook his head.

“He’ll kill you,” said Danny.

“Danny, you’re my best friend, and I usually listen to you, but I gotta do it.”

“I heard he carries a knife. Jesus, you’ll end up like your father.”

Mad Dog’s father was belly-shanked in the shower at Attica—where he died with his guts and shit pouring down the drain. A bunch of cons watched his life ebb away, laughing as he bled out and died. It was a neighborhood myth that got chewed and spit out, again and again.

“Like father, like son,” Mad Dog retorted. “I’m not scared . . .” He looked up at the hallway clock. Nearly two. By 3:10 he’d be facing off against Cootie Weiss.

“Look, kemosabe, said Danny, “You’re my blood brother. I’m gonna get Kenny McGuirk and some Bay Boys.”

“I don’t need Kenny McGuirk or the Bay Boys.”

“You’ll need backup. ’Cause Cootie’s gonna have the Coyle Street Krauts there.”

“Doesn’t matter, Danny. I gotta do what I gotta do.”

“I’m getting Kenny and some Bay Boys,” said Danny.

The Sheepshead Bay Boys were a high school gang—tough, Irish, Jewish, and Italian kids—a pack of beer-drinking dead-enders.

Kenny “Snake Eyes” McGuirk, fifteen, knew everyone in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn—the local bookies, gamblers, and toughs. Kenny ran numbers for some mob guy in Mill Basin. He had sway. He’d bring some muscle.

Mad Dog watched Danny hustle down the corridor and then disappear in a swarm of seventh and eighth graders. He glanced up at the wall clock again: two o’clock. A little more than an hour before the shit would hit the fan.

Mad Dog knew that as quick as his hands were, they’d have to be panther fast if he didn’t want to end up like his father.

Either Mad Dog or Cootie would go down.

▪

The empty lot behind Leo’s luncheonette sprouted tufts of grass from the sandy soil. Cigarette butts and glass fragments glittered in the September sunlight. A breeze blew in from Sheepshead Bay, smelling of brine and motor oil.

Mad Dog’s legs felt like cement; his heart throbbed in his throat. The pungent smell of marijuana hung in the air. A horde of kids was there. Danny Burns stood off to one side with Mad Dog’s gang, the 19th Street guys, including Kenny McGuirk and ten Bay Boys, tough-looking high school thugs. Entering the debris-strewn expanse, Mad Dog knew the mob was itching for blood.

“Kill the kraut bastard, Mad Dog!” Snake Eyes yelled.

Cootie Weiss stood there, waiting. A group of Coyle Street Krauts gathered on the other side of the lot.

Sucking on a cigarette, Cootie squinted as Mad Dog approached.

Facing Cootie, Mad Dog’s bowels loosened and he thought they might empty.

“Well . . . ?” sneered Cootie. “What’s it gonna be?”

“You gotta stop botherin’ me, Cootie . . .”

Mad Dog heard a fear-filled warbling in his own voice. But then, fear could be a good thing, he thought. Like just before a boxing match at Herbie’s gym. Butterflies. That weak, sick feeling—but then would come a pumped rush of blood, the thump of fists, frenzied speed and motion.

“Whaddaya, some kinda faggot?” Cootie growled. He flipped his cigarette away, the same finger-snapping motion he’d used on Mad Dog’s ear.

Be cool, stay calm . . . don’t let him think you’re scared . . .

Jolts of nervous energy shot through Mad Dog. He felt his bowels close off. He’d neither shit nor blow lunch. He watched as Cootie’s hands curled into huge fists. Without thinking, Mad Dog tossed his jacket to the ground. He held Cootie’s stare.

“Kick his ass, Cootie!” shouted a Coyle Street guy.

“Kill him, Mad Dog!” screamed Danny Burns.

“Last chance to back out, faggot,” Cootie said.

Back out? Too late for that.

Mad Dog crouched and circled slowly. Suddenly, Cootie swung—a wild roundhouse.

Slipping it easily, Mad Dog shot a fist into his belly. Cootie doubled over with a throaty gasp. Mad Dog threw a hard right to his jaw. Cootie’s mouth—open as the blow landed—snapped shut with the impact. A tooth flew into the air; blood sprayed from his mouth.

Mad Dog’s fists began a flurry of lightning-fast thumps to Cootie’s face, a rapid-fire series of chopping blows.

Cootie staggered, wobbled and lurched to the side.

“Attaway, Mad Dog!” Danny shouted.

A raucous cheer went up from the 19th Street kids.

Cootie blinked, regained his balance and advanced.

Mad Dog slammed a fist into Cootie’s nose—a quick, cracking blow. Blood jetted upward in a red spray. Cootie’s head snapped back; he went down.

“Stomp his fuckin’ head,” Snake Eyes shouted. “Kill him.”

“Don’t let up,” Danny shouted.

Mad Dog waited for Cootie to get up.

▪

Danny Burns felt his own blood lust rise from deep within himself. “Kill him! Kill him!” he roared as Mad Dog landed blow after blow.

Click. A steely snapping. Cootie’s switchblade swung out and locked into position.

Danny’s heart tumbled. His breath left him and he began wheezing. His asthma was kicking in—big time. Fuck it; can’t worry about it. He’d jump Cootie from behind and grab his neck. Mad Dog could work him over and gut-punch him till he fell.

Danny lunged for Cootie, but two Bay Boys clutched him, thrust him down and held him. He writhed and thrashed like a snake, but they pinned him.

“Lemme go!” Danny shrieked.

He could smell the Bay Boys’ breath, rancid from beer and pot.

“The knife!” Danny screamed.

“The Dog knows how to fight,” a Bay Boy yelled.

Still down, Danny watched Mad Dog back away from Cootie.

“Run. Run!” Danny screamed.

Cootie advanced clumsily, weak and wobbly. The knife blade—lethal looking, long, glinting—protruded from his fist.

Suddenly Mad Dog turned, darted to a Dumpster behind Leo’s, and grabbed a metal trash-can lid. Holding the handle, he whirled.

Cootie advanced and then lunged.

Mad Dog parried the knife with the lid.

Another thrust. The makeshift shield deflected the blade.

Cootie made an arcing swipe with the knife. Mad Dog spun. The lid smashed Cootie’s face, and a jagged metal edge slashed his ear. A blood runnel ran down his face.

A knee thumped into Cootie’s groin. The knife dropped as Cootie crumpled to the ground.

Mad Dog’s punches rained down, heavy thudding blows. He straddled Cootie and grabbed his throat. One hand went to the side of Cootie’s face.

Suddenly, the Dog stood, chest heaving.

Cootie lay still, tongue protruding—senseless—blood seeping into the sand.

Silence. A damp breeze blew in from the bay; it smelled of brine and clams.

Danny blinked; sand and soil clogged his nose. He coughed and sputtered. The Coyle Street Krauts were gone.

Danny got to his feet.

Kenny McGuirk cried, “Holy shit. Look at that.”

Danny felt fire in his lungs.

Then he saw it. Right there in Mad Dog’s hand, something pinkish with frothy pulp and blood dribbling onto his friend’s wrist. Mad Dog held it up for all to see.

There it was in the late afternoon sun.

Cootie’s torn and bloodied ear was in his hand.

It was Mad Dog’s day.

 

Chapter 2

 

Roddy Dolan flings his leather jacket over the razor wire atop the chain-link fence. With a sudden thrust he scrambles up the links, swings over the top, and then drops down on the other side. The night air is bitterly cold—ice crystals form in his nostrils. In the pale wash of light, vapor plumes stream from his nose and mouth.

It’s dark except for a street lamp down the block. It’s a silent winter night. The warehouse is a squat, two-story brick structure with a corrugated tin roof. The loading platform is stacked with crates. He treads lightly, flashlight in hand.

There’s a sound—something coming very fast—and he whirls and snaps the flashlight on. There’s a gleam in the light shaft: red eyes, curved fangs, and the dog leaps on him. Roddy goes down. The dog—a huge beast with hot breath—lunges for his throat. Roddy’s arm goes up; the creature’s teeth sink into it and tear flesh. Roddy punches at it and its jaws clamp onto Roddy’s throat.

Roddy clutches the jaws, rips them open, and wrenches away.

 

Mad Dog House is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!

 

Connect with Mark Rubinstein:

Author Website

http://www.markrubinstein-author.com

Author Facebook Page

https://www.facebook.com/mark.rubinstein.author

Author Twitter Page

http://www.twitter.com/mrubinsteinCT

Filed Under: 5 Star Frugal Finds, Fiction, Finds Under $5, FREE with Prime, Frugal Find of the Day, Mystery/Thrillers, Suspense Tagged With: , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: The Love Killers, Jackie Collins {$5.99}

November 21, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Sponsored Post

Jackie Collins‘ Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of The Love Killers:

THE JACKIE COLLINS CLASSIC IS BACK FOR FALL 2012.

Mob boss Enzio Bassalino doesn’t like anyone cutting into his profits. So when beautiful crusader Margaret Brown persuades too many hookers to leave the ranks, she’s blown away.

Three extraordinary women vow to bring down Bassalino—by destroying his three sons. Innocent-seeming, fragile Beth will go after Frank in New York; kinky underground film star Rio will seduce Angelo in London; slick, gorgeous jet-setter Lara will ensnare Nick in Los Angeles.

But it’s a dangerous game, heating up to a spellbinding blend of dazzling intrigue and murderous suspense, of raw eroticism, and sudden, forbidden passion, as three sensational women use the only weapon Bassalino’s sons can’t resist…

THE LOVE KILLERS

 

Accolade:

“A tight plot. Attention to detail. Characters that blaze off the page. Sexy dialogues…What else could you possibly hope for in a book?”

“A fun book set in the 70s women’s liberation. Fast-paced, hot, and downright nasty!” 

“This is my favorite of Jackie’s older novels.”

“This is a very intersting book to read and keeps one wondering about love and how dangerous it could be. Jackie Collin’s books are always filled with the details on the characters and the situations.An easy to read book and very entertaining.”


Reviews:

The Love Killers currently has a customer review rating of 3.6 stars with 7 reviews! Read the reviews here.


The Love Killers is available to purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $5.99

 

An excerpt from The Love Killers:

Chapter One:

“I don’t care if you can’t do anything else. I don’t care if you lose your income, your home, your possessions. Fuck all of it, baby. Just gather up your self-respect and walk right out. To be a prostitute is to be nothing, a mere tool of man. Take no notice of your pimps, your bosses. We will help you. We will give you all the help we can. We will get you so together that your old life will seem like a bad dream.”

Margaret Lawrence Brown had been speaking for fifteen minutes, and she paused to sip from a glass of water handed to her on the makeshift podium. The crowd gathered to hear her talk was gratifyingly large. They occupied a vast area of Central Park, mostly women, a few men scattered among them. It was a warm August day in 1974, and her followers had turned out in force.

Margaret’s tone was strong and outright. Her voice didn’t falter. Her message came across loud and clear.

She was a tall woman in her early thirties. No makeup decorated her strong, radiant face. Her hair was long and black, and she wore denims, boots, and love beads.

Margaret Lawrence Brown was a cult figure in America. A ceaseless campaigner for women’s rights, she had won many a victory. She had written three books, appeared on television regularly, and made a great deal of money, all of which she used for her organization, F.W.N. — Free Women Now.

Everyone had laughed when she’d first taken up the cause of the prostitutes. But they weren’t laughing now, not after three months, not after thousands of women appeared to be giving up their chosen profession and following her.

“You’ve got to get it together now!” Margaret yelled, a determined thrust to her chin.

“Yeah!” the women yelled back.

“You’re going to live again. You’re going to come alive!”

“Yeah! Yeah!” The reaction from the crowd was gospel in its intensity.

“You’re going to be free!” she promised them.

“Yeah!”

Margaret slumped to the ground while the crowd continued to stamp and shout its approval. Blood spurted from a small, neat hole in the middle of her forehead.

It was minutes before the crowd realized what had happened, before hysteria and panic set in.

Margaret Lawrence Brown had been shot.

The house in Miami could only be approached by passing through electric gates, and then undergoing the scrutiny of two uniformed guards with pistols stuck casually in their belts.

Alio Marcusi passed this scrutiny easily. He was a fat old man, with liquid booze-filled eyes and the walk of a pregnant cat.

As he approached the big house he began humming softly to himself, uncomfortable in his too-tight gray-check suit, sweating from the heat of a cloudless day.

A maid answered his ring at the door. A surly, big-limbed Italian girl, she spoke little English, but she nodded at Alio and told him that Padrone Bassalino was out by the pool.

He patted her on the ass, making his way through the house to the patio that led out to a kidney-shaped swimming pool.

Mary Ann August greeted him. Mary Ann was an exceptionally pretty young woman, with old-fashioned, teased blond hair, and a curvaceous body exhibited in a skimpy polka-dot bikini.

“Hi, there, Alio,” she said with a giggle, rising from her lounge. “I was just gonna make myself a little drinkie. Want one?” Posing provocatively in front of him, she toyed with a gold chain hanging between her generous breasts.

Alio contemplated the young vision, licking his lips in anticipation of the day-not far off, surely-when Enzio would grow tired of Mary Ann and pass her on, like all the others.

“Yeah, I’ll have a Bacardi, plenty of ice. And some potato chips, mixed nuts, an’ a few black olives.” He rubbed his extended stomach sorrowfully. “I had no time for lunch. Such a busy day. Where’s Enzio?”

Mary Ann gestured out toward the never-ending gardens. “He’s around somewhere — pruning his roses, I think,” she said sweetly.

“Ah, yes, his roses.” Instinctively Alio glanced back at the house, and sure enough, there she was, Rose Bassalino herself, peering out through a narrow chink in her curtains.

Rose, Enzio’s wife. She hadn’t left her room for years, and the only people she would talk to were her three sons. Rose kept an endless vigil at her window just waiting and watching. It gave Alio the creeps. He didn’t know how Enzio stood it.

Mary Ann swayed over to the bar and began preparing drinks. She was nineteen years old and had lived with Enzio Bassalino for almost six months — something of a record, for Enzio never kept them around long.

Settling into a chair, Alio slowly closed his eyes. Such a very busy day…

“Hey, ciao, Alio, my friend, my boy. How you feeling?”

Alio awoke with a start and guiltily jumped up.

Enzio loomed over him. Sixty-nine years old, but with the hard, bronzed body of a man half his age, all his own teeth, a craggy, lined face, topped by a mass of thick steel-gray hair.

“I feel good, Enzio, I feel fine,” Allo said quickly. They clasped hands, patted each other on the back. They were cousins; Alio owed everything he had to Enzio.

“Can I fix you a drinkie, sweetie-pie?” Mary Ann asked, gazing at Enzio adoringly.

“No.” He dismissed her with a look. “Go in the house. I’ll ring if I need you.”

Mary Ann didn’t argue; she obeyed him at once. Perhaps that was why she had lasted longer than the others.

As soon as she was gone Enzio turned to his cousin. “Well?” he asked impatiently.

“It is done,” Alio replied in a low voice. “I saw it myself. A masterful job. One of Tony’s boys. He vanished before anyone knew what happened. I flew straight here.”

Enzio nodded thoughtfully. “There is no greater satisfaction than a perfect hit. This Tony’s boy, pay him an extra thousand an’ watch him. A man like that could get himself promoted. A public execution is never easy.”

“No, it’s not,” Alio agreed, sucking on a black olive.

“She must be thirty,” the woman hissed spitefully.

“Or older,” her friend agreed.

Lined, and overly made up, the two middle-aged women watched Lara Crichton climb out of the Mabbella Club pool.

Lara was a perfectly beautiful woman of twenty-six. Slim, suntanned, with rounded, sensual breasts, a mane of sun-streaked hair, and wide, crystal-clear green eyes.

She dropped down on the mat next to Prince Alfredo Masserini and sighed loudly. “I’m getting bored with this place,” she said restlessly. “Can’t we go somewhere else?”

Prince AIfredo sat up. “Why are you bored?” he demanded. “Am I boring you? Why should you be bored when you are with me?”

Lara sighed again. Yes, the truth of the matter was the prince could be very boring indeed.

But who else was there? She’d made it a rule never to let go of anyone until there was someone else firmly ensconced in his place. She had been through most of the available princes and counts, a few movie stars, and a lord or two. It really was tiresome she had set herself such high standards.

“I don’t understand you,” Prince Alfredo complained. “No woman has ever told me she was bored with me. I am not a boring man. I am vibrant, lively. I am — how you say — the life and brains of the party.”

Lara noticed with an even heavier sigh that as he spoke he was getting an erection in his nifty Cerruti shorts.

“Oh, God, do shut up,” she muttered under her breath. Sex was becoming the biggest bore of all. So predictable, worked out, and mechanical.

Prince Alfredo did not hear her. “Come, my darling.” Aware of his erection, and proud, he pulled her to her feet. “First we take a rest.” He winked slyly. “And then we drive the Ferrari into the mountains. What do you think, my lovely?”

“Whatever you say.” Reluctantly she allowed herself to be led inside. All eyes followed them as they left. They certainly made a beautiful and exciting couple.

They had separate suites, but by unspoken agreement all sexual activity took place in Lara’s. She stopped him from entering at the door.

“What’s the matter?” he asked indignantly. “I have a good hard-on — a very good one.”

“Save it for later,” she said firmly, closing the door on his protests. “I’ll call you when I wake up.”

Lara felt restless and hemmed in. A feeling she had often felt when married to Jamie P. Crichton. A divorce had solved the feeling then, but what now?

The phone rang and she picked it up, ready to tell Alfredo no — definitely no. But it was not the prince. The operator informed her it was an urgent call from New York.

“Yes?” She cradled the receiver, wondering who knew she was in Spain.

“Lara? Lara, is that you? Oh, God! This is such a terrible connection.” It was a woman’s voice, her tone bordering on hysterical.

“Who is this?” Lara asked sharply. “God! Can’t you hear me? Goddamn it — this is Cass.” A pause, then, “Lara, something terrible has happened. Margaret’s been shot. They’ve shot Margaret.”

 

The Love Killers is available to purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $5.99


Connect with Jackie Collins:

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $9, Frugal Find of the Day, Mystery/Thrillers, Suspense, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: From Blood, Edward Wright {$5.99}

November 20, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Edward Wright‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of From Blood:

It’s about the right time to spend quality time with an Edward Wright book. If you’re a fan of Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly or Dan Fesperman, FROM BLOOD, just released for eReaders will turn any night into one of chills and thrills.

FROM BLOOD, named one of the best mystery novels of the year by The Financial Times. Wright, winner of the Shamus Award and two prestigious crime fiction awards, introduces readers to Shannon Fairchild, a brilliant but troubled woman who has abandoned her Ph.D. studies to settle into an unambitious life cleaning the homes of the wealthy in a California seaside community. When her academic parents are brutally murdered, Shannon discovers that they were part of the radical anti-war movement of the 60s and begins to suspect that their killer’s motive may lie in their past…

She soon finds that they were friends of Diana Burke and John Paul West, two of America’s most wanted fugitives, anti-war militants who went underground after a fatal bombing in 1968 and never resurfaced. Propelled by her mother’s dying words – “Find them and warn them” – Shannon sets out on a mission to locate the couple and tell them that someone is after them – someone much more dangerous than the FBI. Her search, which begins in California and ranges through much of western America, takes her into unexplored territory as she discovers an unexpected personal connection to Burke and West. As she unearths long-buried secrets while trying to stay one step ahead of a shadowy killer, she feels the passions of the tumultuous Sixties being reborn, and she now knows that nothing is more dangerous than someone willing to die for a cause…

Wright has brilliantly penned a thriller that satisfies the deeper thinker with its political and historical overtones. He explores the radicalism of the 60’s and sets the reader up to question the power and commitment one has to a belief system.

 

Accolades:

“An engaging mystery with nonstop action.”

“What a great story! There is familial love, many surprises, murders left and right and, through it all; Shannon doing things in her own, stubborn, sometimes misguided way but trying to make it all right. This is a must read!”

“From Blood is an intense story laced with mystery, rebellion, and hard truth. With a plot that keeps you guessing, you can’t help but be carried along with Shannon and her crew as she flies from city to city, state to state, in an attempt to find them and warn them, whomever they might be. What – and who – she finds takes her quite by surprise. And could quite possibly destroy everything she’s ever known or loved.”

“In a story with as many surprises as murders, Edward Wright shows us that unexpected tragedies can end up being totally unexpected happiness.”

 

From Blood is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $5.99

 

An excerpt from From Blood:

PROLOGUE – 1968

In the darkest part of the night, there is a special quiet to the grassy and tree-shrouded areas of a large university campus.

With no sign at its entrance, the building stands half-obscured by greenery on the edge of the sprawling grounds. Three stories tall, it has an anonymous institutional red-brick look, and those who ask its function are sometimes told that it houses administrative offices of the university, which it once did. That well-rehearsed fiction has kept its actual role hidden for two years.

Tonight the building’s rooms and hallways are silent, emptied of their usual complement of analysts, linguists, and retired military officers. The only lighted room is the reception area on the first floor, where Danny Kerner, the night watchman and a graduate student in philosophy, is on duty. Danny sits, feet up on his desk, paging through an essay by Nietzsche.

He has long hair, like most of the male students at LaValle, but he prides himself on not fitting others’ preconceptions. As an undergraduate, while his friends were partying or demonstrating for the liberal cause du jour, he was working nights to pay his tuition. Now, at twenty-three and just starting a family, he relies on the extra income from this job to get him through graduate school while avoiding more handouts from his wife’s parents. He tries not to show too much curiosity about what goes on during the daytime in this somewhat mysterious location. Still, the secrecy of the building’s staff – extending even to requiring him to sign a pledge not to disclose anything he sees there – has intrigued him.

He turns the page and reads the next passage: At bottom, every human being knows that he is in this world just once. Many die too late, and a few die too early. . . . Die at the right time – thus teaches Zarathustra.

Somber material, but Danny reads it with equanimity. He’s feeling almost serene, the result of a decision he reached only hours ago, before he left the apartment to begin his night shift. In the coming days he will apply to divinity school, the first step in training for the ministry. For weeks he has wrestled with the question, and Peggy has wrestled with it too.

I know I can teach philosophy, he told her in one moment of doubt. I don’t know that I’ve got it in me to –

Stop right there, she interrupted, her voice intense. You don’t know yourself as well as I do. You’re a good person, a brilliant student, and you’d make a wonderful minister. She held up the baby and jiggled her gently in front of him. Tell Daddy he’ll look very sexy in a clerical collar.

Refilling his cup with barely warm coffee from a flask, he pauses in his reading and recalls one night when his curiosity about the building was boosted an extra notch. On his rounds, he found an unlocked door – a rarity in a place where all the doors throughout the building are normally double-locked. He entered to make sure there were no intruders and saw a medium-size room with locked filing cabinets ranging alongside all the walls, a large table in the center, and detailed topographic maps pinned up on cork boards. One map, he noted, bore the title Dien Bien Province. Another, showing what looked like a city and the surrounding countryside, was labeled Ha Noi.

He backed out of the room quickly, double-locking the door with his set of keys.

Ha Noi, he thought. Hanoi. Vietnam.

I don’t know what they do here, but it sounds closer to the military than the university. Some kind of research place, maybe, squirreled away here in a quiet corner of LaValle. Some of the campus firebrands, he knew, would love to know about this place. They’d probably burn it to the ground.

Danny had strong feelings about his government’s involvement in that small Southeast Asian country, where 30,000 Americans and untold numbers of Vietnamese had died, with no sign of a letup. Students had heard rumors of undercover connections between the Pentagon and certain universities – Michigan State was one of those mentioned – but LaValle’s name had never cropped up. If the Pentagon was running or funding a secret Vietnam War think tank on this university’s campus, he thought, someone should know about it.

He told Peggy about his discovery. Her response was immediate. Holding the baby in her arms, she cried out, Don’t, Danny. Please don’t. You’ll get fired, and maybe worse. You need this job. We need the money.

Feeling torn between family and conscience, he kept quiet.

Having made his hourly rounds tonight, Danny returns to his station and leans down to inspect the small, carefully wrapped bundle he has placed under the desk to shade it from his reading light. All quiet, he mutters. He sips at his coffee; it’s now cold. The clock on the wall reads a quarter past two, which means another forty-five minutes until his next inspection trip. He retrieves his book but is distracted by thoughts of Peggy. Two days ago, a full-blown case of the flu put her into the campus infirmary. She resisted going because of the baby, but Danny assured her that Tina would be fine.

A muffled, ambiguous noise from somewhere makes him look up. What was that? In the blackness outside the window, a late November wind has kicked up, and tree branches are scraping against the bricks of the outer wall. He settles back down.

Were he not so drowsy, he would know that the sound came from elsewhere – the rear of the building, where three black-clad figures wearing ski masks have worked their way up an old and rusted fire escape to the second floor and forced open a window. Now, carrying flashlights, burglar tools, and a heavy canvas bag, they prowl the corridor until they come to a large office in the heart of the building. Jimmying the lock with minimal noise, they open the door. While two of the figures peel off as sentinels, the third enters the office and begins to work.

Twenty minutes pass.

At his station, Danny drains the last of his cup and checks his watch. In a little over five hours, he’ll be able to visit Peggy. Can’t take Tina, though. Don’t want to expose her to Mommy’s flu. He wonders if Peggy’s fever allowed her any sleep tonight.

Picking up the Nietzsche, he looks for the quote from Zarathustra but is reluctant to resume reading. He’s simply too happy – with thoughts of Peggy and Tina, with his recent life-changing decision – to read about death, no matter how abstract the argument.

Tina-Marina, he says silently, using his favorite nickname for her, you may be the only one getting a good night’s sleep. You don’t know how lucky –

It is his last thought.

A deafening blast tears through the quiet night, audible at the farthest reaches of the campus and even in the town itself. As the building’s guts are torn apart, a white fireball blooms in its center, a thing of beauty, rendering the area around it as bright as day for a few seconds. Bricks and mortar fly like shrapnel, shredding the trees. The fireball fades to the color of molten lava, and the upper two floors, almost in slow motion, collapse onto the ground level. The night watchman’s station, like everything else on the first floor, is crushed beneath tons of weight.

The doomsday noise gradually dies away. Minutes pass, and flames begin to lick at the wreckage.

Police, firefighters, and campus security swarm over the site. One of the bombers, apparently injured in the explosion, is found nearby. Eventually the fire is put down, and the digging begins. At first light, Danny Kerner’s mangled body is removed from the rubble. At the same time, claims of responsibility are being telephoned to news organizations.

This is the Red Fist, the female caller declares. We strike at the heart of the war machine.

But the horror is not finished. A young woman appears at the disaster scene. She has just bolted from the campus infirmary and is still racked with fever. Her words are laced with hysteria, and it takes a while for rescue workers to understand.

I was sick, she sobs. I couldn’t take care of her. He didn’t want to bring her here with him, but. . . . Oh, God.

The police commander on the scene is summoned. He huddles with the young woman, then steps back, his face frozen by her words. He summons the senior firefighter, who listens intently, then begins bellowing orders to his men. They swarm over the still-smoldering site, hacking and digging at the charred remnants of what will soon become known to the world as the Crowe Institute.

An hour goes by. Finally one fireman, his voice cracked with strain, yells that he has found something. He lifts a tiny bundle, wrapped in a singed blanket, from the wreckage, his face twisted in grief.

Reporters and camera crews press in, but police hold them back. “No pictures of this!” the fire captain screams. “I’ll break the first camera. . . ”

Peggy Kerner sinks to her knees, wailing, and all the others stand silent as the soot-streaked fireman carries what remains of her baby to the ambulance.

* * *

In all the attacks, the riots, and the bombings that plagued America in the tumultuous 1960s and ’70s, the Crowe Institute bombing of 1968 had a special notoriety. It stirred up calls for vengeance, transformed the thinking of the radical left, and sent one militant to prison and others deeper underground. Over the years, most of them either were captured or resurfaced and surrendered.

All but two. . . .

From Blood is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $5.99

 

Connect with Edward Wright:

Website: www.edwardwrightbook.com

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $9, Frugal Find of the Day, Mystery/Thrillers, Suspense Tagged With: , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Not One of Us (The Flower Ladies Trilogy, Book 1), DA Spruzen {$0.99}

November 14, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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DA Spruzen‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of Not One of Us:

Rose, a widow and mother of three adult children, is a founding member of the Salton Symphony and one of a group of seven volunteers who call themselves the “Symphony Slaves.” As the story opens, she is in the hospital recovering from a concussion after being found unconscious outside her friend Judy’s house. Rose cannot remember how she got there, although she remembers finding Judy bludgeoned to death. This is only the first of several murders that rock the normally dull Salton, a Northern Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C.

Alternate chapters comprise segments of the killer’s journal in which she recalls her childhood and reveals the warped logic that enables her to eliminate those who threaten her hard-won lifestyle. She overcame her destitution with the single-minded ruthlessness that drives her to kill again and again when things go wrong. The journal converges with the narrative as the story progresses and shows the terrible fallout that can result from child abuse; but it also suggests that it is not inevitable—her sister is not a killer, after all. This woman’s intelligence and drive have worked for her and against her.

This psychological suspense, the first of a trilogy, focuses on the characters’ inner lives and the social constraints that bind them. Each Symphony Slave changes as her complacency is shaken by dark events she never imagined could touch a community like Salton. And the way it all ends . . . pleases no one.

 

Accolades:

“D A Spruzen has written an unusual mystery-thriller that keeps you turning pages to find out what happens next (or what has happened in the past).”

“Not One of Us is like Agatha Christie meets Mary Higgins Clark.”

“Spruzen does an excellent job of creating some brilliant characters, each one complex and a reflection of modern life.”

 

Amazon Reader Reviews:

Not One of Us currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.9 stars, with 8 reviews! Read the reviews here!

 

Not One of Us is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99

 

Excerpt from Not One of Us:

Excerpt from Chapter 8

Rose thought the patrons seemed edgy tonight—the recent unpleasantness had skewered their complacency. She nodded pleasantly to her numerous acquaintances and found her seat as soon as she arrived. She was not in the mood for breathless speculation.

The conductor entered with his usual aplomb to polite applause. The audience pasted on a collective expression of classical inspiration and sat through the first half with relatively little fidgeting, considering the determined output of the guest soprano. She sang a selection of syrupy arias from the mighty depths of her breast with appropriate gesture and fervency, shrilly proving herself unqualified for the world of grand opera.

The second half opened with a popular work, the Charge of the Light Brigade. As the orchestra approached the first crescendo, a little furry form—later identified as a rat—darted onto the stage followed closely by a dog of uncertain heritage but one-track mind. Dog and rat wove a path underneath the players’ legs and raced to the brass section. They collided with a large tuba and its larger owner, both of which arced backwards off the edge of the risers in a synchronized somersault, knocking the acoustical panel behind them sideways into the next one. Down the panels went, one by one, in a slow motion ballet, exposing a paunchy plaid-shirted stagehand frozen in the lights. The audience sportingly applauded him as he pulled himself together and scurried into the wings.

The conductor made the fatal mistake of hesitating, then resuming. The strings gallantly forged ahead, the brass fell behind, and the winds caught up with cacophonous determination. The charge became a rout. The Salton Times reporter, Tim McDonald, clicked away wildly, determined not to miss anything. The audience murmured, torn between horror and pleasure. The narrator stood in dreadful stillness at her podium depicting a near-death guppy. One of Salton’s most distinguished citizens, President of the Symphony Board Caroline Smythe, was captured on film as one petrified, half standing and half sitting, backside suspended in global disbelief— a burlesque version of Lot’s wife. Rose’s neck ached from its sharp pivoting as she committed each catastrophic delight to memory.

The chase progressed towards the conductor’s podium. A pot of chrysanthemums was tossed into the air like a soccer ball and landed on the conductor’s left foot, upon which he let out a screech that rivaled the best and worst of the soprano. Prey and predator brushed against a cellist who, startled, pulled his instrument back and up and lodged its very pointy end in the backside of the hapless musician in front of him.

By now people in the audience, finally undone by mirth, were holding their stomachs and weeping helplessly. The conductor acknowledged defeat, gathered himself to his full sixty-one inches and limped off the stage with the musicians straggling off after him like a drunken parade of hobos. The concertmaster was left to her own devices. She had unwisely climbed onto her chair during the melee, and it had succumbed to her mass; she neatly passed through the seat and, thighs trapped but mouth wide open, brandished her violin aloft whilst caroling her fear and outrage. The rat and the dog had disappeared, presumably to continue their dispute off-stage. Rose sat motionless for a full ten minutes. She had not so much laughed as exulted—the feeling had been almost orgasmic.

The concert did not resume. The post-concert reception hostess was surprised by the early arrival and ebullient mood of her guests. They were a happy cohesive group who had very recently undergone the ultimate bonding experience—a glorious five minutes witnessing the demolition of the Salton Symphony. They were blood brothers, sharing mirth, horror, and exultation on the most fundamental level of banana skin comedy—and they had forgotten all about murder. As Rose muttered quietly to Annie, the diversion couldn’t have come at a better time if it had been planned.

Not One of Us is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99

 

Connect with DA Spruzen:

Author Website: www.DASpruzen.com

Author Facebook Page: D. A. Spruzen, Author

Author Twitter Page: D. A. Spruzen, Author

Filed Under: 5 Star Frugal Finds, Fiction, Finds Under $1, Frugal Find of the Day, Mystery/Thrillers, Suspense Tagged With: , , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND{S} OF THE DAY: Conceived in Liberty & Born of Necessity, Joseph Boschi {$0.99 Each}

October 20, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Joseph Boschi’s Frugal Find{s) Under Nine:

Conceived in Liberty:

Dreams of the future are generally for all ages. Eric Andros is the young son of a German fisherman who covets the power and riches to be had from life in the fast lane. Numbers always came easy to him and in the fertile environment of University life he is able to learn and test many of his theories about the path to becoming the richest and most powerful man in the world.

He befriends his classmate from the University of Hamburg, Raul Aboudi, and together they maintain a close relationship even after graduation. Eric goes on to a position at the Bank of Frankfurt and Raul takes a position at Brown University in the World History studies program.

Eric continues to apply his theories of leveraging financial manipulations and begins to amass a position of some substance. He begins to formulate a future plan for financial domination at the expense of the capitalistic systems in effect in the United States. Additional partners from around the world seek to associate with Eric as he plays upon the human frailties of the country’s leaders including the man sponsored by Eric and his associates, the President himself. This clandestinely organized group maintains a common hatred for America and would like nothing less than to see it buried under its own greed and corruption.

The puppet President is merely a figurehead for the financial cabal maintained by Eric. However, a patriotic group from across the business avenues of the United States has begun to organize in response to their fears of what they see taking place. The common opinion is that the presence and influence of Eric must be destroyed and they organize under the leadership of Roland Southfield to remove the President from office as he seeks a second term.

Southfield himself has had his own share of political problems and is anathema in many circles in the Washington area as a result of prior relations with the contras. None the less, the common wisdom is that he has all of the prior experience and less than savory affiliations to destroy the influential sway of Eric.

Southfield is able to create his own plan for the elimination of Andros and enlists assistance from a number of unlikely players-all with critical parts to play. The journey is much more important than the final destination as Southfield marshals his resources to accomplish what otherwise was beyond the boundaries of non-treasonous activities. The multiple journeys of “Conceived in Liberty” can best be summarized by the following:

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly unite in high table stakes Patriot Games where the prize is the preservation of American Sovereignty.

The follow up, Born of Necessity:

Grave situations require drastic actions. A conglomerate of twelve of the wealthiest men in the world, know as the Dozen, will do anything to destroy the basic principals on which the United States was founded… capitalism and democracy. They were successful in having their candidate, a mere puppet, elected President of the United States and were in the process of controlling the entire government and the rest of the world. A group of very concerned citizens formed a force to regain control of the presidency and preserve all that was sacred to the people of this great nation… no matter the cost. This group called themselves the Patriots. A plan was devised with the help of unidentified covert operatives, and the first half of the plan was carried out in Boschi’s previous book titled Conceived in Liberty. The financial leader of the Dozen was taken out by a sniper while giving an update to the Dozen. Now it is time for the second half of the plan to be implemented. If something is conceived, then there must have been a conception. A conception would demand a birth. Come along on the journey of Born of Necessity as these two forces seek to establish and maintain a new tomorrow for America

 

Accolades:

For Conceived in Liberty:

“Your style, attention to detail and creativity were packaged together for a great read; you have talent and a gift; looking forward to your next text.” - Edward W., Detroit, MI

“I just want to say how much I enjoyed reading this book. It was very well written and easy to follow. Had a great story line. Can’t wait for the sequel.” - Cliff W.  Cleveland , Ohio

For Born of Necessity:

“Just finished reading it. Wow, what a great book. Loved every page of it. I read a lot of books kind of like this and this one ranks up there at the top. It was good how it built up to the ending. I kept waiting for something to happen to ruin the plan and it didn’t. Of your 3 books this one is the one I enjoyed the most. Really a fun book for me to read.” - L.R., Sarasota, FL

“Great story; riveting and the unexpected; hard to put the book down.” - F.V., Cedar Knolls, NJ

 

Review Ratings:

Conceived in Liberty currently has a review rating of 5 stars from 1 reviews. Read the reviews here.

Born of Necessity currently has a review rating of 4.5 stars from 2 reviews. Read the reviews here.

 

Both titles are available at Amazon for just $0.99!

Purchase Conceived in Liberty at Amazon for $0.99 here

Don’t forget to also purchase the follow up novel, Born of Necessity, for $0.99 here

 

Connect with Joseph Boschi:

Website: http://www.JoeBoschiBooks.com

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