THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: The Color of Heaven, Julianne MacLean {$0.99}

May 19, 2013 By Leave a Comment

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Julianne MacLean‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of The Color of Heaven:

A deeply emotional tale about Sophie Duncan, a successful columnist whose world falls apart after her daughter’s unexpected illness and her husband’s shocking affair. When it seems nothing else could possibly go wrong, her car skids off an icy road and plunges into a frozen lake. There, in the cold dark depths of the water, a profound and extraordinary experience unlocks the surprising secrets from Sophie’s past, and teaches her what it means to truly live…and love.

Full of surprising twists and turns and a near-death experience that will leave you breathless, this story is not to be missed.

 

Accolades:

“A gripping, emotional tale you’ll want to read in one sitting.” – New York Times bestselling author, Julia London

“Brilliantly poignant mainstream tale.” – 4 ½ starred review, Romantic Times


Amazon Reader Reviews:

The Color of Heaven currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.3 stars, with 127 reviews! Read the reviews here!

 

The Color of Heaven is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99


Excerpt from The Color of Heaven:

Not long after I crossed the border into New Hampshire, the temperature plummeted. If I had been out walking, I would have felt it on my cheeks. The chill would have entered my throat and lungs, but I was strapped tightly into the cozy confines of my vehicle with the heat blasting out of the dashboard vents, and was therefore shielded from the conditions outside. I will always wonder what brought that deer out onto the road just as the puddles from the melting snow turned to ice. I saw her out of the corner of my eye, galloping onto the pavement, and my whole body went rigid.

Wrenching the steering wheel left to avoid her, I hit the brakes at the same time, which was, of course, the worst thing I could have done.

The car whipped around 180 degrees, so I was now facing the oncoming headlights from the vehicles traveling behind me. My tires skimmed sideways across the pavement toward the shoulder of the road.

I remember everything in excruciating detail, the noise especially, as my car rolled five times down the steep embankment. Glass shattered and smashed. Steel collapsed. The world spun in dizzying circles in front of my eyes, so I shut them and gripped the steering wheel hard, bracing my body against the jarring impact as the roof collapsed over the passenger side and the windows blew out.

Down I went, tumbling and bouncing over the rocks like a stone skipping across water.

Then all at once, it was over.

There was only white noise in my ears, and the thunderous sound of my heartbeat.

I opened my eyes to find myself hanging upside down in my seatbelt, with the side of my head wedged up against the roof.

The engine was still running. Other sounds emerged. Music blasted from the radio – an old favorite song of mine from the 80’s, The Killing Time, which was ironic, but in that heart-stopping moment, I was not that reflective. All I could think of was getting out of there.

Panic hit me. Hard. I felt trapped, frantic to escape, and began to thrash about.

I groped for the red button on the seatbelt buckle, but my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t push it.

My breaths came faster and faster.

I cried out, but no one heard.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a whip cracked. The vehicle shuddered.

I froze and tried to see past the smashed windshield in front of me. Everything outside the car was pure white, covered in snow.

If only I knew where I was. If only I could see something beyond the broken glass.

But it didn’t matter what I could, or could not, see. I knew what was happening…

My car was sitting on its roof, resting on a frozen lake. The crack of the whip was the sound of the ice breaking.

Creak… Groan…

My SUV shifted and began to slowly tip sideways…


The Color of Heaven is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99


Connect with Julianne MacLean:

Website: http://www.juliannemaclean.com

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/JulianneMacLean

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/JulianneMacLeanRomanceAuthor?ref=pb

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $1, Frugal Find of the Day, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Playing Along, Rory Samantha Green {$2.99}

January 21, 2013 By Leave a Comment

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Rory Samantha Green‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Description of Playing Along:

Two Lives. Two Continents. One Song…

Then: George Bryce was an awkward, English schoolboy fantasizing about being in a band.

Now: George is frontman of Thesis, an overnight indie scene sensation. Intense, creative and self-deprecating, his childhood dreams have all been fulfilled – so why does George still feel so lost?

Then: Lexi Jacobs was a confident Californian high school cheerleader, planning her future marriage and a meaningful career.

Now: Lexi is searching for substance in a life full of mishaps. Cautious, bemused and rapidly losing the control she used to rely on, none of her teenage dreams have delivered and she’s left wondering, “What next?”

Follow George and Lexi as they navigate their days thousands of miles apart. Fly with them from London to LA and back again, as George copes with the dynamics of his tight knit band and loose knit family, while Lexi juggles her eccentric new boss, bored best friend and smother mother.

Even though there’s an ocean between them and their worlds couldn’t be further apart, George and Lexi are pulled together through music, and their paths appear determined to cross.

The question is – when?

At the end of this delightfully quirky, irresistible story, you too will be left wondering which of your fantasies are destined to come true…

 

Accolades:

“You’ll fall in love with George and Lexi…All the characters are so clearly defined. ””Green is an amazing writer, can’t wait to read more from her.”

“Love the references to music and the time it takes place. It’s hard to find books that will pull you in like PLAYING ALONG.”

 

Reviews:

Playing Along  currently has an Amazon reader review rating of 5 stars from 6 reviews. Read the reviews here.

 

Playing Along  is available for purchase at:

 

Amazon Kindle for $2.99

 

 

An excerpt from Playing Along :

PLAYING ALONG

by Rory Samantha Green

THEN

GEORGE, 1st November, 1994, Stanford in the Vale, Oxfordshire

“Your brother’s grown up a bit, hasn’t he?”

George holds his breath when he hears these words swoop past his bedroom door. He’s thirteen, but his sister is two years older and her friends are an enigma. They smell like grapefruit and cigarettes and layer mascara on their lashes until they look like pandas. Most of them have boobs. Big ones. He’s fascinated by the divide. George’s sister, Polly, has maybe said one word to him in the last two weeks and that was muttered in disdain when he had mistakenly knocked her make-up brush off the counter and into the toilet. It had floated forlornly in the bowl like a drowned rodent.

“Arsehole!”

But now there’s a chance of redemption. Despite his skinny legs and spotty rounded face, it seems as if one of the awesome grapefruit girls has noticed something in him. Something unique. He reckons it will take a very special woman to appreciate his nuances. His love of Grover from Sesame Street (so underrated – why did Kermit get all the limelight?) and his adoration of the most amazing music the universe has to offer – Bowie, U2, Portishead, Dylan, New Order. The woman who takes his heart must take his record collection as well.

“My brother?” replies Polly in dramatic shock. ”Yeah, you could say he’s grown up – into a first rate troll.”

The grapefruit girls giggle and their laughter snakes under his door and rings painfully in his ears. George bites his bottom lip, scraping his teeth against peeling skin. Another nervous habit.

“And listen to this… he claims one day he’s going to be in a famous band and be on the cover of NME and have groupies. What a joke!”

George, prepared for the inevitable cackle of mockery, grabs his headphones and his CD player and presses play with an urgency. “Fools Gold” by the Stone Roses floods his brain. He turns up the volume as loud as it will go and hurls his notebook across the room where it ricochets off the wall and slides under his bed. The notebook is filled with songs. George has been unpacking heartache from his sensitive soul since the age of ten.

His sister’s harsh words are never as brutal as the words he calls himself.

He knows what he wants, but he’s pretty damn certain that a boy like him is never going to get it.

LEXI, November 1st, 1994, Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles, California

“I’m psyched about the game tomorrow!” Andrew enthusiastically polishes off his second burrito, gazing longingly at Lexi across the table. She smiles at him mischievously knowing that she drives him crazy with her Juicy Fruit breath, her shiny brown hair, and her legs which have conveniently slimmed out and toned up since she started diligently attending an after school kickboxing class.

“I’m excited too,” she replies, playfully nudging his size twelve basketball shoes under the table. “I hope you win, so we can celebrate.”

Lexi and Andrew are the couple at Pali High. Just embarking on their senior year, they have been an item since the eleventh grade. Andrew first kissed Lexi on Zuma beach with the waves lapping at their bare feet two nights after passing his driving test. His parents had given him a convertible Mustang for his sixteenth birthday and when he drove her home, one hand on the wheel, the other holding hers, Lexi had a sweet taste lingering in her mouth and salty wind in her hair.

“So unfair,” her best friend, Meg, had complained the following morning. “It’s not supposed to happen like that. He’s supposed to drool, or run out of gas, or step on your toe or something. Why is your life like an Audrey Hepburn movie and mine like a bad TV sitcom?”

And Lexi certainly didn’t want to be smug, but there was some truth in Meg’s observation. Things just seemed to go her way. Her parents had raised her to believe in herself and face life with a positive outlook. Not that she was syrupy or self-obsessed. She worked hard at her studies and had an excellent Grade Point Average. She volunteered at a local homeless shelter, fingerpainting with vulnerable kids after school. She’d started up a current events debate club in her junior year and persuaded many of her friends to join. They now competed nationally. Oh and of course, she kickboxed and played on the girls’ volleyball team, and thankfully had the sort of hair that didn’t frizz on damp mornings when the fog rolled in off the coast.

Lexi had lost her virginity to Andrew on the floor in his bedroom on a Sunday afternoon while his parents shopped at Target. He had lit a scented candle stolen from his mother’s bathroom, and the smell of orange mimosa flooded the room. “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by UB40 was playing on his CD player.

When it was over (slightly painful, but not nearly as uncomfortable as she had imagined), he leaned on his elbows beside her and whispered in her ear, “I can’t help falling in love with you…” One year later, sitting opposite him watching him wipe guacamole from the side of his lips, Lexi feels in her heart that she loves him too. In fact she is sure, along with almost everyone else at Pali High who either knows them or admires them from afar, that they will most likely end up getting married. Lexi’s mother has saved her own wedding dress for the occasion, wrapped in delicate layers of archival tissue in an ivory box on the top shelf of her cupboard. “It’s just waiting, my beauty,” her mother has promised.

Lexi can picture their home now (a cozy New England style house, a few blocks from her parents, with whitewashed floors and shabby chic couches), two or maybe three kids (she really doesn’t have a preference for boys or girls) and most definitely a dog, a black Labrador called George. She imagines a fulfilling and creative part time job as well, maybe a teacher or an art therapist, something that leaves her with the freedom to be a hands-on mom. So what if she is only seventeen? It’s just a dream, but life has already proven to Lexi that dreams do find a way of coming true.

NOW

GEORGE, 1st November, 2009, Greenwich, England

“George… I love you!” On certain nights this professed love is yelled out a hundred times from men and women alike. Most nights it disappears into the roar of the crowd, but at some gigs a single voice will miraculously separate out and hover above the throng of faceless fans and George hears it and needs it to be true.

George is at the piano finishing the final chords of “Beyond Being,” a poignant ballad based on his teenage existential musings and a lyric which popped into his head one day as he polished off a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream. The audience sways in time and cell phones punctuate the blackness like rechargeable flames. George hangs his head as the song comes to a quiet end, his voice wavering with a sad clarity.

Thousands of fans cheer and whoop in adoration and George looks up shyly with his trademark grin. ”Thank you very much for coming. We appreciate you might have better things to do with your Saturday nights, like watching X Factor, and the boys and I really enjoyed playing to you tonight…” This, as intended, whips up the crowd into an even louder frenzy as George and his band mates lope off the stage with a schoolboy charm that has captivated fans across the world from Denmark to Chile, and every destination in between.

George has come a long way from the corner of his brown bedroom. His band, Thesis, stormed onto the music scene with an unstoppable force after his best mate and guitarist, Simon Ogden-Smith, persuaded George to start up a Myspace page and stream some of their music. George, Simon, Simon’s cousin Mark, and Mark’s sister’s friend Duncan from Australia, had been playing local pubs in Islington and had been slowly building up a loyal fan base. But the Myspace page catapulted them into a whole new stratosphere, and with a swiftness which at times found George’s throat closing with unprecedented anxiety, they burst onto the alternative music scene and made their mark. Three months after being signed by a record company they were flown to Los Angeles to record their first album,Twelve Thousand Words. George Bryce, still a sweaty lonely teenager at heart, found himself surrounded by attractive, fawning women called Claudia and Agnes and Nell. They willingly offered their breasts to him without any pleading involved and he indulged in a whole new adolescence at twenty-two.

The band’s first big hit was a rocking anthem called “Grapefruit Girls,” an opportunity for George to get his revenge on those elusive females who had inducted him into the hall of shame. George became an unlikely heartthrob, a self-deprecating lad who wore T-shirts with Grover on them and gave interviews about obscure comic books and rare vinyl. His boyish looks, lopsided smile and thick shaggy black hair, once his greatest insecurity, suddenly became irresistible. Even America, notoriously hard to break for an unheard-of alternative band, lapped up the accents and the awkwardness. Critics either loved or hated Thesis and George made a point of reading every review, because no matter how famous they became, he never stopped caring about what people thought of him.

 

Playing Along is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99

 

Connect with Rory Samantha Green:

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

Filed Under: 5 Star Frugal Finds, Chick Lit, Fiction, Finds Under $5, Frugal Find of the Day, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Sex, Lies & Hot Tubs, Elissa Ambrose {$2.99}

January 4, 2013 By Leave a Comment

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Elissa Ambrose‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

Frugal Find of the Day

Description of Sex, Lies & Hot Tubs:

If a woman tries to preserve a marriage that has been damaged by infidelity, is she heroic or is she delusional? How many times does her husband have to cheat before she calls it quits? How many times does he have to get caught?

Meet Ellen Dunwell, doting wife, loving mother, high school teacher extaordinaire. She’s worried that her husband, the respected Dr. Jeffrey Dunwell, successful dermatologist, wonderful father, great lover, is having another affair. A man of many interests, Jeffrey also dabbles in real estate. But Ellen won’t confront him about what she’s sure is his latest interest, his perky new lab assistant, Keeley Wilder. She doesn’t want to sound like a shrew, but worse, what if she’s right? As if that’s not bad enough, her friends don’t understand her, her neighbor’s son is a Peeping Tom, and her angst-ridden teenage daughter is stashing pot in her room and dating a control freak. When Jeffrey suddenly disappears, Ellen nearly slips over the edge. Instead, she pulls herself together and sets out on a mission to find him—only to get caught up in a web of intrigue and danger, where nothing is as it seems and the stakes are her life.

 

Accolades:

“In Ms. Ambrose’s realistic portrayal of Ellen’s situation, you can understand how a woman would feel following an affair, how difficult it is to regain the trust that has been severed, and how dramatically it impacts an entire family…If you’re looking for a fast, lifelike piece of women’s fiction, look no further. You won’t regret it.”

“on the edge of my seat all the way to the stunning ending”

“The mystery was really a mystery until the very end. I had problems setting the book aside to go about my real life. Plenty of humor sprinkled in with intrigue! Really a delightful read!”


Amazon Reader Reviews:

Sex, Lies & Hot Tubs currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.5 stars, with 20 reviews! Read the reviews here!


Sex, Lies & Hot Tubs is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99

 

Excerpt from Sex, Lies & Hot Tubs:

From Chapter 6, “Don’t Let the Bastard Grind You Down”

It all started two years ago when I arrived home from school and found a package on my doorstep. It was from La Femme Mystique, the racy new lingerie store that had opened at the mall. Even though it was addressed to Jeffrey, I assumed it was for me. Why else would he buy lingerie?

I had no reason to be suspicious. Our life had an easy rhythm, and I was content. I thought we both were. We’d hoped for a larger family, but when that didn’t happen, we’d adjusted. We went on, as families did. So even though Jeffrey was working overtime at the clinic and had a sideline in real estate, even though he spent one or two evenings a week with his racquetball friends, aka The Boys, I thought, as any trusting wife would think, that this gift was his way of saying, “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you. This is to let you know I’m thinking of you.”

Eager to discover what my husband had bought to appease me, I tore open the box right there in the foyer. Lying on a bed of lavender tissue were red lacy panties and a push-up bra. The bra was strapless and patterned with pitchforks, the panties crotchless and sprouting wings at the hips.

Was Jeffrey getting religion or was he getting kinky? Was he saying he found our sex life boring? Maybe I wasn’t woman enough for my husband. “You have to be a whole woman,” my mother used to say. Would my father have stayed if she’d been whole? What did that even mean? I used to look at her and try to discern what part of her was missing.

You’re being silly, I told myself, fingering the lace. Your husband loves you, and this is his way of telling you how much. I grabbed the box and headed to the bedroom to try on the lingerie. If a whole woman was what he wanted, a whole woman was what he’d get.

Two red stripes pinched at my hips and chest. I was petite, but this outfit would hardly fit a Barbie doll. Not that I faulted Jeffrey—what man knew his wife’s dress size? I giggled when I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like a cross between a hooker and a barbershop pole. My giggling evolved into full-blown laughter and I couldn’t stop, even when I doubled over with pain. If Claire had been home, she would have gotten a never-before-seen view of her mother, and then she would have had me committed.

Come on! Was this what men wanted? Did women actually wear these things?

I noticed the envelope and came to my senses. The lingerie was a gift after all, and who was I to knock another person’s fantasy? Didn’t I have fantasies of my own? (They did not, however, involve Lucifer.) I plucked out the card:

My angel, my temptress, tease me, please me, make me yours. Wear this on Saturday. Waiting in anticipation, your Devil-May-Care.

Saturday? This Saturday?

On Saturday, Jeffrey would be at that dermatology convention in Flagstaff.

Oh.

My laughter started up again, only this time it was born of panic. It came out as a constipated chortle, as if I’d read about an incurable disease and recognized the symptoms.

This weekend was the mother-daughter luncheon at the high school. He knew I couldn’t go with him to Flagstaff.

Not that he’d asked.

On the dresser sat several framed photographs, some of Jeffrey and me, some of just Claire, some of the three of us in various stages of family life. Aiming for the wedding photo, I hurled the box across the room and knocked over my bottle of Allure, a present from Jeffrey for my forty-ninth birthday. Drifting through the room, the overly sweet scent of lilac made me want to gag.

A folded piece of paper flew out of the box and soared toward me like a paper airplane. I watched, mesmerized, until it ran out of steam and landed on my thigh. I picked it up. Two addresses were listed: ours, here in Scottsdale, in the left column under Jeffrey Dunwell; the other, Lariat Lane in Tempe, in the right column under Angelica Kravitz.

The only Angelica I knew worked in Jeffrey’s clinic. Angelica Woodward, the overly made-up, pint-size, permed receptionist who’d recently thrown out her husband because, as she’d put it, according to Jeffrey, “He’s a lowlife sack of shit.”

Was Kravitz her maiden name? Maybe she’d discarded her married name along with the sack. Very generous of her, giving back his name. Considering she’d kept everything else.

But if Jeffrey was having an affair, wouldn’t he have it with some brainless twitty half his age? Wasn’t that what middle-aged men did? Seriously, who had an affair with a brainless twitty old enough to be my…sister?

That I felt insulted rather than hurt was probably due to shock. In my stupor, still wearing Jeffrey’s love-garb, I ran to the kitchen. Asia glanced up in expectation, pouting when I didn’t stop to pet her. “What are you looking at?” I snarled. Tail straight in the air, she paraded over to her dish and waited for me to make amends. Figuring a little kitty karma wouldn’t hurt, I gave her a treat before pulling out the phone book.

Angelica wasn’t listed under Kravitz, but when I looked up Woodward, I hit pay dirt. A Trevor Woodward lived at the address listed on the packing slip.

Well, not anymore.

Apparently, the information in the phone book was out-of-date. Obsolete, just like Trevor. Apparently, too, the lingerie store had made a fatal boo-boo. It had sent the underwear to the bill-to address instead of the ship-to.

“Where shall we send ze underwear, Monsieur Dunwell?” I imagined the little French salesgirl asking. She’d be bursting out of her bustier, teetering on four-inch heels.

“The lady is at this address,” Jeffrey would answer, scribbling away.

Lady, my ass.

Jeffrey might have gotten away with it, if not for the screw-up. Even if I’d been in charge of the household accounts, he knew I’d never see the bill. He had a few credit cards apart from me entirely, which he used for his other business.

Clearly, not all his business was business.

I ran back to the bedroom and threw myself onto the bed, but the tears wouldn’t come. Maybe I wouldn’t let them. Maybe I feared I’d never be able to turn them off.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. It’s just a fling, I told myself. Didn’t these things usually end? But at what price? Thoroughly chastised and emotionally castrated, the errant husband begs for forgiveness, and the betrayed wife is torn between saving her marriage and ripping out his heart.

That lowlife sack of shit.

An hour later, he called to say he’d be late and don’t hold dinner. I got dressed, tossed the tart’s tawdry togs into the trash, and headed out to Lariat Lane.

And I waited.

And then I saw him. With great flourish, he swerved his BMW into her driveway, jumped out of the car, and headed up the walkway. Coward that I was, I sped away.

 

Sex, Lies & Hot Tubs is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99

Connect with Elissa Ambrose:

Author Website: www.elissaambrose.com

Author Facebook Page: http://www.facebook.com/elissa.h.ambrose

Author Twitter Page: https://twitter.com/#!/ElissaAmbrose

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $5, Frugal Find of the Day, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: The House of Six Doors, Patricia Selbert {$2.99}

December 13, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Patricia Selbert‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

 

Description of The House of Six Doors:

Winner USA “Best Books 2011″ Awards

Multicultural Fiction

Finalist in General Fiction and Women’s Lit

1st Runner Up Eric Hoffer Award 2011 General Fiction

Serena, at thirteen, leaves her home on the colorful Caribbean island of Curaçao and her beloved grandmother, Oma, when her ambitious, impulsive, and emotionally unstable mother takes her and her sister to the United States in pursuit of the American Dream. They drive from Miami to Hollywood, where their luck runs out and a 1963 Ford Galaxie becomes their first American home. Compelling and exotic, the narrative weaves together the hard realities of 1970s Hollywood and memories of an innocent past. The story is rich and tangy, filled with images from around the world. The timeless wisdom Serena’s grandmother imparted to her becomes the compass by which Serena navigates the unscrupulous world she confronts. Filled with brilliant and visceral characters from multiple countries that come to life and reveal themselves and their cultures, The House of Six Doors gives the reader an intimate look at the complexities of an immigrant’s journey and a young girl’s coming of age in a multicultural Los Angeles. A pageturner, this story is so distinct and intimate that it becomes universal and leaves the reader with profound insights.

 

Accolade:

The US Review of Books

“The House Of Six Doors was a landhuis, or plantation house, that my grandfather owned. It was painted a brilliant cobalt blue  with white trim”

This story plays upon your senses, making you feel the terror and pain of Serena and her sister, Hendrika, as they leave the only stability and family they have known. The pair travel to the United States from Curacao with their adventure seeking, emotionally unstable, mother. Mama was like a butterfly, flitting from one flower to another. She was always uprooting her family and moving them somewhere better, but their mother’s obsession with money, which began when she returned from the war in Europe, transforms into an unfulfilled quest for riches, causing untold emotional and physical damage to her children.

The girls’ grandmother, Oma, was one of the few people that had given the children stability and guidance. She loved her daughter, but felt sorrow for the pain her poor life choices caused her grandchildren. Struggling in a new land and culture finally gave way to a semblance of a good life for Serena, although Hendrika wasn’t so fortunate. The family’s earlier struggles left her drug dependant, resulting in deportation to Curacao. Still their wretched unhappiness makes the few triumphs truly exhilarating.

Patricia Selbert is an author with genuine knowledge of immigrating to the United States. The research and compassion are evident. With a compelling plot and characters, the reader is held from the early going, experiencing the colorful Caribbean culture in matching verse.

 

Reviews:

The House of Six Doors currently has a customer review rating of 4.5 stars with 17 reviews! Read the reviews here.

 

The House of Six Doors is available to purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99

 

An excerpt from The House of Six Doors:

Curaçao Remembered

Raised in Curaçao speaking four languages, Patricia Selbert has always drawn her inspiration from her native island, with its rich history, vibrant architecture, stunning natural beauty, and diverse, resourceful people.  This excerpt from the novel takes us back to Curaçao in the 1960s.

…It was getting dark. Serena sat in the back seat of her family’s car as she waited for her mother and sister to return from another job interview. Their move to Hollywood, California had not turned out as they’d expected. They were living in their car and struggling to survive. Serena longed to be back home, she closed her eyes and recalled happier times in Curaçao.

… My grandfather, stood in front of me. “Let’s go to the House of Six Doors!” he declared. The landhuis was a one-and-a-half-hour drive from town and down dusty dirt roads, and about half a mile from the ocean. Next to the house was a windmill to lift water from the well. There were no other buildings for miles around, just rolling hills and gray-green brush.

The house got its name because it had six doors, three on the ocean side and three on the bush side. The ocean-side doors opened directly on the center of the house. Here there was a large living room, a dining room, and a kitchen. The three bush-side doors opened onto a gallery that ran the entire length of the house. Oma had said all the plantation houses were built this way to let the trade winds flow through them. When I asked her why six doors and not four or eight, she told me each door had a purpose. The three ocean-side doors were to bring in gratitude, wisdom, and compassion, and the three bush-side doors were to let out greed, ignorance, and anger. I loved staying at the House of Six Doors.

I found myself sitting in the backseat of Opa’s car, cradling on my lap the cake Oma had made six months before for his upcoming birthday. It was a Bolo Pretu, a black fruitcake soaked in rum, Curaçao liqueur, and Marsala wine, and decorated with snow-white icing and tiny silver balls of candy. Bolo Pretu was made only for very special occasions and tasted best six months to a year after it had been made. Opa’s birthday must have been a significant one, although Oma didn’t mention his age.

We traveled to the landhuis in my grandfather’s car. Boxes were tied to the roof of the car with rope; the trunk was so stuffed that several boxes were hanging out halfway. On the way, we stopped three times. We stopped at Shon Pètchi’s house, a modest mud house painted red with two green windows on either side of a green front door. The thatch on the roof was dry and sparse. Shon Pètchi came running when he saw our car arrive. He waved and smiled as if we were Santa Claus. Chickens and goats scattered in all directions. Three dogs tied on long ropes under a tree barked furiously when Oma got out of the car and went to greet Shon Pètchi. She shook his hand and asked how he and his family had been since the last time she had seen him. His wife came out of the house with three of her children. Her oldest daughter stopped feeding the donkey and smiled at us. It was good to see familiar faces. “I’m glad everyone is well. Look how much the children have grown,” Oma complimented him.

“Thank you, Shon Elena, thank you for your kind words. How long will you be staying at Kas di Seis Porta? Are you having any parties?”

“Oh yes, we’ll be here for the summer, and this year Don Diego’s birthday will be a big celebration.” I listened from the car. I was bursting with impatience to see all of Oma and Opa’s friends and my aunts, uncles, and cousins again.

“Would you like a goat for the party? I have some fat ones, really nice ones. They’ll be ready two weeks from Saturday. That’s the day, no?”

“Yes, that’s the day, but I would like to cook iguana. This is a very important year.” Shon Pètchi smiled and nodded; the whites of his eyes and his white teeth glittered in the sun against his black skin.

“Ah, Don Diego is having a special birthday? All right, I will find you the fattest, tastiest iguanas on the island.” Iguanas once had been abundant on Curaçao but now they were difficult to find. “Don’t worry, Shon Elena, I will catch them myself.”

A mango dropped from the tree, just missing his shoulder. Everyone looked up. Hidden among the branches was a ten-year-old boy, one of Shon Pètchi’s sons, trying to make himself invisible. I knew how much fun it was to climb a mango tree. Shon Pètchi frowned at his son and then turned back to my grandmother, apologizing and smiling.

We drove on down the dusty road lined with thorny, small-leaved shrubs. The occasional black-and-yellow barika hel flew from its hiding place, startled by the sound of the car. A turn off the main road led us to the beach and Shon Momo’s house. His one-room house was painted light blue with dark blue doors and windows. The recently thatched roof was golden yellow. Shon Momo sat in his rocking chair under a big tamarind tree.

He was asleep as we drove up, but when Opa turned off the engine he opened his eyes and stared at us as if we were a mirage. His three short wooden boats lay in the yard, fishing nets scattered around them. Fishing lines were hanging in the trees and an old anchor leaned against the house. His dog, tied on a rope, barked and wagged his tail. Oma got out of the car and slowly approached Shon Momo, who recognized her as she got closer, and his face lit up. “Shon Elena, kontá bai?” How are you? Very kindly, he took my grandmother’s hands in both of his and, nodding and smiling, he welcomed her and asked what he could catch for her.

His black skin looked like polished leather from being out on the ocean for so many years. He waved to my grandfather as he moved slowly and gently to Opa’s car, as if he were a boat on a calm sea. He took my grandfather’s hand in his, his big black hand covering Opa’s slight white one, leaving only Opa’s wrist showing. Shon Momo assured my grandfather he would bring him all the fish he could eat. With a smile and a wave, we were on our way again. Lizards scurried in panic as the car bumped along the dusty road.

Shon Tisha’s tiny pink house had a corrugated roof and a car in the driveway. The antenna on the roof proudly announced she owned a television. A chicken-wire fence ran around her yard, confining her dogs, cats, chickens, and goats. Shon Tisha was a very large woman; her hips jutted out eight inches to either side. She could easily rest children or baskets on them. We picked up her daughter, Mirelva, who would clean and serve while we were at the landhuis. Mirelva and I had played together for longer than I could remember. She knew me so well we could communicate without saying a word.

“How long before we get to the House of Six Doors from here?” I asked Oma.

“Well, if we were traveling by horse and buggy, the way your grandfather and I used to go, it would be another hour, but since we are in a car, it will be only fifteen minutes more. Aren’t you lucky?” Oma smiled. We turned onto another road. The House of Six Doors came into view as a speck at the top of the hill in the distance. A panoramic view of the landscape appeared as we ascended. Scrubby divi-divi trees, with their gnarly trunks and their branches all leaning in the same direction, were reminders that the trade winds always blew the same way.

Oma pointed out the window. “Serena, look at those trees. Curaçao doesn’t get enough rain to grow big shade trees so it gets strong winds to shape the trees we have, into giving shade.” It was true; a divi-divi tree had the perfect shape to lie under in the midday sun. As our car climbed to the top of the hill, a herd of wild goats scurried in front of us.

Opa blew the horn and waved his hands outside the window, trying to give the goats some direction, but they were confused and terrified as they dashed back and forth, bleating frantically. Opa stepped on the gas to scare the goats with the engine’s noise, but the car surged forward, barely missing one of them. The cobalt-blue house patiently waited for us against a backdrop of green-blue ocean and light-blue sky.

As soon as we arrived, we opened all the doors and windows to clear out the musty smell of the closed house; it was immediately replaced with the smell of the ocean. I helped Oma take off the colorful sheets that covered the furniture. Mirelva was busy unloading and unpacking.

Opa went to the kitchen and came back with a large bottle of blue Curaçao liqueur and three tiny glasses. “Ban dal un bríndis, Elena,” he said, calling for a toast as he poured. Opa always kept a large supply of Curaçao liqueur at the House of Six Doors. He put his arm around Oma and she raised her glass to meet his. “Un bida largu bon bibá,” he said. To a long life, well lived. Opa and Oma clinked their glasses, then each touched their glasses to mine, which contained only a tiny drop of Blue Curaçao. I pretended to drink: I didn’t like the taste of the liqueur, but I loved the occasions on which it was served. Opa took Oma’s glass from her and set it on the table. He hummed an old waltz as he took Oma in his arms, and they danced across the room. I sat watching them, giddy with joy.

Serena opened her eyes and her joy disintegrated. She realized she was still in the car in Hollywood, alone.

 

The House of Six Doors is available to purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $2.99

 

Connect with Patricia Selbert:

Websites: http://thehouseofsixdoors.com/ & http://patriciaselbert.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/patriciaselbert.author

Twitter: https://twitter.com/PASelbert

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $5, Frugal Find of the Day, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: A Bibliophile Christmas (The Bibliophiles), Karen Wojcik Berner {$0.99}

December 10, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Description of A Bibliophile Christmas:

HOLIDAY DIGITAL SHORT

From the author of “A Whisper to a Scream (The Bibliophiles: Book One)” and “Until My Soul Gets It Right (The Bibliophiles: Book Two)” comes a heartwarming holiday tale of friendship and family.

Sarah Anderson and Annie Jacobs have not had the best of years. And now, here come the holidays.

Great.

Sarah’s husband Tom is stuck in Boston after a nor’easter dumps a foot of snow on the day he is scheduled to leave for home.

And Annie is working hard at picking up the pieces of her life after a painful divorce.

But, maybe with a little help from their friends, Christmas won’t be a total wash after all.

This holiday season, take a break from all the hustle and bustle, pour yourself a beverage, and have “A Bibliophile Christmas.”

 

Accolades:

“At turns funny, frustrating (at least for the characters), and touching, A Bibliophile Christmas is a fun read that will be appreciated by fans of Berner’s series or anyone looking to get into the holiday spirit. Chances are you’ll recognize situations you’ve experienced yourself.”-BigAl’s Books&Pals

“A heartwarming tale from one of our favorite authors, Karen Wojcik Berner’s A Bibliophile Christmas is a story of love, family, and friendship that can make a chilly day much more pleasant. Featuring near-disasters around the holidays, Sarah and Annie need to find a way to rescue the holidays from bad luck and disappointment. This is a story any true bibliophile will love!” – Kindle Fire Department


Reviews:

A Bibliophile Christmas currently has a customer review rating of 4 stars from 1 review. Read the reviews here.


A Bibliophile Christmas is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99

 

An excerpt from A Bibliophile Christmas:

“God rest ye merry, gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay…”

Of course, men need not dismay, Sarah Anderson thought. What did they have to do for the holidays anyhow? Show up? Wow, that was taxing.

Her husband slammed the lid of his suitcase. “I’ll be back on Friday. Will you pick me up, or do you want me to take a cab?”

“If you’re back on Friday, you might as well go straight to the lawyer’s office.”

“Christ, Sarah. That’s extreme.”

“Friday’s December twenty-sixth.”

“Christmas is this week?”

“And they pay you the big bucks? You’d better be here on the twenty-third. The boys would be heartbroken if you missed Christmas Eve.” She lowered her voice. “You have to help me with the you-know-whats.” Let Tom think the kids cared if he made it home for Christmas all he wanted, as long as he returned in time to assemble the various cars and bikes slated to magically appear under the tree on Christmas morning. That was the one thing on her “To Do” list with the initial “T” next to it, one measly task among the never-ending items marked with an “S.”

“Four days? How the hell am I going to get the system up and running in only four days?” He picked up his suitcase, laptop backpack, and phone. “I’ve got to call Deanna and Shrevani and move Wednesday’s meeting to early Tuesday.”

She trailed him through the kitchen, family room and down the hall. He stopped briefly at the front door to dial a number on his phone.

She leaned toward him. “Have a good trip?”

He merely nodded, shushing her, as he balanced the phone between his cheek and shoulder. Picking up his luggage, he dashed outside to the waiting limousine.

Silly her, she had thought he might actually give her a kiss. “No need for formal goodbyes,” she muttered, slamming the front door so hard that the pinecones almost flew off the wreath.
Seven days until the big event. By this stage of the game, Sarah had already completed seventy-five percent of her list. Christmas cards depicting Santa’s workshop were signed, addressed, stamped, and mailed, complete with the requisite darling photo of the boys. The tree was decorated, wrapped boxes containing cinder blocks placed strategically around it, a barrier through which two-year-old Alex couldn’t pass. Since he had become mobile, Alex had spent most of the last year climbing. First, it was stairs. Going up was no problem. Watching him come down was the part that nearly gave Sarah a heart attack after seeing him tumble and land with a thud. Blood trickled over his mouth and chin from his nose banging on the last stair. Eventually, the little tyke learned how to scoot safely down each step on his bottom. After stairs, Alex graduated to the backyard fort’s ladder, followed by the rigging leading to the fort’s top tier. Each stage was accompanie d by many “Oh, shit!” moments that required several deep breaths for Mommy and the secret desire to down a bazillion martinis to calm her nerves.

The Christmas presents had been purchased, wrapped, and hidden someplace high and safe from prying eyes. Nicky was getting older and had heard some rumors questioning the validity of a certain round fellow typically clad in red. Other gifts, like those for the extended family, were also hidden in case Alex couldn’t control himself again. Last year, he had flown through all the presents on Christmas Eve like some sort of Tasmanian Devil. What did he know? He couldn’t read, an oversight her sister-in-law Marjorie could not get past. “When Peter was that age, he was already reading Cat in the Hat.”

Really? Her son could barely form a two-word sentence. He would be lucky not to flunk second grade.

The only items left on the “To Do” list were grocery shopping, cleaning, baking, and cooking. Tight, but doable. Maybe she and the boys would bake a batch of cookies together tomorrow

Anyhow, Tom would be home to occupy the kids while she prepared as much of Christmas dinner as possible before they left for the Andersons’. She was heading into the home stretch.

***

Sarah snapped Alex into a fresh, one-piece footie pajama. Yawning, he cuddled into her arms as they read Goodnight Moon. Somewhere between saying goodnight to the stars and air, Sarah kissed his damp head, a whiff of sweet honey combined with baby shampoo filling her nostrils.

“Mommy loves you,” she whispered. Alex smiled and pointed at the book, reminding her she wasn’t finished. After the last page, she tucked him in, turned on his teddy bear music box, and closed his door halfway.

“Hey, wanna watch Frosty?”

“Shush, honey! I just put Alex down.”

“Oops, sorry,” Nicky whispered. “Let’s go downstairs.”

They crept along, soft strains of Brahms’ “Lullaby” echoing down the hall, mindful that any creak of the floor could potentially wake up Alex, whom they still referred to as “the baby,” even though he was firmly into the toddler stage and would be going to preschool next year. Sarah didn’t want to think of that right now.

She had to get through Christmas first.

Copyright © 2012 Karen Wojcik Berner

A Bibliophile Christmas is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $0.99


Connect with Karen Wojcik Berner:

Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $1, Frugal Find of the Day, Short Stories, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , , , , ,

Double Love (Sweet Valley High #1), Francine Pascal {$2.99}

December 2, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Who will Todd choose—the glamorous Jessica or the gentle Elizabeth?

Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield are identical twins—beautiful, blonde, perfect—but they couldn’t be more different from each other. Elizabeth is friendly, good-natured, and kind, and the complete opposite of her clever, conniving sister. Jessica believes the world revolves around her…and the problem is that most of the time it does. Jessica always gets what she wants—at school, amongst her friends, and especially with boys.

This time, she’s got her eye on Todd Wilkins, the good-looking star of Sweet Valley High’s basketball team—and the one boy Elizabeth really likes. Now the twins are in a game of double love, with Todd as first prize. Will Elizabeth fight for the Todd? What will Jessica stoop to in order to get what she wants? Can the bonds of sisterhood stand up to the pangs of a broken heart?

Welcome to Sweet Valley High…

prevail?

What readers are saying:

“I’m so excited that these have finally been released on Kindle. I have been counting down the days. Now I can take a stroll down nostalgia lane with the Wakefield twins.”

“I love it that the 1st 12 are on kindle & I love the original photos for the covers…I hope they release the rest on kindle including the Super Ed books and the Sagas.”

The average Amazon reader review rating is currently 5 stars, with 2 reviews.

Click here to read more about and purchase Double Love (Sweet Valley High #1) for $2,99 at Amazon

Filed Under: 5 Star Frugal Finds, Fiction, Finds Under $5, Women's Fiction, Young Adult Tagged With: , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: Sobornost, Austin Wimberly {$3.99}

November 25, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Austin Wimberly’s Frugal Find Under Nine:

 

Description of Sobornost:

A story of mothers and sons, of acceptance and rejection, set in Yekaterinburg, Russia in the years after the collapse of communism, Sobornost is the story of one boy’s adoption and of three Russian mothers who are forced to make heartbreaking decisions for their children.

 

Accolades:

Thought-provoking and entertaining, the stories of these women are unforgettable.


Amazon Reader Reviews:

Sobornost currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 5 stars, with 1 review! Read the reviews here!

 

Sobornost is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $3.99

 

Excerpt from Sobornost:

She lived an immoral life.  That’s all they said about her.  They never told us what she did, but left her sins nameless.  Illegitimate.

Orphaned.  I never told you what they said.  It didn’t seem right.  Whatever else she did, she gave birth to you, my greatest joy.  I couldn’t call the source of so much good “immoral.”

You asked why she couldn’t keep you, and I said she was sick.  You asked what she had, and I said I didn’t know.  You asked if I would ever get sick like that, and I held you tight and said, no, of course not.  That tamped down your wondering for a while, but the questions remained, smoldering.

It’s been over fifteen years.  Years in which I’ve watched you grow, watched you become.  A steady stream of firsts.  Steps.  Words.   Another one last week, when you got your driver’s license.  All of it happening so fast that it seems like I put you down in the crib one night and awoke to find you shaving.  And after all this time, the same questions.  Questions that deserve an answer.  Answers I can’t give.

I’ll never know why she couldn’t keep you.  I’ve tried to understand, to attach some rationale, but it will forever remain a mystery.  The only thing I know for certain is that she loves you.  She always has.  Deeply.  She made it clear, hoping that I would pass her love on to you.  It’s taken me this long to figure out how.

 

Sobornost is available for purchase at:

Amazon Kindle for $3.99

 

Connect with Austin Wimberly:

 

 

On Twitter – @AustinWimberly1

 

 

Filed Under: 5 Star Frugal Finds, Fiction, Finds Under $5, Frugal Find of the Day, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , ,

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

November 21, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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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: Pretty Girls Don’t Cry, Tony J Winn {$2.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!}

October 9, 2012 By Leave a Comment

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Description of Pretty Girls Don’t Cry:

Afternoon radio show host Nora Scott has always considered herself an ugly duckling, and the prosthetic foot she wears on her right leg isn’t helping.

When she’s on the air, as a faceless voice, she’s Eugene, Oregon’s favorite personality. Off the air, she’s … not so great, hiding her face and failing to connect with a guy for more than one night.

Now she’s being pursued by two men, a work friend who wants to be more than friends, and the guy she loved when she was fourteen, before the accident.

Nora must figure out what she really wants, as well as how much she can forgive.

 

Accolades:

“This is a daring and courageous book in many ways.”
J. Clarke 

“A very pleasing and humorous read.”
S. Christensen

“It made me happy, mad, laugh, sad … it was really a great read!”
N. Larimer

 

Amazon Reader Reviews:

Pretty Girls Don’t Cry currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4 stars, with 34 reviews! Read the reviews here!

 

Pretty Girls Don’t Cry is available for purchase at:

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

 

Excerpt from Pretty Girls Don’t Cry:

Nora had a face for radio, as the expression goes, so when rumors surfaced that a hot, single man was in the station that day, she didn’t have high hopes. Nora finished the last live segment of her afternoon show with her attention partly on the studio’s interior hall window, hoping to get a glimpse of this Aaron fellow. When he did walk by, she committed a mistake she rarely did. She stuttered through five seconds of nearly-dead air.

The back of his head disappeared, down the hall and around the corner. The next song queued up in Selector was an older one, Polyester Bride by Liz Phair, and Nora hummed along happily, for possibly the thousandth time. Nora felt women were naturally suited to work at a radio station, because they enjoy songs the more they hear them. It’s the men who crave novelty.
As Nora sang along, about bartenders, and alligator cowboy boots bought on sale, she also indulged in a daydream about being a polyester bride, whatever that meant, and walking up the aisle toward Aaron.

From her quick glimpse, she’d seen his strong chin, his just-right nose, and dark, nearly-black hair, cut a little too short, showing a light-skinned tan line at the back of his neck. From his posture and gait, she guessed there was no potbelly under his sport jacket. This was not a man who worked in radio. Nora’s friend Kylie said he was a musician, just moved to town to set up a recording studio, and interested in doing some contract work before business picked up.

The door to the studio opened, startling Nora. She immediately covered her nose with her right hand, rubbing that imaginary itch on her forehead with her index finger, as she often did. It was a face-improvement technique only second to sticking one’s head in the sand.

Murray, the General Manager, stepped into the small studio and adjusted the waistband of his pants, the buttons of his shirt straining to keep his flesh concealed. “And this is Nora,” Murray said to the good-looking visitor. “Her sweet voice in the afternoon makes her a subject of many a fantasy for our male listeners, and some of the ladies too, if you know what I mean.” He smacked the visitor, Aaron, on the back.

Aaron stepped forward, hand extended. “Nora, is it?”

He was as cute as Kylie had said, and the air around him had a charge of electricity, like the beach. Nora switched her forehead-itching, face-shielding hand from right to left and timidly shook Aaron’s hand.

He had light brown eyes, dark, thick eyelashes, and was clean shaven. Girls probably threw themselves at him, and he was staring, with a perplexed look, at Nora.

He’s probably curious about my hair, Nora told herself. Just the hair, that’s all.

If she met someone at the beach or the gym, they’d immediately notice Nora wore a prosthetic on her right leg to replace her missing foot. But, with jeans on, her hair would be the unusual thing people would notice. It was a medium shade of blond, but intensely curly, possibly from some distant African-American ancestor. Her nose, however, was decidedly Caucasian, with a high bridge—a ski-jump, as some would call it—tapering down to a boxy, sturdy-looking tip. It was the kind of nose that entered the room ahead of a person, and Nora hoped Aaron was indeed staring at her kinky hair and not the nose she was trying to veil behind her fingers.

“Nice to meet you,” she said to Aaron in her off-air voice, which was slightly higher in pitch. She worked hard to not sound shrill on air.

“Same,” he said, tipping his head to the side. He made her feel naked, with his gentle-looking brown eyes. He made her forget anyone else was in the room.

 

Pretty Girls Don’t Cry is available for purchase at:

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

 

Connect with Tony J Winn:

Author Website: www.tonyjwinn.com

Author Facebook Page: www.facebook.com/dalyamoon


Filed Under: Fiction, Finds Under $5, FREE with Prime, Frugal Find of the Day, Romance, Women's Fiction Tagged With: , , ,

THE FRUGAL FIND OF THE DAY: The Ninth Step, Barbara Taylor Sissel {$2.99 or Borrow FREE w/Prime!} {PLUS! The winners of THE VOLUNTEER GIVEAWAY!}

October 2, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Sponsored Post

Barbara Taylor Sissel‘s Frugal Find Under Nine:

BUT FIRST ~ CONGRATULATIONS TO THE 3 THE VOLUNTEER GIVEAWAY WINNERS!

Pauline Tilbe, Amy, & Cecilia ~ Author Barbara Taylor Sissel will be sending your Kindle Copies soon! :) Now, another wonderful novel by Barbara ~

 

Description of The Ninth Step:

Livie Saunders is fluent in the language of flowers; she taught the meanings to her fiancé, Cotton O’Dell, but then Cotton vanishes without explanation on their wedding day forcing Livie to learn the language of desolation. Heartbroken, she buries her wedding gown beneath a garden pond and resolves to move on, but there are nights when she slips . . . into a sequined red dress and a pair of stiletto heels, a stranger’s bed, a little anonymous oblivion that is not without consequence. Still, she recovers a semblance of ordinary life and imagines she is content. But then, six years later, Cotton returns and her carefully constructed world shatters. The old questions bite like flies. Questions that Cotton O’Dell prays he can answer. He prays that Livie, whom he has never stopped loving, will be moved to forgive him. But there is more than Livie to be concerned about. There is Cotton’s act of cowardice that caused him to become a fugitive in the first place . . . that crime he committed for which the legal clock is still ticking. That thing he did that will shock Livie to her core once she learns of it. Livie is desperate to trust Cotton, but then he goes missing again. Time telescopes, avenues of escape close, and as lives hang in the balance, choice dithers between mercy and revenge. And a decision that will take only a moment will carry the consequences of a lifetime.

THE NINTH STEP is a story of redemption, of being brought to your knees in the sober light of day to face a monstrous error and yet somehow finding the strength to stand up, to try and make it right. Even if that decision breaks your heart, endangers your freedom and ultimately threatens your life.

 

Accolades:

 

The Ninth Step is an unforgettable story of loss, forgiveness, and the true cost of redemption, as beautifully-written as it is compelling. Barbara Taylor Sissel’s writing is worth savoring. Since reading the book, I’ve been recommending it like crazy to anyone who’ll listen.

Barbara’s writing is superb, throwing you into the suspense, heartbreak, tension, humility, friendship, and love of the characters as they struggle through life. A Great read and I highly recommend this book!

I recommend this as a fun book to all my 12-step friends. I loved the characters and the mystery. The story ended perfectly with just enough mystery and love to fulfilled my likes in a good read.I loved the book.


Amazon Reader Reviews:

The Ninth Step currently has a Amazon reader review rating of 4.5 stars, with 38 reviews! Read the reviews here!

 

The Ninth Step is available for purchase at:

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

 

Excerpt from The Ninth Step:

THE NINTH STEP

1
It was late on a Thursday afternoon in April and Livie was at the top of Peachtree Lane when she saw the car, a Mini Cooper, at the bottom of the long shallow hill where the water tended to pond after a heavy rain. It was parked off the road, on the wrong side, and the driver’s side door was pushed open into the roadside scruff. She had only moments to wonder about the trouble before she caught sight of the injured dog and the woman on her knees beside it. The woman looked up as Livie approached and her eyes, when they locked with Livie’s, were so filled with frightened entreaty that Livie’s heart jammed and what flooded her mind was a panicked impulse to floor the accelerator and flee the scene. Of course she didn’t. She parked her SUV and got out, cutting herself off from the vaguely shameful notion that there was a part of her that could have left the woman and her dog in the road as if they were nothing.

“Someone hit him and didn’t stop.” The woman began explaining before Livie could ask.

“Poor doggie. He’s yours?” Livie knelt beside the woman careful to keep clear of the blood oozing from underneath the dog’s hindquarters. A trickle flowed from its nose, but it was still breathing, dipping air in small labored doses.

The woman nodded, hands fluttering above the wounded animal like helpless birds. “He’s so big, I don’t think I can lift him.”

He was big, some sort of German Shepherd mix, Livie thought. “What’s his name?”

“Razzleberry. Razz for short.” The woman picked up a cell phone lying in the tarred grit beside her. “I called my husband, but he’s not answering. He works in Houston anyway. It would take him an hour to get up here.”

Livie glanced up the road, wishing Charlie would appear over the rise in his truck. He would know exactly how to move this dog without hurting him more. “We have to get him into town to the vet.”

“I know, but he won’t fit in my car.” The woman looked at the Mini Cooper.

“We’ll put him in mine.”

“Oh, no, I can’t ask you to do that. He’s bleeding.”

Livie stood up. “I don’t mind.” She opened the hatch, took out the blanket she ordinarily used as a liner underneath the plants she ferried to her landscape jobs and brought it back to where Razz lay. The woman was bent over him now, murmuring near his ear, things like, “My poochie boy,” and, “My silly willy boy,” and she sounded ridiculous and so tender that Livie’s throat closed. Her heart fluttered. Please, please let us get him into the car and into town without killing him. . . .

“We’ll make a sling?” The woman looked from the blanket to Livie to be sure they were thinking alike.

“If he’ll let us,” Livie said. “Sometimes they snap when they’re hurt.”

“He’s such a big baby, I don’t think he will. I’m Nancy McKesson, by the way.” The woman stood up, offering her hand.

“Olivia Saunders, Livie.” In Livie’s grasp, Nancy’s hand felt as unpampered as Livie’s own.

They knelt beside Razz again and gently shifted him onto the blanket. He offered no resistance other than to whimper.

“See, he’s just a c–cream puff.” Nancy’s voice broke. She set her teeth together and pushed her palms down her thighs. “What kind of person does this? Just hits an animal and drives away? How could you sleep nights?”

Livie shook her head; she didn’t want to think about it. “If anyone can fix him, Doc Forney can.”

“He’s the local vet? I’m–I’m not familiar. We only moved here two weeks ago from Colorado.”

“Ah. I thought you were new to the neighborhood. You bought the Bennett place.”

Nancy nodded.

“We’re neighbors sort of. I have the ten acres on the other side of Charlie Wister.”

“Oh, his place is next door to mine, right?”

“Uh-huh. You ready?”

Together they lifted Razz’s weight between them, sidestepped to the car and managed to slide him inside. They waited to see his chest rise and fall and shared a look. It wasn’t exactly triumph that passed between them, but some paler shade of hope. Livie closed the hatch carefully. She found her keys and inserted them into the ignition. She was trembling; she couldn’t help it. But so was Nancy. From the effort and the anxiety, the sheer will to keep this dog alive.

Livie eased onto the road, wincing at every bump, fighting a renewed urge to floor the accelerator.

Nancy talked about the move from Colorado, describing it as difficult. The animals had all been spooked. “Charlie helped me corral one of the horses last week,” she said. She propped her elbow on the window ledge, rested her forehead in her hand. “I knew better than to leave the gate open. I knew Razz would run. It’s my fault he was hit.”

“Don’t blame yourself.” Livie offered the bit of advice automatically.

#

By the time Livie brought Nancy back to her car, the dip at the bottom of the hill was feathered in light-silvered shadows and the faint scent of new-mown grass floated in the air. Livie let down the windows. Nancy got out of the SUV and when she looked in at Livie, her eyes filled. “The only reason Razz has any chance is because you stopped,” she said in a voice that slipped and caught.

Livie looked away. I almost didn’t. The words hung in her mind. Some nettlesome prick of conscience goaded her to say them, to admit she didn’t deserve admiration or gratitude, that she wasn’t so pure and noble, that sometimes, she didn’t much like herself.

She met Nancy’s gaze. “It was nothing,” she said, instead. Because the truth was too hard and confusing.

#

Charlie was in the rocking chair on her front porch, drinking a Coors beer when she drove up. It was a ritual they shared on summer evenings. He’d rattle up her driveway in his old beat-up Chevy truck, slam the door that sounded like a tin can and holler, “Livie, gal. You got a cold beer for a tired old man?”

He wasn’t that old, sixty-five. Livie had watched him work rings around men half his age. He was an architect by trade. Retired, he’d say, if she mentioned it, but they’d worked several projects together in the three years since she’d met him and she knew better. She was more likely to sit down on a job than he was.

She walked up on the porch, sat down in the swing, nodded at the beer in his hand. “You helped yourself.”

“Door was open,” he said. “How many times do I have to remind you not to go off and leave your door unlocked.”

She smiled. “It’s the country, Charlie, not downtown Houston.”

He drank his beer. “That used to make a damn, but it doesn’t anymore. You’re too trusting. Where’ve you been anyway? You’re late.”

“I need one of those, I think.” Livie nodded at his beer.

He went inside letting the screen door snap shut behind him and she pulled her feet up under her, jostling the swing on purpose just to hear it creak. The sun teetered now behind the ancient wind-bent pecan tree that kept watch like an old druid over the field across the road. A frog peeped, a descending melody of notes. Out on the highway, a semi ground through a sequence of gears. She heard a horse whinny and thought of Nancy.

She thought of Charlie who could be crotchety and severe, and more protective than the oldest of her old broody hens. He was the dad she’d never had. She thought of last Friday, the explanation she owed him for her behavior that still made her squirm. He was too private himself to ask, but the worry was present in his eyes every time he looked at her. She had to clear the air; she just didn’t know how.

When he came back and handed her the Coors, Livie thanked him and told him about Razz.

“Doc Forney’ll fix him if anyone can,” Charlie said when she was finished.

“That’s what I told Nancy. Poor lady was devastated, blaming herself.”

“Ought to go around checking bumpers, see if we can find who did it.”

“Some jerk,” Livie said. “Is that the mail?”

Charlie bent over the arm of the rocker, scooped up the pile and handed it to her.

Livie riffled through it, the usual assortment: junk flyers, a catalogue from Logee’s Nursery, a utility bill. There was a note from one of her clients. “You remember Charlotte Gibbs?” Livie waved the sheet of scented stationery, cream-colored with spidery handwriting rendered in ink the same shade as strong tea. “She wants me to come and speak to her garden club.”

“And you thought she didn’t like the job you did in her yard.”

“She didn’t. She just wants me there so she can humiliate me in front of all those old biddy friends of hers. Acid-tongued witch.” Livie slid Charlotte’s note underneath the pile of mail in her lap and there it was, a white number 10 envelope addressed to her.

In his hand.

His.

At least she thought it was. It was dusk now, the light was vague, plus she hadn’t seen his handwriting in six years.

Livie put her feet down flat.

“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked. “You look like you swallowed a grasshopper.”

Livie picked up the envelope and held it closer to her face. “It’s from Cotton,” she said.

“The Cotton? The famous elusive sonofabitch Cotton O’Dell?”

Livie nodded.

“Well, are you going to open it?”

The Ninth Step is available for purchase at:

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

 

Connect with Barbara Taylor Sissel:

Author Website: http://barbarataylorsissel.com/index.php

Author Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/BarbaraTaylorSissel#

Author Twitter Page: https://twitter.com/#!/barbarasissel

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