Showing posts with label Blog Tour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blog Tour. Show all posts
Hello my loves,
I'm back today with a book spotlight on a gorgeous festive story by the fabulous Daisy James - Mistletoe & Mystery!
Let's dive straight in shall we?
Title: Mistletoe
& Mystery
Author Name: Daisy
James
Previous Books (if
applicable): Sunshine & Secrets and
Confetti & Confusion
Genre: Women’s
Fiction
Release Date: 8th
November 2018
Book Blurb: Welcome to the Cotswolds Festive Feast
cookery course...
Fresh off the successful opening of the
Paradise Cookery School in St Lucia, Millie Harper is headed to the Cotswolds
for Christmas!
Co-presenting Claudia Croft’s famous Festive
Feast cookery course at Stonelea Manor is a dream come true for Millie…as is
reuniting with gorgeous estate manager Zach Barker.
But arriving in a winter wonderland Millie
learns the manor is under a mysterious threat. It’ll take a holiday miracle,
but Millie is determined to save the school and get Zach under the mistletoe to
finally finish what they started in the Caribbean!
Cosy up with this fun, festive visit to the
Cotswolds premier cookery school! Perfect for fans of Jenny Oliver and Sarah
Morgan
If
you loved Mistletoe & Mystery, why not read the first two stories in The
Paradise Cookery School series? Sunshine & Secrets and Confetti &
Confusions are both available now!
Links to Book:
Author Bio:
Daisy James is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the
north east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and
swift-flowing plotlines. When not scribbling away in her summerhouse, she
spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. She
loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or
indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must.
Twitter: @daisyjamesbooks
Have a look at some of the other blogs taking part in the tour for this fabulously festive read as they have reviews, Q&As, exclusive extracts and more...
Hello again my loves,
Everywhere you look it's all looking a lot like Christmas isn't it? Well as we're almost halfway into November I'm going to join the Christmas fan club by taking part in a Blog Tour for TA Williams' new novel called Dreaming of Christmas.
As a blog tour host, today I have the privilege of bringing you an festive extract of this book and I for one have my cup of tea reading to sit down and have a read.
So we'll start by looking at what the books about in a book spotlight and then we'll cosy up and have a read together shall we?
Title: Dreaming of
Christmas
Author Name: T.A.
Williams
Previous Books (if
applicable): Dreaming of Venice,
Dreaming of Florence and Dreaming of
St Tropez
Genre: Women’s
Fiction, romcom
Release Date: August
2018
Publisher: Canelo
Book Blurb: It’s the dream Christmas: snow, mountains…
and, er, an ex-boyfriend. But can Zoe still find love in the Alps?
Dumped on Christmas Eve by her long-term
boyfriend, it's been a rough year for Zoe Lumsley. But then she gets an
invitation she can’t refuse: an all expenses paid skiing holiday with old
university friends.
The bad news: her ex, Grant, will be there
with his new girlfriend. But so will her former flatmate Billy, the organiser,
and in the meantime he’s done rather well for himself. As Christmas in the Alps
approaches, it'll be great to see the old gang. Some more than others...
Perfect for readers of Tilly Tenant, Holly
Martin and Philippa Ashley, this is the perfect magical Christmas getaway from
the bestselling T.A. Williams.
Well, doesn't this sound dreamy? Shall we take a look at the extract now? I think it's a real treat to read an extract so you can make a choice as to whether this book is something that is usually your cup of tea. Please enjoy!
The actor – whose name was Dan
Greenfinch – had come across the Atlantic to London to co-star in a low-budget
movie about zombies invading Canary Wharf. His face looked seriously weathered,
and when Zoë and Ron were shown into his trailer to interview him, her first
impression was that he had maybe already applied zombie make-up. It
subsequently transpired that he hadn’t and Zoë didn’t envy the make-up artists
if he had to appear in a non-zombie role. The actor – ‘Call me Dan’ – did his
best to be hospitable by asking her if she wanted a ‘line’. This was not the
first interview she had done with showbiz folk, and she now knew what was
intended by this invitation, so she hastily shook her head.
‘Thanks, I’m working.’
‘Mind if I do?’
‘No, go ahead.’
She then had to sit there while
Call-me-Dan snorted a line of cocaine up his nose. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Subsequently, as he answered her questions, he spent most of his time rubbing
his nose, snuffling and sneezing. She shuddered surreptitiously.
The interview took about half an
hour, and then Ron spent another half-hour taking a load of photos of the
actor. Once she had finished and Ron had gone off with the PR girl to take some
shots of the set, Call-me-Dan indicated that he rather liked the look of Zoë. As
she was shaking hands with him, he gave her a lecherous leer and informed her
that sex with him would undoubtedly be the high point of her life to date. For
once, Zoë was grateful to Ron. This was the fifth time in four months that she
had been propositioned by celebrities, and the photographer had been happy to
provide her with a very effective way of refusing, without fear of being
bothered any further. Keeping a straight face, she told Call-me-Dan she
regretted she would not be able to accept his kind offer.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the
all-clear from the doctor yet.’
She didn’t say any more, but
comprehension dawned on the pockmarked face in front of her, and she was able
to leave unmolested. Unless she counted the sensation of disgust she carried
with her all the way back in the taxi.
She spent the next couple of hours
writing a two-thousand-word piece entitled ‘Zombies vs Canaries’. Just after
lunch, she sent it through to Damien, the editor, and waited for his verdict.
She didn’t have to wait long. The phone on her desk buzzed almost immediately,
and he was as succinct as ever.
‘Zoë. Get in here. Now.’
She made her way along the corridor
to his office, knocked, and went in without waiting for an answer.
‘You wanted to see me, Damien?’
As usual, he was sitting with his
back to the window so as to dazzle and intimidate anyone who came to sit
opposite him. He was wearing his usual blue striped shirt with a white collar
and cuffs, the collar open and the sleeves rolled up. He wore the same thing
every day, and opinion in the office fell into two camps. There were those who
believed he had a stock of the shirts,
one for every day of the week, while others – amongst them Zoë – felt sure he
had just the one and never took it off.
‘Yes, Zoë. Come in. Sit down.’ She
did as instructed and he immediately launched into a critique of her piece. The
crux of the problem could be summarised as ‘You didn’t like the guy, did you?’
‘Not in the slightest. He was a
slimy piece of pond life, and if the next time I see him is on my deathbed,
it’ll be too soon.’
‘Listen, Zoë, nobody says you’ve got
to like these people. I don’t like
many of them, but that’s not the point. His film company has just paid for six
full-page adverts in HC magazine and
two of our subsidiaries. That pays the bills, and that includes your salary.
While I admire your prose, describing him as having “the personality and
complexion of a fly cemetery biscuit” is not only insulting, it’s probably
actionable. So go back over it, tone it down, and for God’s sake try to sound as if you like him. All right? Got
that?’
Zoë spent the rest of the afternoon
doing as she had been instructed. At the end of the day, before going off to
meet Juliet, she emailed the piece to Damien with one line: Sanitised for your convenience. Zoë.
Please take time to visit the other blogs taking part in this tour as they will have undoubtedly have festive treats for you!
Links to Book:
Author Bio: T.A. Williams lives in Devon with his
Italian wife. He was born in England of a Scottish mother and Welsh father.
After a degree in modern languages at Nottingham University, he lived and
worked in Switzerland, France and Italy, before returning to run one of the
best-known language schools in the UK. He’s taught Arab princes, Brazilian
beauty queens and Italian billionaires. He speaks a number of languages and has
travelled extensively. He has eaten snake, still-alive fish, and alligator. A
Spanish dog, a Russian bug and a Korean parasite have done their best to eat
him in return. His hobby is long-distance cycling, but his passion is writing.
Author Social Media Links
Twitter: @TAWilliamsBooks
Hello my loves,
Today it's my turn to host the blog tour for an absolutely phenomenal book by MJ Lee called Where The Truth Lies. It's a Crime Thriller and I've fast become a huge fan of this genre.
When I read the blurb of this book, I just knew that I HAD to read it and I'm sure once you've read this post you'll be dying to read it too!
As a blog tour host, today I have the privilege of bringing you an extract of this book and I for one have my cup of tea reading to sit down and have a read.
So we'll start by looking at what the books about in a book spotlight and then we'll cosy up and have a read together shall we?
CHAPTER TWO
Present day
Today it's my turn to host the blog tour for an absolutely phenomenal book by MJ Lee called Where The Truth Lies. It's a Crime Thriller and I've fast become a huge fan of this genre.
When I read the blurb of this book, I just knew that I HAD to read it and I'm sure once you've read this post you'll be dying to read it too!
As a blog tour host, today I have the privilege of bringing you an extract of this book and I for one have my cup of tea reading to sit down and have a read.
So we'll start by looking at what the books about in a book spotlight and then we'll cosy up and have a read together shall we?
Title: Where the
Truth Lies
Author Name: M J Lee
Previous Books (if
applicable): The Murder Game and The Killing Time
Genre: Crime Fiction
Release Date: 22nd
October 2018
Publisher: Canelo
Blurb:
The
case was closed. Until people started dying… The unputdownable first DI Ridpath
crime thriller from bestseller MJ Lee
A killer in total control. A detective on
the edge. A mystery that HAS to be solved.
DI Thomas Ridpath was on the up in the
Manchester CID: a promising young detective whose first case involved capturing
a notorious serial killer. But ten years later he’s recovering from a serious
illness and on the brink of being forced out of the police. Then people start
dying: tortured, murdered, in an uncanny echo of Ridpath’s first case.
As the investigation intensifies, old bodies
go missing, records can’t be found and the murder count grows. Caught in a turf
war between the police and the coroner’s office, digging up skeletons some
would rather forget, Ridpath is caught in a race against time: a race to save
his career, his marriage… And lives.
When a detective goes missing everything is
on the line. Can Ridpath close the case and save his colleague?
I think one of the reasons I love reading crime thrillers are the perspective of the police force as my father was in the West Midlands Police (as is my Mr R) and as he worked through his specialism he was the officer that worked with SOCO and used to "draw up the fatalities" and photograph them for evidence. These days they have whole forensic teams for that. I know only too well how the pressure of working in the force can have a lasting impact upon you as an officer (from witnessing my Father as I was growing up) and also the effects it has on the families, more so today with the huge cuts, lack of resources, and poor portrayal in the media of our Blue Light Family protectors. It's more important than ever that we show our support for our officers and the work they do. So, after I went off on a little tangent there, shall we read the extract now? Yes!
CHAPTER TWO
Present day
Ridpath stood outside looking up at
the acres of plate glass covering the building and shivered. Why was he so
nervous? This was his place, his patch; he knew every inch of police
headquarters.
He took another long drag on his
cigarette. He wasn’t supposed to smoke, the doctors had told him many times,
but he was sick of them and their rules. He laughed to himself. Only he could
be sick of doctors.
He took one more life-giving suck on
the Marlboro Red and threw the butt into the drain on his right. It had been
nine months since he’d been inside this place. Nine months is a long time. A
lot could have changed. A lot probably had changed.
As his DCI, Charlie Whitworth,
always used to say; ‘Listen, Ridpath, the only constant with the police is
change. A new chief constable and we change. A new government and we change. A
new policy and we change. Only the job remains the same. We catch the bad guys
and we put them away. Remember that and you’ll go far in this job.’
Well, he had remembered it and he
had gone far.
Until nine months ago.
He pulled his jacket tighter around
himself. ‘Come on, lad, get on with it,’ he said out loud, adjusting the tie
his wife had given him to wear. It felt strange to feel the noose of the tie
around his neck, touching his Adam’s apple. You’ll get used it, he thought. You
always get used to it.
He launched himself up the
whitewashed steps, stopping in front of the glass doors, waiting to be buzzed
in.
The door opened and he strode into
the reception area. Well, at least this hadn’t changed. There were still the
same old fading police notices on the wall with their fading messages:
‘Look out, there’s a thief about.’
‘Don’t be blind to the signs.’
‘Look her in the eye and tell her a
little drink never hurt anybody.’
And there were some new ones, clean
and crisp in their colour and design:
‘Help free the UK from modern
slavery’
‘Hate crime. Tell the Manchester
Police about it.’ Beneath this one somebody had written in biro: ‘Because
nobody hates crime more than the Manchester Police.’ He thought he recognized
the handwriting.
Just two people spoilt the pristine
emptiness of the reception area: a wrinkled woman and a young, burly man, both
sitting forlornly on the row of plastic seating screwed to the floor. Probably
waiting for someone to be released after a night in the cells. Another drunk
driver.
A sergeant he had never seen before
was standing behind thick glass, looking like a clerk at a post office except
for the blue uniform. A muffled voice through the microphone. ‘How can I help
you, sir?’
‘An appointment with Detective Chief
Inspector Charlie Whitworth at 10.30.’
The sergeant checked his diary.
‘Nothing in here, sir.’
Just then the door to the inner
sanctum of the police station opened. ‘Well, I never. Ridpath, it’s great to
see you.’
‘Harry Makepeace, skiving off as
usual.’
‘You know me too well.’ Makepeace
scanned him up and down. ‘You’re looking well.’
Ridpath stepped back and waved his
hands. ‘Feeling great. Raring to go.’
‘You here to see the boss?’
He nodded.
Harry held open the door. ‘I’ll take you through…’
‘But there’s no appointment…’ The
tinny voice of the sergeant sounded feeble through the speaker.
‘No worries, Martin. This is
Detective Inspector Tom Ridpath, used to work here.’
‘Still do.’
Harry Makepeace turned slowly
towards him. ‘Aye, I suppose you do. Come on.’
He stepped through into the back
office. Behind him the voice of the sergeant was calling, ‘Can you sign the book?’
They both carried on walking down
the corridor.
‘Been a few changes since you were
here.’
‘Have there?’
‘Me for one – I’ve been promoted.’
‘Congrats, Detective Inspector
Makepeace, it’s been a long time coming.’
Harry looked across, checking for
irony. ‘Aye, too bloody long.’
‘Charlie’s still here though. Still
running the Major Incident Team?’
‘Aye, nowt’s changed there. John
Gorman’s officially in charge, but he’s so snowed under by management meetings,
Charlie does the day-to-day.’
They entered the CID office on the
right.
The place hadn’t changed at all. The
same beige walls with the marks of ancient posters staining the
government-issue wallpaper. The same mismatched desks. The same ancient desktop
computers due to be mothballed a year ago but still being used. And the same
grey, coffee-stained carpet that always gave him an electric shock every time
he touched his desk.
That detectives’ office.
Well what can I say?! I wasn't ready for the extract to end there - what a tease! If you (like me) want to get your hands on a copy immediately (heck why wouldn't you?) then all the links are below as is a bit about MJ Lee (in case you want to know the author behind the words. Please take time to visit the other blogs that are taking part in this tour to support them as they will have different features showcasing this book that you won't want to miss.
Links to Book:
Author Bio:
M J
Lee has spent most of his adult
life writing in one form or another. As a university researcher in history, he
wrote pages of notes on reams of obscure topics. As a social worker with
Vietnamese refugees, he wrote memoranda. And, as the creative director of an
advertising agency, he has written print and press ads, TV commercials, short
films and innumerable backs of cornflake packets and hotel websites.
He has spent 25 years of his life working
outside the north of England, in London, Hong Kong, Taipei, Singapore, Bangkok
and Shanghai, winning advertising awards from Cannes, One Show, D&AD, New
York and the United Nations.
While working in Shanghai, he loved walking
through the old quarters of that amazing city, developing the idea behind a
series of crime novels featuring Inspector Pyotr Danilov, set in the 1920s.
When
he’s not writing, he splits his time between the UK and Asia, taking pleasure
in playing with his daughter, practising downhill ironing, single-handedly
solving the problem of the French wine lake, and wishing he were George
Clooney.
Twitter: @WriterMJLee
Hello my love,
We are officially in Autumn (yay!) which can only really mean on thing in the world of books can't it? Yep you guessed it, we can officially start to read all those scrumptious Christmas themed books that we've been itching to read since the summer went away and we felt that crisp chill in the air.
Today I am beyond excited to share with you the hosting of a very special Blog Tour where I am going to share with you an exclusive extract from Darcie Boleyn's latest novel; "Love at the Northern Lights". I am super excited for this because seeing the Northern Lights is something that I've always wanted to see and as luck has it so does my Mr R. Whilst I can't book a flight to take you all off to see it yourself, I can share with you this extract so let's have a read shall we?
We are officially in Autumn (yay!) which can only really mean on thing in the world of books can't it? Yep you guessed it, we can officially start to read all those scrumptious Christmas themed books that we've been itching to read since the summer went away and we felt that crisp chill in the air.
Today I am beyond excited to share with you the hosting of a very special Blog Tour where I am going to share with you an exclusive extract from Darcie Boleyn's latest novel; "Love at the Northern Lights". I am super excited for this because seeing the Northern Lights is something that I've always wanted to see and as luck has it so does my Mr R. Whilst I can't book a flight to take you all off to see it yourself, I can share with you this extract so let's have a read shall we?
When Frankie was finally allowed to
look in the mirror, she didn’t recognize herself. Gone was her straight brown
hair, pale face and clear skin. Someone who could give the Kardashians a run
for their money had taken her place. Her dark hair was scraped back from her
forehead so tightly that her eyebrows sat at least a centimetre higher than
usual and the genuine diamond and pearl tiara – that had been her grandmother’s
– cut into her now tender scalp. She felt sure that at any moment her hair
would snap and she’d be left with a short spiky fringe.
‘Don’t you look fabulous?’ Jen
squeezed her shoulder. ‘Rolo is going to want to jump your bones as soon as he
sees you.’
Frankie tried to suppress the shudder
that ran through her but her new bright-pink trout pout contorted of its own
accord. Jen met her eyes in the mirror and held her gaze.
‘It’s going to be OK, Frankie.
Married life is pretty darned good. You know… you probably won’t even see him
most of the time. Much as I love my Henry, he’s either at work, playing golf or
off doing funny handshakes. My life is my own and yours can be too.’
Frankie’s heart sank. That sounded
like an awful way to view being a newly-wed like Jen. She was also surprised;
Jen hadn’t admitted anything like this to her before and it made her wonder
again at how close they actually were. There had always been something between
them, a sense of understanding and compassion, but they weren’t exactly bosom
buddies in a Sex and the City or Friends kind of way. Was Jen really
happy with her lot, as Frankie had previously believed, or had she missed what
was right in front of her because she was dealing with her own issues?
‘Come on, Frankie, have some more
champagne.’
They clinked glasses and Frankie
downed hers in one go. She wasn’t a big drinker, unlike Grandma, who called
four in the afternoon gin o’clock, and her father, who kept the wine cellar
very well stocked, and the warmth from the alcohol soon flooded her system,
loosening her inhibitions. She let Jennifer refill her glass several times,
then she was led to the dressing room just off the main bedroom. As well as the
dressing room and bathroom, the bedroom had its own veranda and antechamber,
which had, at one time, been used as a prayer room. Rolo’s ancestral home was
enormous and Frankie knew that it could take an age to walk from one end of the
mansion to the other, especially if you got distracted by the antiques and oil
paintings of his mother’s side of the family. Frankie loved gazing at Rolo’s
ancestors, mainly because she was fascinated by the changing fashions over the
years, intrigued by the fabrics, styles, shoes and hats.
‘There.’ The fashion designer – who
had a name Frankie had been sworn to secrecy about so that no high-society
magazine managed to get a sneak peek at the dress – stood back and admired her
handiwork. ‘Gorgeous!’
‘Absolutely marvellously magical…
like a fairy-tale princess.’ Jen clapped her hands.
‘Oh, Frankie, it’s super!’ Lorna had
been standing in the corner of the dressing room, eyes glued to her mobile
while Frankie had dressed. Now she looked up and her eyes widened as she
scanned Frankie from head to toe. ‘I hope I’ll be just as beautiful on my
wedding day.’
Frankie smiled her thanks, knowing
that Lorna always appeared ravishing, whatever she wore, also knowing that
Lorna was well aware of that fact.
‘Time to see the results!’ Jen said.
‘Use the mirror in the bedroom as the light is better in there.’
Frankie obediently trotted through to
the bedroom and stood in front of the long mirror. The ivory designer dress
fitted her slender frame like a second skin. The strapless corset top pushed
her small breasts up so they resembled two tennis balls. They glistened under
the electric light because of the copious amounts of highlighter that sat on
top of the fake tan she’d had yesterday. The satin of the dress seemed to
shimmer as she moved, and when she turned to look at the back, the fishtail
stretched across the floor making her feel like some sort of mermaid. Whatever
her reservations, she had to admit that the dress was breathtaking. She’d just
prefer to admire it on someone else. With her mind in such turmoil and her
heart squeezing so tight, it was impossible for Frankie to enjoy being so
beautifully clothed. Even thinking about how the designer had created the
dress, about the textures of the material and the painstaking stitching that
held the magnificent handmade creation together couldn’t lift Frankie’s mood.
She was lost indeed.
As she gazed at the unfamiliar woman
in the mirror, she was conscious of the designer, hairdresser and beauticians
leaving the room, until it was just her and Jen.
‘Frankie, you are truly beautiful.
The most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.’ She smiled. ‘You can do this. I’ll be
with you all the way.’
Frankie turned to her oldest friend
and took her hands.
‘Thanks, Jen. You’ve been really good
to me today… and over the years.’
Jen nodded. ‘I know we haven’t been
as close as we could have been. I always felt you were holding something back.
At times, I wondered if you actually liked me… because, you know, I can be a
bit of a drama queen, a bit self-involved and a bit OTT, I guess. And we didn’t
exactly become friends in an organic way, did we? What with our grandmothers
pushing us together from an early age then being at boarding school together.
But I do care about you. I always have.’
‘I know. Me too.’ Frankie tried to
smile but her face was pulled so tight that she suspected it came out as more
of a grimace.
‘I’m going to give you a moment now
to compose yourself, to find your inner calm, as my personal yogi says. Oh… and
if I forget to mention it later, I packed a few things in your honeymoon case.’
‘Like what?’ Panic seared through
Frankie.
‘You’ll find out when you reach your
destination.’ Jen winked at her. ‘No peeking beforehand!’
When her friend had gone, Frankie
shuffled over to the bed and sank onto the soft coverlet. This was it then. She
was trussed up like a prize turkey, about to make promises of love and fidelity
when her heart wanted to do neither.
A knock at the door made her stomach
lurch. Was it time already?
She tried to stand but the dress was
too restrictive and she was worried about popping the delicate seams if she got
up too quickly.
‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who is it?’
The door swung open and relief washed
over her when she saw her father, Hugo Ashford.
‘You look so handsome in that suit,’
she squeaked as he approached the bed. ‘I would get up but I can’t.’
He smiled then took her hands and
helped her to her feet.
‘Frances, you are beautiful.’
‘I don’t look like me at all.’
He shook his head. ‘You do,
sweetheart. In fact, you look so much like your m—’ He pressed his lips
together and dropped his gaze to his shiny black shoes.
They stood there for a while, holding
hands. There was so much Frankie wanted to ask and so much she sensed her
father wanted to say, but, as always, they stayed quiet, understanding that
some things were too hard to discuss; some things were best left unsaid.
Finally, he released a shaky sigh.
‘She’d be very proud of you today.’
‘She would?’
He nodded.
Frankie thought about the wedding
invitations she’d written for her mother. Five in total. When it had come to
posting them, she’d torn each one into tiny pieces like confetti then dropped
them into the bin. She’d wanted to invite her mother, yearned to invite her,
but shame and sadness prevented her. After all, her mother had walked away all
those years ago and never looked back. Why would she want to know Frankie now?
Why would she care that her daughter was getting married? She hadn’t been there
for all the other things Frankie had gone through, like getting her first spot
or her first period, nor for her exam results’ days or her university
graduation when she’d gained a first-class honours degree in business
management and accounting. She hadn’t been there when Frankie had cried into
her pillow over disappointments and a deep sense of loneliness, when those
charity adverts about children in Africa – who had no clean water to drink –
broke her heart, or even when she got engaged.
Her mother had never been there for
her.
Never. Ever…
Now, I don't know about you but I just wanted to keep on reading...Love at the Northern Lights sounds like it's going to be a delightful read to curl up with a cosy blanket, hot chocolate and maybe a handsome man too if that extract is anything to go by...That's certainly my plan!
Here's a quick look at all the details you need for this book;
Title: Love at the
Northern Lights
Author Name: Darcie
Boleyn
Previous Books (if
applicable): Love at the Italian
Lake, Christmas at Conwenna Cove, Forever at Conwenna Cove, Summer at Conwenna
Cove and A Very Merry Christmas
Genre: Women’s
Fiction, romcom
Release Date: 17th
September 2018
Publisher: Canelo
Cover Image:
Book Blurb: ‘Climbing out the window in her dress and
tiara wasn’t exactly how Frankie imagined her wedding day…’
Runaway bride Frankie Ashford hops a plane
to Norway with one goal in mind - find her estranged mother and make peace with
the past. But when a slip on the ice in Oslo lands her directly in Jonas
Thorsen’s viking-strong arms, her single-minded focus drifts away in the winter
winds.
When it comes to romance Jonas knows that
anything he and Frankie share has an expiration date - the British heiress has
a life to return to in London that’s a world away from his own. But family is
everything to Jonas and, as the one man who can help Frankie find the answers
she’s seeking, he’ll do whatever it takes to help her reunite with her mother.
Now, as Christmas draws closer and the
northern lights work their magic Frankie and Jonas will have to make a
choice...play it safe or risk heartbreak to take a chance on love.
Links to Book:
Author Bio: Darcie Boleyn has a huge heart and is a real
softy. She never fails to cry at books and movies, whether the ending is happy
or not. Darcie is in possession of an overactive imagination that often keeps
her awake at night. Her childhood dream was to become a Jedi but she hasn’t yet
found suitable transport to take her to a galaxy far, far away. She also has
reservations about how she’d look in a gold bikini, as she rather enjoys red
wine, cheese and loves anything with ginger or cherries in it – especially
chocolate. Darcie fell in love in New York, got married in the snow, rescues
uncoordinated greyhounds and can usually be found reading or typing away on her
laptop.
Author Social Media Links
Twitter: @DarcieBoleyn
Website: https://darcieboleyn.wordpress.com/
Make sure that you check out the other wonderful bloggers who have been taking part in this tour and still have to share with you their wonderful views, and highlights. Thank you to the publishers for asking me to be a part of this promotional online book tour, it's been my pleasure.
Hello Lovely,
I'm looking forward to sharing today's post with you as it's an extract from the new book by the talented Liz Trenow entitled; In Love and War. It sounds to be an absolutely touching book and I am sure you will enjoy. Due to be published on 25th January, you won't have very long to wait to fully immerse yourself in this touching story. I hope you enjoy the extract once we've taken a brief look at what it's all about.
In Love and War is written by Liz Trenow, and is due to be published on 25th January 2018 by Pan Macmillan. Available as both Kindle and Paperback and also Audiobook.
I'm looking forward to sharing today's post with you as it's an extract from the new book by the talented Liz Trenow entitled; In Love and War. It sounds to be an absolutely touching book and I am sure you will enjoy. Due to be published on 25th January, you won't have very long to wait to fully immerse yourself in this touching story. I hope you enjoy the extract once we've taken a brief look at what it's all about.
In Love and War is written by Liz Trenow, and is due to be published on 25th January 2018 by Pan Macmillan. Available as both Kindle and Paperback and also Audiobook.
Three women, once enemies. Their secrets will unite them.
The First World War is over. The war-torn area of Flanders near Ypres is no longer home to troops, but groups of tourists. Controversial battlefield tourism now brings hundreds of people to the area, all desperate to witness first-hand where their loved ones fell.
At the Hotel de la Paix in the small village of Hoppestadt, three women arrive, searching for traces of the men they have loved and lost.
Ruby is just twenty-one, a shy Englishwoman looking for the grave of her husband. Alice is only a little older but brimming with confidence; she has travelled all the way from America, convinced her brother is in fact still alive. Then there’s Martha, and her son Otto, who are not all they seem to be . . .
The three women in Liz Trenow’s In Love and War may have very different backgrounds, but they are united in their search for reconciliation: to resolve themselves to what the war took from them, but also to what life might still promise for the future . . .
Passchendaele.
The word sliced like a blade. Where Bertie had gone missing. Although she knew
that many thousands had never been identified, or even found, she’d heard that
comrades would sometimes just place a simple stake in the ground, marking it
with whatever came to hand. As the coach trundled onwards, closer and closer to
this place, she found herself clasping her fists so tightly that the nails left
marks in her palms.
‘Although
many men gave their lives in this battle,’ the major was explaining, ‘the
Germans pushed back and occupied the area until September 1918, when the
Belgian army recaptured the ridge in the final push during the last weeks of
the war.’
A
tangle of emotions jangled in her head: excitement, anticipation and, above
all, fear. Much as she knew that finding Bertie’s grave was important for
herself and his family, she could not imagine, now that it was a real
possibility, how she would cope with the reality, the finality of discovering
where he lay, in the ground beneath her feet.
They’d
seen plenty of roadside crosses and memorial stones on their way to Ypres, but
nothing prepared her for the sight of Tyne Cot. As she gazed out at the
thousands of wooden crosses stretched higgledy-piggledy across the field, way
into the distance almost as far as the eye could see, the breath seemed to stop
in her chest. Some were of smooth sanded timber, identified with expertly
carved inscriptions or stamped metal plates. With a sick, chill fascination she
also noticed that many were simply rough planks hastily hammered together with
lettering scratched or burned onto the wood, with garlands of dried flowers
tied to them, an identity tag, a belt buckle, an army cap.
The
major led them forwards along a pathway of packed mud into the graveyard. Every
now and again he would pause, straightening up a cross carefully and reverently,
pushing it more firmly into the ground.
‘I
know some of you may be looking for the graves of loved ones, and we have an
hour now in which you can do so. Please take care of your footing, never stray from the pathways, or touch
or take anything from the ground. There is still a danger of unexploded
ordnance, or something personal that could lead to an identification. Either way, you must not touch. Do I make
myself clear?’
Ruby
wandered from cross to cross in a kind of trance, barely aware of time passing,
reading the inscriptions and willing her eyes to see his name yet at the same
time terrified of doing so. There seemed to be no order: officers lay next to
infantrymen, regiments were all mixed together, there were French names,
Belgian names, English names. All the differences imposed in life had been
erased by death.
Smith, Merton, Bygrave, Freeman, Augustin, Travere, Marchant, Tailler, Brown, Peeters, Dubois, Janssens, Walter, Fellowes, Villeneuve. Perhaps some of these men had known Bertie,
stood by his side in the trenches, shared their rations, spoke of their longing
for home, for their sweethearts, wives, children? As she stumbled along the
rows, gripped by a fierce determination to find her beloved, her eyes began to
play tricks. Any name beginning with a B seemed to halt the blood in her veins.
When she found a cross with the name Barton inscribed upon it, her knees
threatened to buckle beneath her. But it was Michael Peter. Not Bertie.
If
she looked long enough and hard enough she would find him, stand at his grave,
tell him she loved him, ask for his forgiveness, and be able to live the rest
of her life in peace. She could almost sense the relief of it already. And yet,
the further she walked, the more that certainty began to waver. Many crosses
bore only the simple inscription R.I.P,
Known Unto God or, saddest of all, no mark whatsoever. So many thousands of
individual, personal tragedies, so many of them anonymous; a visual
representation of mass slaughter.
Keep breathing, just put one foot in front
of another, she told herself. Hollander, Frost, Blundell, Taylor, Kelly, Schofield, Allen, Carter, Meredith, Brown, Pullen, Masters, Wade, Francis, McCauley, Titmuss, Archer . . . the parade of the lost
went on and on.
And
then, the worst shock of all, gripping at her heart like a vice: dozens of
crosses with German names. Müller, Schulz, Schmidt, Schneider, Fischer, Weber, Becker, Wagner, Hoffmann, Koch, Bauer, Klein, Wolf, Schröder, Neumann, Braun, Zimmermann, Krüger, Hartmann, lying cheek by jowl with their enemies.
Had
one of Bertie’s bullets killed the man now lying by his side? Had the shell
they fired, shouting ‘For King and Country’, or hailing the Kaiser, blown to
pieces the men now their neighbours in death? So many husbands, brothers and
sons, all now gone. What an absurdity, such a terrible waste. And all for what?
What further evidence could ever be needed of the futility of war? Far from
making sense of it all, she was becoming more bewildered by the hour.
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