Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for Harlequin Romantic Suspense UNDERCOVER K-9 COWBOY by Addison Fox. (My apologies to Harlequin for not quite making the timeline for the Investigators Winter 2022 Blog Tour.)
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Description
A by-the-book Fed…gone rogue for justice
To stop the drug epidemic ravaging Midnight Pass, FBI agent Ryder Durant reluctantly takes matters into his own hands. Poised to set a trap at Reynolds Station, he has to contend with Arden Reynolds—who prefers Ryder’s K-9 to the Fed protecting her family. As Ryder and Arden spar, embers spring into flame. And those flames are as dangerous as the crime ring lurking too close to home…
Feel the excitement in these uplifting romances, part of the Midnight Pass, Texas series:
Book 1: The Cowboy’s Deadly Mission Book 2: Special Ops Cowboy Book 3: Under the Rancher’s Protection
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My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
UNDERCOVER K-9 COWBOY (Midnight Pass, Texas Book #4) by Addison Fox is the final romantic suspense in the Midnight Pass, Texas books and it was a good conclusion to the series. The youngest Reynolds family member meets the FBI agent and his K-9 companion who may finally be able to break down her wall of emotional self-protection while also ridding the Reynolds ranch of the cartel drug runners using their land.
FBI agent Ryder Durant and his canine companion have been working with the police force in Midnight Pass to stop the cartel’s from using the large tracts of land on the major ranches for drug running. To stop the drug epidemic, he wants to set a trap on Reynolds Station. He learns he must first get the cooperation of Arden Reynolds, who is not impressed with the agent, but he is very impressed with her.
Arden Reynolds has watched her three brothers find true love and now a handsome FBI agent wants to put them in danger with an operation on their land. She trusts the agent’s canine companion more than the agent or any other handsome, cocky man having been hurt in the past, but she wants the ranch to be safe for future Reynold generations.
As the sparks fly the danger is closer than they know.
I enjoyed this conclusion to the series. The romance is a little heavier than the suspense in this story, but I still felt the suspense portion of the plot was tied up nicely. Arden is a very strong female character, and the author does a good job of making her past grief believable and a reasonable excuse for her not moving on. Ryder is her perfect foil as he continually tries to get Arden to open up and let him in. He does not give up. I loved Murphy, Ryder’s K-9 companion and always enjoy a dog addition to a story. Even though this is the fourth and final book in the series, it can be read as a standalone.
An enjoyable romantic suspense read and final book in the Midnight Pass series.
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Excerpt
“You want answers?”
“I do.” Arden said.
“Then I want a few of my own first.”
Although she didn’t say anything, anticipation lit her blue eyes. It surprised him how that struck somewhere low in his gut. Like he was enjoying getting a reaction—any reaction—from her.
“You don’t like me very much, and I’d like to know why.”
That small light winked out, fading away as if it had never been. “I have nothing against you.”
“I’d say you do. You have since the first time we met.” Ryder tilted his head toward the wide-open window beside them. “Right out there on Main Street.”
He remembered the moment well. It had been a pretty fall day and he’d tied Murphy up outside the coffee shop to bask in the sun for a few minutes while he ran in to snag a quick cup. The night before, he’d run his first op since coming to Midnight Pass and was pretty much subsisting on fumes. He’d come back out to find Arden, expectantly waiting for him, full of barely veiled insult and clear irritation that he’d left his dog outside.
“I wasn’t aware that Murphy was a working dog that day. I may have been a bit terse.”
“And the other night? At your place?”
“I—” She stopped, clearly considering her words. He was surprised to find that he had the patience to wait for whatever it was she had to say. “I don’t appreciate cocky arrogance.”
“You live on a ranch full of testosterone-fueled cowboys. And in a town full of the same. Surely you come up against a bit of cocky banter now and again?”
“That’s an excuse for it?”
“It’s a fact. I’d have thought you’d be used to it by now.”
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Her tone was prim and her already strong, fit posture stiffened a few more degrees north.
Ryder was good at his job because he knew how to read people. It was also what made him a good K-9 handler. He paid attention and he read situations before reacting. And every instinct he possessed read this one as arising from something that had specifically happened to her.
With someone who had hurt her.
Someone, Ryder suspected, who had been cocky and arrogant and likely unkind to her.
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Aboutthe Author
Addison Fox is a lifelong romance reader, addicted to happy-ever-afters. She loves writing about romance as much as reading it. Addison lives in New York with an apartment full of books, a laptop that’s rarely out of sight and a wily beagle who keeps her running.
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for A LULLABY FOR WITCHES by Hester Fox on the HTP Winter 2022 Historical Fiction Blog Tour.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
Augusta Podos has just landed her dream job, working in collections at a local museum, Harlowe House, located in the charming seaside town of Tynemouth, Massachussetts. Determined to tell the stories of the local community, she throws herself into her work–and finds an oblique mention of a mysterious woman, Margaret, who may have been part of the Harlowe family, but is reduced to a footnote. Fascinated by this strange omission, Augusta becomes obsessed with discovering who Margaret was, what happened to her, and why her family scrubbed her from historical records. But as she does, strange incidents begin plaguing Harlowe House and Augusta herself. Are they connected with Margaret, and what do they mean?
Tynemouth, 1872. Margaret Harlowe is the beautiful daughter of a wealthy shipping family, and she should have many prospects–but her fascination with herbs and spellwork has made her a pariah, with whispers of “witch” dogging her steps. Increasingly drawn to the darker, forbidden practices of her craft, Margaret finds herself caught up with a local man, Jack Pryce, and the temptation of these darker ways threatens to pull her under completely.
As the incidents in the present day escalate, Augusta finds herself drawn more and more deeply into Margaret’s world, and a shocking revelation sheds further light on Margaret and Augusta’s shared past. And as Margaret’s sinister purpose becomes clear, Augusta must uncover the secret of Margaret’s fate–before the woman who calls to her across the centuries claims Augusta’s own life.
A LULLABY FOR WITCHES by Hester Fox is an atmospheric gothic novel with romance and supernatural elements.
Augusta Podos has landed her dream job in a historic home turned museum, the Harlow House in Tynemouth, MA. The home was owned by a wealthy New England family for centuries. As Augusta researches the family, she is drawn to a mystery. A daughter of the Harlowe family from over a century ago has almost been completely expunged from the family history.
Margaret Harlowe is always drawn to the wilderness of the forest and coast by her family’s home. The women in town come to her for potions and aid in the dark, but never by day. The people whisper “witch”. When Margaret learns some buried truths, her power takes a darker turn.
As Augusta digs deeper, can she resist the power that Margaret unfurls between the two across the lines of blood and time to save and keep her own life?
This story pulled me in with both women and both timelines. The author is great at setting a sinister atmosphere with plenty of twists and surprises. The two intertwining timelines with alternating perspectives come together at the climax with a twist that is foreshadowed and though easily resolved, it was still entertaining. Augusta and Margaret are great characters, but there are trigger issues with an eating disorder and abuse. I would have liked a little more from the secondary characters, who for me, seemed two dimensional. I did enjoy all the family research and felt the historical information was very accurate.
Overall, an entertaining atmospheric gothic read.
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Excerpt
Prologue
Margaret
I was beautiful in the summer of 1876. The rocky Tynemouth coast was an easy place to be beautiful, though, with a fresh salt breeze that brought roses to my cheeks and sun that warmed my long hair, shooting the chestnut brown through with rich veins of copper. It was enough to make me forget—or at least, not care—that I was an outsider, a curiosity who left whispers in my wake when I walked through the muddy streets of our coastal town.
Do I miss being beautiful? Of course. But it’s the being found beautiful by others that I miss the most. It was the ambrosia that made an otherwise solitary life bearable. And it was being found beautiful by one man in particular, Jack Pryce, that I miss the most.
He would come to find me out behind my family’s house as I helped our maid hang the laundry on the lines or weeded my rocky garden. He always brought me a little gift, whether it was a toffee wrapped in wax paper from his parents’ shop, or just a little green flower he had plucked because it reminded him of my eyes. Something that told me I was special, that those stories around town of him stepping out with the Clerkenwell girl weren’t true.
“There she is,” he would say, coming up with his hands in his pockets and crooked grin on his full lips. “My lovely wildflower.” He called me this, he said, on account of my insistence on going without shoes on warm days when the grass was soft and lush. Whatever little chore I was doing would soon be forgotten as I led him out of sight of the house. With my back against a tree and his hands traveling under and up my skirts, we found euphoria in a panting tangle of limbs and hoarsely whispered promises. Heavy sea mists mingling with sweat in hair (his), the taste of berry-sweet lips (mine), the gut-deep knowing that he must love me. He must. He must. He must.
But like all things, summer came to an end, and autumn swept in with her cruel winds and killing frosts. Jack came less and less often, claiming first that it was work at the shop, then that he could no longer be seen with the girl who was rumored to practice witchcraft and worship at the altar of the moon on clear nights. Finally, on a day where the rain fell in icy sheets and even the screeching cries of the gulls could not compete with the howling wind, I realized he was not coming back.
Time moves differently now. Then, it was measured in church bells and birthdays, clock strokes and town harvest dances. It was measured in the monthly flow of my courses, until they stopped coming and my belly grew distended and full. Now—or perhaps it is better to say “here”—time is a fluid thing, like water that flows in all directions, finding and filling every crack and empty place, like my womb and my heart.
I did not want to give the babe up, though I knew it could only bring heartache and pain to my family. A mother’s heart is a stubborn thing, and no sooner had I felt the first stirrings of life within me, than I knew I would do anything in the world to protect my little one.
It was folly, I know that now. A woman like me could never hope to bring a child into this cruel world, could never hope that the honey-sweet words of a man like Jack Pryce carried any weight. What irony that I should not realize such simple truths until it was too late. Should not realize them until my blood ran icy in my veins and my broken heart stopped beating. Until the man I thought had loved me stood over my body, staring down as the life ran out of me like a streambed running dry. Until I was dead and cold and no longer so very beautiful.
1
Augusta
“Hello?” Augusta threw her keys on the table and slung her bag onto one of the kitchen chairs. As usual, a precarious stack of plates had taken over the sink, and the remnants of a Chinese food dinner sat out on the table. Sighing, she covered the leftovers with plastic wrap, stuck them in the fridge and followed the sounds of video games to the living room.
“I’m home,” she said tersely to the two guys hunched over their gaming consoles.
Doug barely glanced up, but her boyfriend, Chris, threw her a quick glance over his shoulder.
“Hey, we’re just finishing up.” Turning back, he continued mashing keys on the game controller, shaking his dark fringe from his eyes and muttering colorful insults at his opponent.
Chris and Doug weren’t the best housemates. Sure, they paid their share of the rent on time, but the house was constantly a mess, and video games took priority over household chores. She supposed that’s what she got for living with her boyfriend and allowing his unemployed brother to move in with them.
“Well, I guess I’ll be in my room if you need me,” Augusta said, too exhausted to pick a fight about the mess in the kitchen.
“You can stay and watch,” Chris said without turning back around.
She’d had a long, hard day. Between the air-conditioning being broken at work and discovering she only had ninety-eight dollars in her bank account after paying her cell phone bill, she wasn’t in the mood to watch Chris and Doug massacre each other with bazookas. She grabbed an apple from the kitchen, and went back to the room she shared with Chris, closing the door against the sounds of gunfire and explosions. Outside, the occasional car passed by in a sweep of headlights and somewhere down the street a dog barked. Loneliness curled around her as she sat at her laptop and began cycling through her bookmarked job listing sites.
Her job giving tours at the Old City Jail in Salem was all right; she got to work in a historic building, it was close enough that she could walk to work, and the polyester uniform was only a slightly nauseating shade of green. But it wasn’t challenging, and she wasn’t using her degree in museum studies for which she’d worked so hard. Not to mention the student debt she was still paying off. The worst was dealing with the public, though. Some of the people that showed up on her tours were engaged in her talks, but mostly the jail attracted cruise tourists who hadn’t realized that it was a guided tour and were more interested in snapping a quick picture for Instagram than learning about the history. The other day she’d really had to remind a full-grown man that he couldn’t bring an ice cream cone into the house, and then had to clean up said ice cream cone when he’d smuggled it inside anyway and dropped it. And the witches! Just because they were in Salem, everyone who came through the door assumed that there would be history about the witches, never mind that the jail didn’t even date from the same century as the witch trials. Most days she came home tired, irritable and unfulfilled.
From the other room came an excited shout as Chris blew up Doug’s home base. Augusta turned her music up. Most of the listings on the museum job sites were for fundraising or grant writing, the sliver of the museum world where all the money was. She knew she shouldn’t be choosy, the millennial voice of reason in her head telling her that she was lucky to have a job at all. But Chris, with his computer engineering degree, actually had companies courting him, and his job at a Boston tech firm came with a yearly salary and benefits.
She was just about to close her laptop when a new listing popped up. Harlowe House in Tynemouth was looking for a collections manager to work alongside their curator. As she scanned the listing, her heart started to beat faster. She wasn’t familiar with the property, but a quick search showed that it was part of a trust dedicated to the history and legacy of a seafaring family from the nineteenth century. She ticked off the qualifications in her head—an advanced degree in art history, museum studies or anthropology, and at least five years of experience. She would have to fudge the years, but other than that, it was made for her. She bookmarked the listing, making a mental note to update her CV in the morning.
The door swung open and Chris came in, plopping himself on the bed beside her. Tall, with an athletic build and dark hair that was perpetually in need of a trim, he was wearing a faded band shirt and gym shorts. “We’re going to order subs. What do you want?”
“Didn’t you just get Chinese food?” she asked.
“That was lunch.”
Augusta did a quick inventory in her head of what she’d eaten that day, how many calories she was up to, and how much money she could afford. After she’d fished ten dollars out of her purse, Chris wandered back out to the living room, leaving her alone. She picked up a book, but it didn’t hold her interest, and soon she was lost scrolling through her phone and playing some stupid game where you had to match up jewels to clear the board. A thrilling Saturday night if there ever was one.
In both college and grad school, Augusta had had a vibrant, tight-knit group of friends. She’d always been a homebody, so there weren’t lots of wild nights out at clubs, but they’d still had fairly regular get-togethers. Lunches and trips to museums, stuff like that. So what had happened in the last few years?
Her mind knew what had happened, but her heart refused to face the truth. Chris had happened.
She had been with him ever since her dad died. She’d run into Chris, her old high school boyfriend, at the memorial. He’d been a familiar face, and she’d clung to him like a life raft amid the turmoil of putting her life back together without her father. It had been clear early on that beyond some shared history, they didn’t have much in common, but he was steady, and Augusta had craved steady. A year passed, then two, then three, and four. She had invested so much time in the relationship, sacrificed so many friends, that at some point it felt like admitting defeat to break up. For his part, Chris seemed content with the status quo, and so five years later, here they were.
That night, after Chris had rolled over and was lightly snoring, Augusta lay awake, thinking of the job listing. The words Harlowe House, Harlowe House, Harlowe House ran through her mind like the beat of a drum. A signal of hope, a promise of something better.
Hester Fox is a full-time writer and mother, with a background in museum work and historical archaeology. A native New-Englander, she now lives in rural Virginia with her husband and their son.
Today is my turn on the Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour and I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller by Valerie Webster.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a giveaway. Enjoy!
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Book Description
Ex-investigative journalist, Rita Mars loses an old friend to what looks like suicide. She’s convinced he was murdered to cover unethical maneuvers and save reputations in the abyss that is Congress. Back stabbings inside the beltway sometimes extend beyond metaphorical. She’s going to butt heads with the local good ole boy authorities and navigate the deliberately stoked smoke screens of the duly elected, but she is never going to give up.
Genre: Thriller Published by: Ignited Ink Writing Publication Date: May 25th 2021 Number of Pages: 396 ISBN: 1952347033 (ISBN13: 978-1952347030)
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My Book Review
RATING: 4 out of 5 Stars
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller by Valerie Webster is a debut P.I. thriller/crime mystery with an interesting new protagonist and cast of characters that I am looking forward to following in hopefully many more books to come.
Ex-investigative journalist, now private investigator Rita Mars shows up for a meeting with an old journalist colleague, only to find he has committed suicide. Something is not right with the scene, and Rita will not stop asking questions. Her friend was working an investigation in the beltway where dark money and unethical maneuvers seem to be behind a big pharma legislative bill.
At the same time, she is hired by a woman to document proof of a picture-perfect high-profile ex-husband stalking and terrorizing her. As Rita is investigating this case, he focuses his deadly obsession not only on his ex but also on Rita.
Two cases overlap and Rita is in the crosshairs.
Rita is an interesting protagonist. She is 45, a lesbian, has switched professions, has a lesbian police Captain best friend and a trans ex-Navy SEAL secretary/assistant. She also has past trauma in her life from an abusive alcoholic policeman father who committed suicide. I felt an instant connection to these characters, but there were a few times they felt more like caricatures, especially Bev, Rita’s assistant. The flow of the intertwining crime plots is realistic with believable investigations and build up at an ever-increasing pace to satisfying conclusions.
Overall, I enjoyed this debut P.I. thriller and will be looking for more in this series.
***
Excerpt
Chapter 1
“Rita Mars, this is a voice from your past.”
“Who the hell is this?” Rita demanded.
It was eleven o’clock, and the dreary end of a long day. A miserable October rain tapped on the office windows. Through the water slashed glass, Baltimore’s Mitchell Court House next door was a smear of grey and black.
“I first met you devouring Hershey bars in the newsroom at midnight.” The man was gleeful.
“That narrows it down.”
Great clue. Hell, she’d been a reporter for seventeen years before she started the agency. Rita cradled her chin. The police department snitch who gave up the narcs ripping off drug dealers? The accountant with the guilty conscience who squealed on the HUD housing contracts?
“We were a pair and then again we were not.”
“Look, pal, I don’t know –”
“I was the snow king and you were the fire breather.”
Rita started to hang up, but there was something eerily familiar about that line.
“You never know when you’ve had your last chance,” the man said.
“Bobby Ellis.” Instinctively, Rita touched the worn chrome Zippo in her pocket that bore those very words. Chills ran along her arms and the hair bristled at her neck.
“Bingo,” Ellis said.
“God, I’m so glad to hear from you. Where are you? When can I see you?
“Sunday.”
“Halloween?”
“The Overlook Inn in Harper’s Ferry. Breakfast at ten. I’ll have a lot to tell you. A story for above the fold.”
Rita scribbled his instructions on a blank notepad. “Tell me now.” Above the fold on a newspaper’s front page was reserved for big time news.
“Just be there.”
Rita thought he was hanging up.
“By the way—ever think you’d see me alive again?” Ellis asked softly.
“No,” Rita said. “I never thought I would.”
Chapter 2
Rita Mars sang along with the Shirelles. She glanced at the Jeep’s speedometer and then at the rearview mirror to check for approaching troopers.
The West Virginia countryside blazed with yellow and scarlet. Sunlight sprinkled the rock-strewn pastures with brilliance and made the car’s white hood shimmer like a snowfield. Even the black and white Holsteins seemed brighter than usual as they ripped up the last shreds of yellowed pasture grass.
Though it was late October, Rita had the top down on the Jeep. It was good to ride on this open road alone with the sun and wind. She couldn’t really be forty-five this year. She ran thirty miles a week and could still get into jeans the size she’d worn in college. Rita peered over the top of her Raybans and took another look in the mirror. Ok, so her dark hair was shot through with silver.
She smiled. It made her look more interesting. After all, how many older women had she fallen madly in love with in her younger years?
Rita flipped the radio off and concentrated on her meeting with Bobby Ellis. She hadn’t seen him in forever. Yes, she had thought he might be dead. A superior journalist, he’d thrown it all away with a coke habit that he paid for with a career and a marriage. No one had seen or heard of him now for more than two years.
After he disappeared, a malaise had set. Rita abandoned investigative reporting and spend her time working on a detective’s license. She was going to right wrongs instead of writing about wrongs as she described her abrupt life change.
She sighed. She wanted to return to the happier thoughts that had so recently danced in her head.
A red truck with a rainbow sticker on the front bumper appeared the in oncoming lane. Rita’s smile came back and she waved as they raced each other.
“We’re everywhere. We’re everywhere,” she hummed to herself.
She returned to her former mood of excited anticipation. She was seeing Bobby again.
They had been reporters together on the Washington Star. More like brother and sister than co-workers, they had fought over editorial recognition, wept on each other’s shoulders, and held each other’s hand during their respective long, dark nights of the soul.
Rita tried sweet talk at first when his habit began to devour him. Then she got tough. They fought bitterly. In the end, he surrendered everything to the white powder.
She’d been as angry with herself as with him. She couldn’t make him stop. Like a flashback, the feelings were the same when she thought about her childhood. She hadn’t been able to stop the runaway train her father rode either. Alcohol carried him far and fast. In the end, he stuck his police revolver into his mouth and killed his pain.
Bad memories again. Rita shook her head and switched the radio back on.
“There she was, just a walkin’ down the street . . . “ Rita sang along at the top of her lungs and pushed the accelerator just a little farther with her docksider.
Five miles and three oldies but goodies later, she slowed as the road narrowed to the twisting mountainside lanes that led to Harper’s Ferry. Down the sheer embankment on the passenger’s side, she could see canoes below on this rocky segment of the Potomac. She took a deep breath. The cobwebs of leftover memory cleared. It was a gorgeous day. At the top of a steep winding hill, Rita spied the flagpole that stood in the center of the Overlook Inn’s circular drive. Old Glory ruffled its red stripes in a soft October breeze that seemed more spring than autumn.
The parking areas along the drive were jammed with American made pickups and SUVs. Lots of military bumper stickers and window decals. Families just out of church hopped out of cars and headed for the Inn’s dining room and Sunday brunch buffet.
As she reached the crest, she had to slam on the brakes. The drive was blocked by two Harper’s Ferry sheriffs’ cars, a West Virginia trooper vehicle—blue gumball lights twirling—an ambulance from nearby Ransom, a fire truck and a dented beige Crown Vic with county plates.
Guests and townies milled around the west annex. A tall, grim-faced sheriff’s deputy held them at bay.
“What the heck is this?” Rita jumped out of the Jeep.
Inside, the interior of the Overlook lobby was cool and dark. The desk clerk was a woman with long red nails and a plunging neckline to her sundress. Her blue eye shadow made her look like an alien. Oblivious to Rita, she leaned across the far end of the registration counter to stare out the front door toward the commotion outside. Rita pulled off her Raybans.
“What happened?” Rita asked.
“Man killed hisself.” The woman continued to lean and stare over the counter.
The taste of metal rose in Rita’s throat. “Killed himself?”
“Room 107. Maid found him.” The clerk’s sense of duty returned and she walked toward the center of the counter where Rita stood. “Can I help you with something?”
Rita felt icy from the inside out. She dug her hand into her pocket to touch that Zippo talisman she always carried.
“I came here to meet someone.” The words jumbled in her mouth.
“Name?” The clerk absently flipped the registration book behind the counter.
Rita said nothing.
The clerk looked up then and said once more. “Name?”
“Bobby Ellis,” Rita whispered.
The two women stared at one another.
***
Author Bio
Valerie Webster spent a career developing law enforcement applications for surveillance, security and forensics. She has also been a triathlete and a crime reporter. She honed her writing skills through “Sisters in Crime” and “Mystery Writers of America’s” mentoring program. In DRIVEN: A RITA MARS THRILLER, she weaves professional experiences into a high tension plot that sweeps the reader into the action from Page 1 to the breath-taking conclusion.
December 6, 2021 – January 31, 2022 Virtual Book Tour
Hi, everyone!
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour for THE BURDEN OF INNOCENCE (The Infantino Files Book #2) by John Nardizzi.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Description
Private investigators Ray Infantino and Tania Kong take on the case of Sam Langford, framed for a murder committed by a crime boss at the height of his powers.
But a decade later, Boston has changed. The old ethnic tribes have weakened. As the PIs range across the city, witnesses remember the past in dangerous ways. The gangsters know that, in the new Boston, vulnerable witnesses they manipulated years ago are shaky. Old bones will not stay buried forever.
As the gang sabotages the investigation, will Ray and Tania solve the case in time to save an innocent man?
Genre: Mystery, Crime Noir Published by: Weathertop Media Co. Publication Date: December 5, 2021 Number of Pages: 290 ISBN: 978-1-7376876-0-3 Series: PI Ray Infantino Series, #2
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My Book Review
RATING: 5out of 5 Stars
THE BURDEN OF INNOCENCE (The Infantino Files Book #2) by John Nardizzi is a P.I. crime mystery/thriller set in South Boston with a hard-boiled, truth and justice seeking P.I. named Ray Infantino. While this is the second book in the series, it is very easily read as a standalone.
P.I. Ray Infantino is hired by the attorney of Sam Langford, who has declared his innocence from the day he was sentenced for murder fifteen years previously.
The gritty South Boston of fifteen years ago has changed as well as alliances. As Ray investigates Sam’s case, he is finding a vicious Southie gangster and a corrupt police officer are still working to manipulate the witnesses’ whose false testimonies sent an innocent man to prison.
Can Ray discover the truth from the past and help free an innocent man?
I love an old case investigation with a white knight trying to prove a miscarriage of justice. Ray is no innocent, but he cannot tolerate injustice in the law and corrupt officials who are supposed to uphold that law. This story has chapters that flashback to the original crime and witnesses interspersed as the present-day case unfolds and even with the timeline jumps, I was never confused or lost. The characters are fully fleshed and believable. The investigation is character driven rather than technology being the focus which was a joy to read for a change in pace. This is a realistic investigative page turner.
I can highly recommend this P.I. crime mystery/thriller!
***
Excerpt
A SYSTEM OF JUSTICE
Boston Massachusetts
Chapter 1
Two burly guards from the sheriff’s department walked Sam Langford to the van. He noticed a newspaper wedged in a railing—his name jumped off the page in bold print: Jury to Decide Langford’s Fate In Waterfront Slaying. The presumption of innocence was a joke. You took the guilt shower no matter what the jury decided. He thought of his mother then, and the old ladies like her, reading the headline as they sipped their morning coffee across the city. He was innocent. But they would hate him forever.
A guard shoved Langford’s head below the roofline. He sat down in the cargo section, the only prisoner today. The guard secured him to a bar that ran the length of the floor, the chain rattling an icy tune. The van squealed off.
Langford’s head felt so light it could drift right off his shoulders. The van lurched, and he slid on the cold metal bench. The driver bumped the van into some potholes. Langford dug his heels into the floor. This was a guard-approved amusement ride, bouncing felon maggots off good ‘ol American steel. Sam had observed this man that morning. Something about his face was troubling. Sheriffs, guards, cops—most of them were okay. They didn’t bother him because he didn’t bother them. But cop work attracted certain men who hid their true selves. Men with a vicious streak that could turn an average day into a private torture chamber. These men were cancers to be avoided. Average days were what he wanted in jail. No violent breaks in the tedium.
The van careened on and stopped at a loading dock of the hulking courthouse, which jutted in the sky like a pale granite finger accusing the heavens. The last day of trial. Outside, Langford saw TV news vans and raised satellite dishes, the reporters being primped and padded for the live shot. The rear doors opened and the guard’s shaved skull appeared in silhouette. He tensed as the guard grabbed his arm and pulled him out. The guard wore a thin smile. “We’ll take the smooth road back. Just for you,” he muttered.
A clutch of photographers hovered behind a wall above the dock. Langford looked up at the blue sky, as he always did, focusing on breathing deeply. He would never assist, not for a minute, in his own degradation. He was innocent. He would not cooperate. Let them run their little circus, the cameras, the shouted questions, boom microphones drooped over his head to pick up a stray utterance. He leveled his jaw and looked past them. He knew he had no chance with them.
The guards walked him inside the courthouse and to an elevator. The chains clanked as they swung with his movement. They took the elevator to the eight floor where a court officer escorted the group into a hallway. Langford pulled his body erect toward the ceiling, as high as he could get. He intended to walk in the courtroom like some ancient Indian chieftain, unbowed. He was innocent and that sheer fact gave him some steel, yes it did.
The door opened and he stepped inside the courtroom. The gallery looked packed full, as usual. Cameras clicked. Low voices in the crowd hissed venom. “Death sentence is too good for you, asshole,” whispered one. He whispered a bit too loudly. A court officer wasted no time, hustling over and guiding the man to the exit.
Langford walked ahead, keeping his dark eyes focused. His family might watch this someday. Some ragged old news clip showing their son’s dark history. He struggled to keep the light burning behind his eyes. Something true, something eternal might show through. At least he hoped so. He had told his lawyer there would be no last-minute plea deal; he was innocent, and that was it.
As he walked, he felt the eyes of the crowd pick over him, watching for some involuntary tic that would betray his thoughts. But fear roiled his belly. He was afraid, no doubt. He knew the old saying that convicted murderers sat at the head table in the twisted hierarchy of a prison. But the fact remained—every prisoner walked next to a specter of sudden violence. He desperately wanted to avoid prison.
Keys rattled in the high-ceilinged courtroom as the officers unchained him. He rubbed his wrists and then sat down at the defense table. His defense lawyer, George Sterling, took the seat next to him. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a bright orange-yellow tie. The color seemed garish for the occasion.
“How you doing, Sam?”
“Hopeful. But ready for the worst.”
Sterling grabbed his hand and shook it firmly. But his eyes betrayed him. Langford got a sense even his lawyer felt a catastrophe was coming.
The mother of the dead woman sat one row away from his own mother. Even here, mothers bore the greatest pain. Both women stared at him. Langford nodded to his mother as she mouthed the words, “I love you”. He smiled briefly. He glanced at the mother of the dead girl but looked away. Her eyes blazed with hatred and pain. He wanted to say something. But the odds were impossible. The reporters would misconstrue any gesture; the court officers might claim he threatened her. He saw no way out. Even a basic act of human kindness became muddled in a courtroom.
A court officer yelled, “All rise.” The whispers died down, and the gallery rose. The judge came in from chambers in a black-robed flurry. The lawyers went to sidebar, that curious phenomenon where they gather and whisper at the judge’s bench like kids in detention. Then the judge signaled the sidebar was over and told the court officer to bring in the jury. The jurors walked to the jury box, every one of them fixed with a blank look on their faces. None of them met his eyes. One juror eventually looked over at him. He tried to gauge his fate in her flat eyes, the set of her face. But there was nothing to see.
As the judge and lawyers spoke, the lightheadedness left him. Everything came into focus. Langford watched the foreperson hand a slip of paper to a court officer. She took a few steps and handed the paper to the judge. The judge pushed gray hairs off her forehead, examined the paper and placed it on her desk. A silence descended. Shuffles of feet, small muted coughs. People waited for a meteor to hit the earth. The clerk read the docket number into the record and the judge looked over to the foreperson, a woman with long dark hair and glasses. “On indictment 2001183 charging the defendant Samuel Langford with murder, what say you madame foreperson, is the defendant not guilty or guilty of murder in the first degree?”
“We find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree.”
To Langford, the words seemed unreal, from a world away. A mist slid over his eyes. Gasps of joy, cries of surprise. A few spectators began clapping. The judge banged the gavel. Someone sobbed behind him, and this sound he knew; his mother was crying now openly. His body petrified. He couldn’t turn around.
Sterling put one hand on his shoulder, which snapped him back. The gesture irritated him. He didn’t want to be touched. Sterling’s junior assistant cupped his hand over his mouth. Sterling said something about the evidence, they would file an appeal. Langford stared at him. The reality of his new life began to emerge.
***
Author Bio
John Nardizzi is writer and investigator. His work on innocence cases led to the exoneration Gary Cifizzari and James Watson, as well as million dollar settlements for clients Dennis Maher and the estate of Kenneth Waters, whose story was featured in the film Conviction. His crime novels won praise for crackling dialogue and pithy observations of detective work. He speaks and writes about investigations in numerous settings, including World Association of Detectives, Lawyers Weekly, Pursuit Magazine and PI Magazine. Prior to his PI career, he failed to hold any restaurant job for longer than a week. He lives near Boston, Massachusetts.
Today I am Sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the Harlequin Winter 2022 Investigator Blog Tour for AN OPERATIVE’S LAST STAND (Fugitive Heroes: Topaz Unit Book #4) by Juno Rushdan.
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Description
A kill squad is closing in… Now this team leader must risk everything for answers
Barely escaping CIA mercenaries, ex-agent Hunter Wright is after the person he thinks targeted his ops team, Topaz, for treason. Deputy director Kelly Russell is still the one woman he can’t resist, but she believes Hunter went rogue. Now she’s his only shot at getting the answers they need. Can they trust each other enough to save Topaz—and each other?
Rogue Christmas Operation – Fugitive Heroes Topaz Unit #1
Alaskan Christmas Escape – Fugitive Heroes Topaz Unit #2
Disavowed in Wyoming – Fugitive Heroes Topaz Unit #3
An Operative’s Last Stand – Fugitive Heroes: Topaz Unit #4
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My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
AN OPERATIVE’S LAST STAND (Fugitive Heroes: Topaz Unit Book #4) by Juno Rushdan is the brilliant final book and ending to the Fugitive Heroes series! These books should be read in order as each member of the Topaz team gets their own romantic suspense story which will bring them all back together to prove the team’s innocence.
Topaz team leader Hunter Wright has been able to keep his team safe up to now, but he knows they must return to Virginia to get to the person he believes betrayed his ops team. Hunter knows the CIA Deputy Director is the only person who can get the answers regarding their failed op and prove their innocence.
CIA Deputy Director Kelly Russell believes Hunter and his team went rogue and has sent CIA mercenaries to eliminate the treasonous team. Not only does she believe they betrayed their country, but that Hunter personally betrayed her.
Can they trust each other enough to save Topaz and each other?
I loved this conclusion to the Topaz series! It has everything. There is an enemies-to-lovers trope, emotional discoveries and consequences, fast-paced action and thrills, believable suspense and a climax and conclusion that was both surprising and smart. Ms. Rushdan’s characters realistically come to life on each page. This book, while wrapping up the overall series arc, also gives the reader a romance between Hunter and Kelly which is both emotionally devastating with many of the revelations and smokin’ hot with explicit sex scenes. For me, this final book was perfect!
I highly recommend this series and cannot wait for more from this author!
***
Excerpt
She looked up at him and smiled, her eyes a deep cobalt blue, dark fire-red hair, her skin pale and creamy, those angular features, her full pink mouth, the effortless sensuality. It all hit him like a gut punch. God, she was breathtaking.
“A drink? No.” Amusement rang in her voice, and something inside him sank.
“All right,” he said nonchalantly. He forced a smile, swallowing his disappointment, and stepped across the hall. Of course. Some things weren’t meant to be. This was for the best anyway. Everything came at a price. To be with Kelly Russell might cost him his soul. “I’ll let you get some sleep. It’s been a long week, and we’ve got an early flight.”
“Hunter,” she said, and he glanced back at her. “Who said anything about sleeping? I am interested in the euphemism behind your offer of a nightcap.” Another smile, this time flirty, sexy. Full of promise. “And to answer the second part to your question, my room.”
Every muscle in his body tightened with need, making it difficult for him to think of anything else, least of all playing it cool.
“We need to establish the rules of engagement first,” she said.
All business. Always in control. Even now. For some inexplicable reason, it only added to her allure.
He strolled back across the hall. “I’m listening.”
“This has to be a one-night-only situation. It can never happen again.”
He reached out and tucked a fiery strand that had escaped her twist behind her ear. Her skin was warm and soft, with a perfect porcelain texture. “My mother always told me, never say never.”
“I’m serious, Hunter.” She slipped her key card in the slot, unlocked the door and opened it. “One night to assuage our mutual curiosity.”
Curiosity. Chemistry. Semantics. “If we enjoy ourselves, why only one night?”
***
About the Author
Juno Rushdan draws from real-life inspiration as a former U.S. Air Force Intelligence Officer to craft sizzling romantic thrillers. However, you won’t find any classified leaks here. Her stories are pure fiction about kick-ass heroes and strong heroines fighting for their lives as well as their happily-ever-after.
Although Juno is a native New Yorker, wanderlust has taken her across the globe. Fortunately, she is blessed with a husband who shares her passion for travel, movies, and fantastic food. She’s visited more than twenty different countries and has lived in England and Germany. Her favorite destination for relaxation is the Amalfi Coast, Italy for its stunning seascape, cliffside lemon groves, terraced vineyards, amazing pasta, and to-die-for vino.
When she’s not writing, Juno loves spending time with her family. Exercise is not her favorite thing to do, but she squeezes some in since chocolate and red wine aren’t calorie-free.
She currently resides in Virginia with her supportive hubby, two dynamic children, and spoiled rescue dogs. Check her out on Instagram, Facebookor follow her on Twitter or BookBub. She loves to connect with readers!
Today I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the HTP Holiday Romance Blog Tour for THE SECRET OF SNOW by Viola Shipman.
Below you will find a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Book Summary
When Sonny Dunes, a So-Cal meteorologist who knows only sunshine and 72-degree days, has an on-air meltdown after she learns she’s being replaced by an AI meteorologist (which the youthful station manager reasons “will never age, gain weight or renegotiate its contract.”), the only station willing to give a 50-year-old another shot is one in a famously non-tropical place–her northern Michigan hometown.
Unearthing her carefully laid California roots, Sonny returns home and reaclimates to the painfully long, dark winters dominated by a Michigan phenomenon known as lake-effect snow. But beyond the complete physical shock to her system, she’s also forced to confront her past: her new boss is a former journalism classmate and mortal frenemy and, more keenly, the death of a younger sister who loved the snow, and the mother who caused Sonny to leave.
To distract herself from the unwelcome memories, Sonny decides to throw herself headfirst (and often disastrously) into all things winter to woo viewers and reclaim her success: sledding, ice-fishing, skiing, and winter festivals, culminating with the town’s famed Winter Ice Sculpture Contest, all run by a widowed father and Chamber director whose honesty and genuine love of Michigan, winter and Sonny just might thaw her heart and restart her life in a way she never could have predicted.
THE SECRET OF SNOW by Viola Shipman is a holiday Women’s fiction story with romantic elements that is an emotional rollercoaster ride of heartbreak, love, friendship, forgiveness, and redemption. As I have found when reading other Viola Shipman stories…you will laugh out loud and you will need the tissue box handy.
Amberrose Murphy lived in a happy and loving home in upper Michigan until tragedy struck. Her main goal after that was to escape Michigan winters and she reinvents herself after college as Sonny Dunes in California where no one would know of her painful past or remind her of her loss.
Sonny is blindsided at the age of fifty when she is replaced with an AI meteorologist. After a public meltdown, the only station that will take a chance on her is in her hometown of Traverse City, Michigan. She moves back to memories she has tried to forget and is forced to confront her past while also trying to revive her career, reconnect with her mother and deal with a widowed Chamber of Commerce Director who loves all things about winter in Michigan.
Even though this story covers almost a year in time, the holiday season plays an important role in this wonderfully emotional story. Sonny is an empathetic and believable character. The pain in her past makes her relationship phobic and many women have been affected by ageism in careers. The mother/daughter relationship is so well written with support, caring, and love. She is a very smart mother. The new friends Sonny makes at the station all grow and change right along with her. The romance is sweet, and Mason is a survivor of grief who is very open about his feelings and love of Michigan winters, but their romance does not overpower Sonny’s own personal growth.
I absolutely love Viola Shipman stories and this holiday book is no exception!
***
Excerpt
I end the newscast with the same forecast—a row of smiling sunshine emojis that look just like my face—and then banter with the anchors about the perfect pool temperature before another graphic—THE DESERT’S #1 NIGHTLY NEWS TEAM!—pops onto the screen, and we fade to commercial.
“Anyone want to go get a drink?” Cliff asks within seconds of the end of the newscast. “It’s Friday night.”
“It’s always Friday night to you, Cliff,” Eva says.
She stands and pulls off her mic. The top half of Eva Fernandez is J.Lo perfection: luminescent locks, long lashes, glam gloss, a skintight top in emerald that matches her eyes, gold jewelry that sets off her glowing skin. But Eva’s bottom half is draped in sweats, her feet in house slippers. It’s the secret viewers never see.
“I’m half dressed for bed already anyway,” she says with a dramatic sigh. Eva is very dramatic. “And I’m hosting the Girls Clubs Christmas breakfast tomorrow and then Eisenhower Hospital’s Hope for the Holidays fundraiser tomorrow night. And Sonny and I are doing every local Christmas parade the next few weekends. You should think about giving back to the community, Cliff.”
“Oh, I do,” he says. “I keep small business alive in Palm Springs. Wouldn’t be a bar afloat without my support.”
Cliff roars, setting off his chattering teeth.
I call Cliff “The Unicorn” because he was actually born and raised in Palm Springs. He didn’t migrate here like the older snowbirds to escape the cold, he didn’t snap up midcentury houses with cash like the Silicon Valley techies who realized this was a real estate gold mine, and he didn’t suddenly “discover” how hip Palm Springs was like the millennials who flocked here for the Coachella Music Festival and to catch a glimpse of Drake, Beyoncé or the Kardashians.
No, Cliff is old school. He was Palm Springs when tumbleweed still blew right through downtown, when Bob Hope pumped gas next to you and when Frank Sinatra might take a seat beside you at the bar, order a martini and nobody acted like it was a big deal.
I admire Cliff because—
The set suddenly spins, and I have to grab the arm of a passing sound guy to steady myself. He looks at me, and I let go.
—he didn’t run away from where he grew up.
“How about you, sunshine?” Cliff asks me. “Wanna grab a drink?”
“I’m gonna pass tonight, Cliff. I’m wiped from this week. Rain check?”
“Never rains in the desert, sunshine,” Cliff jokes. “You oughta know that.”
He stops and looks at me. “What would Frank Sinatra do?”
I laugh. I adore Cliff’s corniness.
“You’re not Frank Sinatra,” Eva calls.
“My martini awaits with or without you.” Cliff salutes, as if he’s Bob Hope on a USO tour, and begins to walk out of the studio.
“Ratings come in this weekend!” a voice yells. “That’s when we party.”
We all turn. Our producer, Ronan, is standing in the middle of the studio. Ronan is all of thirty. He’s dressed in flip-flops, board shorts and a T-shirt that says, SUNS OUT, GUNS OUT! like he just returned from Coachella. Oh, and he’s wearing sunglasses. At night. In a studio that’s gone dim. Ronan is the grandson of the man who owns our network, DSRT. Jack Clark of ClarkStar pretty much owns every network across the US these days. He put his grandson in charge because Ro-Ro’s father bought an NFL franchise, and he’s too obsessed with his new fancy toy to pay attention to his old fancy toy. Before DSRT, Ronan was a surfer living in Hawaii who found it hard to believe there wasn’t an ocean in the middle of the California desert.
He showed up to our very first official news meeting wearing a tank top with an arrow pointing straight up that read, This Dude’s the CEO!
“You can call me Ro-Ro,” he’d announced upon introduction.
“No,” Cliff said. “I can’t.”
Ronan had turned his bleary gaze upon me and said, “Yo. Weather’s, like, not really my thing. You can just, like, look outside and see what’s going on. And it’s, like, on my phone. Just so we’re clear…get it? Like the weather.”
My heart nearly stopped. “People need to know how to plan their days, sir,” I protested. “Weather is a vital part of all our lives. It’s daily news. And, what I study and disseminate can save lives.”
“Ratings party if we’re still number one!” Ronan yells, knocking me from my thoughts.
I look at Eva, and she rolls her eyes. She sidles up next to me and whispers, “You know all the jokes about millennials? He’s the punchline for all of them.”
I stifle a laugh.
We walk each other to the parking lot.
“See you Monday,” I say.
“Are we still wearing our matching Santa hats for the parade next Saturday?”
I laugh and nod. “We’re his best elves,” I say.
“You mean his sexiest news elves,” she says. She winks and waves, and I watch her shiny SUV pull away. I look at my car and get inside with a smile. Palm Springs locals are fixated on their cars. Not the make or the color, but the cleanliness. Since there is so little rain in Palm Springs, locals keep their cars washed and polished constantly. It’s like a competition.
I pull onto Dinah Shore Drive and head toward home.
Palm Springs is dark. There is a light ordinance in the city that limits the number of streetlights. In a city this beautiful, it would be a crime to have tall posts obstructing the view of the mountains or bright light overpowering the brightness of the stars.
I decide to cut through downtown Palm Springs to check out the Friday night action. I drive along Palm Canyon Drive, the main strip in town. The restaurants are packed. People sit outside in shorts—in December!—enjoying a glass of wine. Music blasts from bars. Palm Springs is alive, the town teeming with life even near midnight.
I stop at a red light, and a bachelorette party in sashes and tiaras pulls up next to me peddling a party bike. It’s like a self-propelled trolley with seats and pedals, but you can drink—a lot—on it. I call these party trolleys “Woo-Hoo Bikes” because…
I honk and wave.
The bachelorette party shrieks, holds up their glasses and yells, “WOO-HOO!”
The light changes, and I take off, knowing these ladies will likely find themselves in a load of trouble in about an hour, probably at a tiki bar where the drinks are as deadly as the skulls on the glasses.
I continue north on Palm Canyon—heading past Copley’s Restaurant, which once was Cary Grant’s guesthouse in the 1940s, and a plethora of design and vintage home furnishings stores. I stop at another light and glance over as an absolutely filthy SUV, which looks like it just ended a mud run, pulls up next to me. The front window is caked in gray-white sludge and the doors are encrusted in crud. An older man is hunched over the steering wheel, wearing a winter coat, and I can see the woman seated next to him pointing at the navigation on the dashboard. I know immediately they are not only trying to find their Airbnb on one of the impossible-to-locate side streets in Palm Springs, but also that they are from somewhere wintry, somewhere cold, somewhere the sun doesn’t shine again until May.
Which state? I wonder, as the light changes, and the car pulls ahead of me.
“Bingo!” I yell in my car. “Michigan license plates!”
We all run from Michigan in the winter.
I look back at the road in front of me, and it’s suddenly blurry. A car honks, scaring the wits out of me, and I shake my head clear, wave an apology and head home.
Viola Shipman is the pen name for Wade Rouse, a popular, award-winning memoirist. Rouse chose his grandmother’s name, Viola Shipman, to honor the woman whose heirlooms and family stories inspire his writing. Rouse is the author of The Summer Cottage, as well as The Charm Bracelet and The Hope Chest which have been translated into more than a dozen languages and become international bestsellers. He lives in Saugatuck, Michigan and Palm Springs, California, and has written for People, Coastal Living, Good Housekeeping, and Taste of Home, along with other publications, and is a contributor to All Things Considered.
