Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Release Blitz w/Giveaway: A Fairytale Bride by Hope Ramsay


Enter to Win 1 of 10 Print Copies of WELCOME TO LAST CHANCE


A FAIRY TALE BRIDE 
Chapel of Love #0.5
Hope Ramsay
Released June 7th, 2016
Forever Yours


A CHAPEL OF LOVE SHORT STORY



After a very public career disaster, journalist Jeff Talbert-Lyndon wants to escape from the world. Picturesque Shenadoah Falls, Virginia, seems like the perfect place to relax and regroup before heading back to real life. But when he discovers the charming bookstore Secondhand Prose - and its lovely, slightly overwhelmed owner- he finds a part-time job and a very tempting reason to stay...



Melissa Portman is fighting a losing battle when it comes to saving her grandmother's store - and selling the historic building may be her only option. Yet when a handsome stranger wanders in one day, she wonders if her very own fairytale is just beginning...

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Melissa Portman almost laughed in the man’s face. He was most definitely not the teenager Grammy had been searching for when she’d put the “Help Wanted” sign in the window three months ago.  
He was a grown man, probably her age or a little older, in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore clothes that branded him as someone who came from way, way out of town: a brown tweed jacket with elbow patches, a striped button-down shirt, and a pair of skinny jeans that showed off his muscular thighs. All in all, he gave the impression of a hot college professor.
He also had dark, soulful brown eyes, too-long black hair that curled over his forehead like a sensitive poet’s, and a well-groomed scruff of beard that Melissa found way too attractive for her own good. To top it all off, he held Hugo in his arms like a man who knew something about cats. In fact, just watching his long fingers stroke the cat was vaguely erotic.
No question about it. He was delicious eye-candy. And she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he needed a job. The guy was flirting.
Wow, that hadn’t happened in, like, forever.
She arched her eyebrow the way Grammy used to when faced with the utterly absurd and said, “You want to work here? Really?” She invested her voice with just the right tone of skepticism.
His mouth quirked and exposed adorable laugh lines that peeked through his GQ-style stubble. “Really,” he said. “I appreciate literature.”
His voice was low, deep, and had just the right hint of tease in it — like he might be calling her out for the book she’d hidden beneath the counter. Had he seen the title? She hoped not.
“Seriously,” he said, “I’m interested in the job.”
“It’s minimum wage,” she said.
“How much is that? I’m new around here.”
No kidding. “$7.25 an hour.” She managed to say this with a straight face.
The professor’s eyebrows lowered. “That’s not very much, is it?”
Obviously Mr. Professor had been spending all his time in ivory towers or something. “Right,” she said, nodding. “And that’s why we only hire high school students. You’re a little old for that.”
He continued to stroke Hugo as he gazed at her out of those impossibly hot brown eyes. “I know, but I need the work. I recently lost my job.”
Something in the set of his broad shoulders suggested that he was telling the truth, even if he was also flirting at the same time. A momentary pang of sympathy swelled inside Melissa. She was in the same boat. She’d given up a good job with the Fairfax County Public Schools in order to take care of Grammy, and now she’d be out of a full-time teaching job until next September. She didn’t know how she’d pay her bills.
Unless she sold the historic building that housed Secondhand Prose. The Lyndons were willing to pay a fortune for it—enough to pay all of Melissa’s bills, cover the property taxes, and give her something left over to invest. But selling out to the Lyndons was the last thing Melissa wanted to do. In her heart of hearts, she wanted to keep Secondhand Prose’s doors open. But that was just silly, wishful thinking.
“I could be very helpful,” Mr. Professor said, breaking through Melissa’s financial worries. “I’m good at organizing things, and I have other experience and qualifications that could be valuable to you.”
She eyed the cat and then his handsome face. “Aside from charming killer cats?”
His mouth twitched again. “I’m an avid reader.”
She rolled her eyes. “Aren’t we all? But really, there is no job.”
“But the sign. And you’re clearly short—”
“The sign has been there for a while. My grandmother put it up before she died. I’m sorry, but there’s no job available here.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”
For an uncomfortable moment, their gazes caught, and the kindness and concern in his eyes surprised her. “Grammy was pretty old,” Melissa said, her voice barely hiding the sorrow that had hollowed out her insides. “So let me ring these books up for you, okay?”
Melissa picked up the books he’d laid on the counter while Mr. Hottie Professor continued to lean his hip into the counter, his mere presence disturbing the atmosphere and making Melissa adolescently self-conscious.
“That’ll be $25.00 for the books,” she said in her best customer-service voice. She expected him to hand over a credit card, but instead the guy pulled out a money clip that held a big wad of bills. He sure wasn’t a professor, not carrying cash like that. He had to thumb through several hundred-dollar bills to find a five and a twenty. So who was he? She was suddenly dying to know.
He put Hugo down, but the damn cat continued to circle his legs. “Nice cat,” he said.
“His name is Hugo — well, his full name is Victor Hugo — and he’s not friendly.”
“Could have fooled me.”
The cat meowed as if he knew they were talking about him. What was Hugo up to? He never made friends with strangers.
She handed the guy his bag. “So, where are you staying?” she asked, hoping she might prolong this conversation and get his name, email address, or even his profile on Match.com.
He took his bag and broke eye-contact. “I love your store. Next time I’m going to make friends with the cat in the window.”
“Ha, I don’t think so. Dickens is half-wild.”
“I already figured that out. Have a nice day.”
And with that, the guy turned and strolled down the aisle toward the door, looking amazingly like the hero in the romance novel she’d been reading when he’d first arrived.

5 stars

A Fairytale Bride was a short but a delightful, refreshing read, what a way to start a new book of a series.  I really liked the characters Jeff & Melissa, they both avid readers, Melissa with her quirkiness & her fairytale t-shirts & Jeff hiding out from his family, they just found each other when both needed a change.  I was amazed how fast Jeff & Melissa knew the other was "THE ONE" it was just a matter of days, I guess this would bothered me if I wasn't an open minded that love can happen anytime &  any minute, and only YOU know when you found "THE ONE".  I can't wait to return to Shenadoah Falls to find out who the next one to fall in love.  If you have looking for a short couple hour read I recommend you pick up A Fairytale Bride,  you will not be disappointed.  I can honestly say Hope Ramsay has earned a new fan in the reader.  Thank you to Tasty Book Tours for the opportunity to read & review A Fairytale Bride.




Hope Ramsay is a USA Today bestselling author of heartwarming contemporary romances. Her books have won critical acclaim and publishing awards. She is married to a good ol' Georgia boy who resembles every single one of her Southern heroes. She has two grown children and a couple of demanding lap cats. She lives in Virginia where, when she's not writing, she's knitting or playing her forty-year-old Martin guitar.




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Release Blitz: Targeted by Marissa Garner


For San Diego's elite FBI agents, risking their lives is standard procedure 
when it comes to capturing the city's most dangerous criminals-
but falling in love is the greatest risk of all. 


TARGETED
FBI Heat #2
Marissa Garner
Released June 7th, 2016
Forever Yours


RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES . . . 

FBI Special Agent Marissa Panuska faces the most explosive case of her career when she impersonates a female terrorist to infiltrate an al-Qaeda cell. Her dark hair, olive complexion, and Arabic fluency make her the perfect imposter, but each passing hour raises the risk of discovery. Can she stop the dirty-bomb plot-alone-when the Feds don't even know the target? And should she trust the mysterious man who bursts into her life when her cover is blown?

SO CLOSE TO REALITY . . . 

Former Navy SEAL Ameen Ali has a very personal reason for hating the terrorists and vowing to stop them. But when a beautiful woman joins the sleeper cell spreading death-to-America propaganda at his mosque, he doesn't want to believe she shares their evil goals. Can he convince her to join forces before it's too late?

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Night had fallen when Samir parked the truck in front of the dilapidated house in the drug-infested Tijuana slum. Once he killed the headlights, the moon provided the only illumination along the crumbling asphalt road. Wedged between Samir and Omar on the seat, Marissa Panuska scanned the neighborhood of decaying buildings, hoping to catch a reassuring glimpse of the two agents who were out there—somewhere—following her, watching her back.
On five previous occasions, the terrorists had brought her to their hideout in Mexico, just across the border from San Diego. Marauding drug gangs ruled the area where crackling gunfire was as common as barking dogs. The constant smell of weed permeated the air and stung her nostrils. The residents were rarely visible, preferring relative safety behind walls.
Marissa’s gaze swept over the run-down house, checking for any signs of change or trouble. Boards protected the windows from prying eyes, and a padlock secured the door against thieves. The electrical connection dangling from the sagging overhead lines was one of the few in the slum, and the satellite phone antenna on the roof was definitely unique.
After an anxious look around, Omar jumped out to unlock the door before all three darted inside. Samir switched on the lamp that sat on the floor by the door. Ignoring the stench from the barely functioning bathroom, they hurried past it and the bedroom on the left. A narrow archway separated the front room from the larger back room, which included a rudimentary kitchen along one wall. The furnishings consisted of six metal folding chairs, a wooden table, and three tall lamps. Several boxes of electronic parts, including a new one, were lined up near the rear door. The place was filthy, but no one cared.
The stifling heat in the closed-up house stole Marissa’s breath. Sweat dampened her skin beneath the long, black abaya and niqab, the Muslim robe and veil she wore over her other clothes. While the men turned on the lights, she sank onto one of the flimsy chairs, morbidly wondering if she was more likely to die from heat stroke than at the hands of the terrorists.
Holding the niqab away from her face, she drew slow, deep breaths and grimaced at the pain in her lungs and stomach. The stress of impersonating Baheera Abbas, of pretending to be the female terrorist previously unknown to the US intelligence community, gnawed at Marissa’s nerves. If only she could determine Baheera’s role in the planned attack, she might be able to finish the covert operation, might be able to survive. Every passing minute held the threat of discovery and diminished that possibility.
Marissa wiped the sweat from her face and watched the two men admire the sword-like knife Samir had purchased in a shop along Avenida RevoluciĆ³n on their way through Tijuana. On previous visits, Samir’s first priority had been to unlock the metal gun cabinet bolted to the floor in the bedroom closet and to confirm the delivery of additional bomb components. But tonight, the sleeper cell’s leader and Omar were distracted by the massive blade, which they took turns brandishing menacingly at each other.
Samir’s satellite phone lay on the table. The phone never left his sight because it represented the cell’s umbilical cord to the Middle East, the only method of communication between the terrorists here and those at home. Homeland Security couldn’t fathom why just one means of contact existed, why no alternate options were in place. They suspected the men in charge didn’t trust anyone except Samir and wanted to minimize the risk of the plot being traced back to the source. Unable to determine the terrorists’ reasons, US officials decided the terrorist mind was impossible to comprehend and worked to exploit the obvious weakness in the cell’s strategy. The Bureau and other government agencies had simply taken advantage of the situation and monitored the terrorists’ calls with ease.
Until two weeks ago, Marissa had been one of the agents monitoring those calls, listening to and translating many long distance conversations between Samir and his bosses. Discovering the true identities of the people had been a frustrating, and often futile, process. No one used a last name, and even the first names were suspect as they were frequently aliases. Husaam was the name used by the man who seemed to be at the top, but the common Arab name made it impossible to positively identify or trace him.
The sat phone’s ring interrupted Marissa’s thoughts.
Everyone froze.
Samir shot it a startled glance. The call seemed to confuse him for a moment, suggesting he didn’t expect to be contacted tonight. He grabbed the phone, answering warily in Arabic. His face tensed, and his tone turned respectful when he launched into a detailed status report. As usual, he lowered his voice and walked into the front room so neither Omar nor Marissa could hear.
She prayed that someone in Washington would be listening in real time—not hours later to a recording.
Only five minutes passed before Samir, wearing a Cheshire cat grin, strolled back through the doorway and held out the phone to her. Her stomach knotted. Only Samir talked on the sat phone.
Saying nothing, he thrust it at her again.
Hesitantly, she put the phone to her ear and spoke in precise Arabic. “Allahu Akbar.”
The man on the phone greeted her affectionately—as his wife.


5 stars
This story was more than I thought it would be. Strong characters and a great story line. Chases, hidden secrets and love. Who ever thought love would flourish amid such devastation that was to be unleashed. Page by page I was glued to it and wondering what the outcome should be. From DC to San Diego and down to Tijuana Mexico, I was totally rived by Marissa (Baheera) and how strong she was, and Ameen well what can one say about him, risking his own life to protect her against unimaginable terror. Loved the book and would love to read more of Marissa Garner books. Thank you to Tasty Book Tours for giving me the opportunity to read & review Targeted.


I'm a wife, writer, chocoholic, and animal lover, not necessarily in that order. As a little girl, I cut pictures of people out of my mother's magazines and turned them into characters in my simple stories. Now I write sexy paranormal romantic suspense, steamy contemporary romance, and edgy romantic thrillers. I live in sunny Southern California with my husband, but enjoy traveling from Athens to Anchorage to Acapulco and many locations in between.


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Virtual Tour w/Giveaway: Blood Lust by Alexandra Ivy


Enter to Win a Print Copy of BLOOD LUST


BLOOD LUST
The Sentinels #3
Alexandra Ivy
Released May 31st, 2016
Kensington 


Blessed and cursed by their hidden abilities, the Sentinels have no choice but to live, and love, on the edge of humanity…

The Sentinel assassin, Bas, is facing the greatest challenge of his outcast existence. His young daughter, Molly, has been kidnapped. But her disappearance has brought the return of her mother, Myst, whom Bas has never forgotten--or forgiven.

Haunted by a vision that she's destined to create a weapon that will destroy thousands, Myst was never impulsive--until she met the irresistibly handsome Bas. But with the Brotherhood, the enemy of the high-bloods hunting for her, Myst had to stay on the run, to keep her child, and the world, safe. Now, with the most important thing in both their lives at stake, she and Bas must embark on a treacherous journey to save Molly, to confront the truth of Myst's fate--and to face their fierce desire for one another.

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Pacing toward the long bar that was set near the leather sectional couch, Bas grimly poured himself a scotch. Tomorrow he would have the suite cleaned from top to bottom. Maybe that would get rid of the lingering scent of honeysuckle.
He was on his second drink when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and he whirled to study the woman who came to a hesitant halt in the center of the room.
His brows snapped together. He told himself it was be-cause she was an unwelcome interloper and not because she looked as delicate and ethereal as a moonbeam.
A very sexy moonbeam.
She wrapped her arms around her slender waist, making a visible effort to meet his gaze.
“There’s no need to glare at me,” she chided.
He set aside his empty glass, smoothing his face to an unreadable mask.
It was something that should have come easily. He was a cold, ruthless assassin, wasn’t he? Unfortunately, this woman had a unique talent of getting under his skin.
In more ways than one.
“You’ve been screwing with my daughter’s mind,” he said between clenched teeth, still unnerved by the revelation that this woman had been speaking with Molly without his knowledge.
Her chin jutted to a defensive angle. “I’ll admit that I’ve often communicated with Molly, but I was hardly screwing with her mind. We talked like any other mother and daughter.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You knew very well that I was unaware of your telepathic powers. You deliberately used that lack of awareness to take advantage.”
“Molly was the one to reach out to me.”
His scowl deepened. “How? You’re not trying to claim she’s a telepath?”
“No, but I could sense her,” Myst muttered. “She needed to know that her mother loved her.”
“A mother who loves her child doesn’t abandon her.”
She flinched at his deliberate attack. “I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t what?” “Nothing.”
He studied her pale face.
She was hiding something. But what?
“Why are you here?”
“You know why.” She hunched a shoulder. “I’m here to see my daughter.”
“Why?” he pressed again. “Four years ago you left her on my bed and walked away without looking back. Surely you can understand my confusion why you were struck
with a burning need to see her now.”
Her lovely face, which looked far too young to be a mother, flushed at his accusation.
“Molly was traumatized when she was kidnapped.” His breath hissed between his teeth.
The memory of Molly’s kidnapping was still a raw wound that made him think about killing things.
“You don’t have to remind me,” he snapped. “We were all traumatized when she was taken.”
The velvet-brown eyes widened with something that might have been confusion. “I’m not blaming you.”
“Then what are you doing?” he asked.
“Trying to explain that after Molly was taken she reached out to me in terror,” she said, her voice trembling as if she’d been as tormented as he’d been by her abduction. “She couldn’t tell me where she was, or who’d taken her, so all I could do was try to give her comfort and swear to her that I would come and visit if she would be a good girl and do everything they told her to do until you could come for her.”
Her soft words should have infuriated him. What right did she have to make promises to his daughter?
Instead, he went hunter-still. “You were so certain I would find her?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
Shit.
He struggled to keep his face devoid of emotion at the insane flare of pleasure that raced through him at her absolute confidence in his skills.
What the hell was wrong with him?
It wasn’t as if this woman’s opinion mattered, did it?
“Is that why it took you a week to get here?” he snapped, angered by his ridiculous reaction to this female. “Or were you just too busy to care that your daughter was in danger?”
Her head snapped back, an unexpected fury tightening her delicate features.
“Don’t ever say I don’t care about Molly,” she spit out, her hands clenched into tiny balls. “I left the second I knew she’d been taken. If I hadn’t had to make sure I wasn’t being followed I would have—”
She bit off her impulsive words, stiffly turning to walk toward the bank of windows.
“Followed?” he instantly pounced. Was this a trick? A lame excuse for not rushing to help in the search for Molly?
“By who?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Bas kept his gaze locked on the fragile profile reflected in the window.
“It does if you’re in danger.”
She hunched her shoulders, a visible shiver shaking her body.
“All I’m asking is a few days to spend with my daughter,” she said in low tones.
Bas was moving before he could halt his forward progress, grabbing her shoulders so he could turn her to meet his searching gaze.
“I want to know why you think you’re being followed,” he insisted.
Her ridiculously thick lashes lowered to hide her expressive eyes. A sure sign she was about to lie.
“You’re always in hiding,” she muttered. “I didn’t want to accidentally give away your location.”
“Bullshit.”
Her jaw tightened, but her gaze stayed lowered. “Can I stay?”
His grip eased on her shoulders, his fingers compulsively stroking the satin-soft skin of her back.
“For how long?” he demanded.
“A few days.”
“And then you intend to disappear into the ether once again?”
“Yes.”
Some undefinable emotion clenched his stomach at her blunt admission that she couldn’t be bothered to spend more than a handful of hours with her child.
His hand moved from her shoulder to grasp her chin, tilting back her head so he could study her delicate features.
So innocent.
The face of an angel.
How the hell could she be so cruel toward her only child?
Unless . . .
“Do you have another family?” he abruptly demanded.
She blinked, as if confused by his question. “Do you mean parents or siblings?”
His lips thinned. “I’m asking if you have a husband and pack of kids. Is that why you treat Molly like a dirty secret?”
“Of course not,” she breathed, a genuine outrage darkening her eyes. “And I don’t treat Molly like a dirty secret.”
Dropping his hands as if he’d been scalded, Bas took a step back.
He didn’t want to feel a sharp-edged relief that he’d been wrong in his suspicion that Myst was already claimed by another male.
He didn’t want to feel anything for this woman.
“No,” he said abruptly.
“No what?” she asked in bewilderment.
“No, you can’t stay,” he informed, retreating behind his icy composure. “It isn’t fair to Molly.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her expression stricken. “A visit from her mother isn’t fair?”
“You can’t just appear and disappear from her life when-ever you want.” He shrugged. “It’s too confusing.”
“All I’m asking is a few days.”
“No.”
“Bas . . .” She held out a slender hand. “Please.”
Her soft, pleading expression didn’t touch him, he fiercely assured himself.
He was turning away and heading out of the room because he needed to check on Molly, not because he was trying to avoid the blatant yearning on her beautiful face.
And the strange emotion that was currently twisting his gut into tight knots wasn’t guilt.
Or regret.
No way.
“Lock the door on your way out,” he commanded, refusing to glance at her.
“I’ll return in the morning,” she said, the words soft but stubborn.
His steps never faltered. “You’re wasting your time.”
“It’s my time to waste,” she muttered. “I’ll be back.”
Bas had reached the end of the short hallway when he heard the sound of Myst’s retreating footsteps, followed by the closing of the door.




Alexandra Ivy graduated from Truman University with a degree in theatre before deciding she preferred to bring her characters to life on paper rather than stage. She currently lives in Missouri with her extraordinarily patient husband and teenage sons. To stay updated on Alexandra’s Guardian series or to chat with other readers, please visit her website at www.alexandraivy.com.


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