Author: Angie

Texas Trouble Lone Star Book 2 by Gerry Bartlett Genre: Romantic Suspense

Scarlett Hall followed a job and a friend to Texas, but that cost her more than she’d bargained for. Now, wounded but determined to get past one of the worst days of her life, she decides she has to pull herself together. First step: cover up the physical scars left from her ordeal. That’s easy. But the emotional scars are proving harder to handle. Then she meets Ethan Calhoun. This bad boy seems ready to make his own changes and might be just what she needs to start a new chapter in her life. When he offers her a job as manager of his new bar, she decides to go for it. A change of pace and a hot guy who makes her forget her troubles while she’s in his arms are a great cure. But it soon becomes clear that danger will be in Scarlett’s life no matter how many changes she makes. As Scarlett comes face to face with her worst nightmare, it seems happiness was just an illusion. Maybe Texas is just too much trouble. Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo

Texas Lightning Lone Star Book 1

A million-dollar idea. A city girl in the country. And a man who brings out her wild side… Anna Delaney is thrilled to leave Boston for Austin, Texas, when her small tech company is bought out by a conglomerate. Born into a family of over-protective brothers, this is her chance at true independence—and a name-making professional breakthrough. Even when gorgeous billionaire rancher King Sanders forms a one-man welcoming committee, Anna insists that she doesn’t need a tour guide—or another bodyguard. But after she narrowly escapes a kidnapping attempt, she can’t say no to King spiriting her away to someplace safe…and very private. Someone wants the valuable software Anna’s developing, and King is determined to keep her safe until the culprit is caught. The hunky cowboy lights her up brighter than the Lone Star sky at night, but neither one of them is prepared for just how wild Texas can get—and just how hard they’re willing to fight to stay together… Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo

Gerry Bartlett is a native Texan who lives halfway between Houston and Galveston. She has an antique business on the island and in Alvin. When she’s not treasure hunting, she loves heading to the Texas capitol of Austin where she attended the University of Texas. She’s managed to set most of her Real Vampires series there and now a new Lone Star Suspense series, coming in November. She also loves writing about her hometown of Houston in her contemporary Texas Heat series. She lives with Jet, a whippet, who keeps her company when she’s at the computer. Gerry collects cookbooks, but rarely cooks, and little boxes that she brings back from her travels. She also has a weakness for purses and posts pictures of her latest finds on Pinterest. When she has time, Gerry loves to read just about anything with a happy ending. Check out her reviews on Goodreads. This former elementary school teacher is lucky enough to have more than twenty published novels. You can read more about Gerry at http://gerrybartlett.com and sign up for her newsletter there for news and giveaways. There are also dozens of articles for aspiring authors on her website under the Perils of Publishing tab. Once a teacher, always a teacher. Whether it’s contemporary or paranormal, Gerry Bartlett writes romance with a Texas twist. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Breathe. Turn the lock. She flipped the dead bolt and waited. Someone jiggled the knob, but
it held. God. God. She sagged to the floor. Safe. Please let her be safe.
“Are you all right?” A man’s voice came from across the dark room.
No, she was not all right. What had she done? Locked herself in with him. Scarlett searched
for a weapon. Shit. She didn’t even have her shoes.
“Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.” He was coming closer.
“That’s what they all say.” Scarlett jerked her cell out of her bra. She’d started keeping it
there after the attack. “Don’t come any closer. I’m calling 9-1-1.”
“And say what? That you broke into my bar?” He was too close. He hunkered down in front
of her. “Ethan Calhoun. How can I help you?”
“You own this bar?” Scarlett hit reality. Hard. He was right. What was she doing here? She
tried to catch her breath, her heart stuttering as she looked around. She stared at the long wooden
bar across the room as she tried to regulate her breathing. The room was empty except for the man
who just sat there, still too close. She wanted to shove him away. Common sense finally returned as
she gripped her phone and realized he wasn’t making a move, just staring. Of course, she was
acting crazy.
“Yeah, I do. Something scared you. Do I need to go outside and kick some butt?” He still
hadn’t moved.
Scarlett checked him out. Tall, good-looking, a little young, but not too young. He looked like
he could enjoy some butt kicking but would prefer something more civilized in his vintage rock band
tee and jeans. She waited, still breathing in and out, her heart finally settling down. If he tried
anything that screamed danger, she had her fingers on her phone. But he just sat there, patient and,
damn it, kind. She finally made a decision.
“You can buy me a drink.”
“That I can do.” He stood and held out his hand. “Usually, it’s no shoes, no service, but I’ll
make an exception if you tell me your name.”
“Scarlett Hall.” Scarlett took his hand and let him pull her to her feet.
“I have to warn you, I’m a head case right now.”
“Honey, I’m way too used to those.” He pulled her to the bar, then walked around and put
two glasses in front of her. “Name your poison.”
“Tequila. I’ve had a rough day. Rough month, rough year.” She sighed. “Told you I was
messed up.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” Ethan smiled and poured them each a splash of top-
shelf tequila. “I think I’ve lost my mind too. Never owned a bar before. Now here I am probably about
to lose my shirt. Moved to Austin because I loved going to college here. It’s a common thing with
Texas exes.” He picked up his glass, waited for her to pick up hers, then clinked it. “Here’s to crazy.”
“Crazy.” Scarlett threw back the shot. She wasn’t about to turn to alcohol to solve her
problems, but she liked Ethan’s smile and that was a start. She needed her purse and her shoes.
She had to go back and apologize to Casey. And she wanted that damn tattoo. She shook her head
when Ethan offered her a refill.
“No, I’ve got to go back next door.”
“To Casey’s? You getting a tattoo?” Ethan walked her to the door.
“If I can find my nerve.” Scarlett looked around. The only light came from the dusty windows
and a laptop on the bar. No furniture yet, so obviously he wasn’t ready to open.
“Want me to hold your hand?” He grinned.
Scarlett could imagine that. For the first time since the abduction, she didn’t want to throw up
a stop sign as soon as a man showed interest. And Ethan was definitely interested.
“No, thanks. This is something I have to do myself.” She handed him her phone. “Can I call
you if I need moral support?”
“Hell, yes.”

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Love, Lies and Murder by Leslie Wolfe Genre: Thriller, Suspense

Breathtaking suspense unraveling at train-wreck speed, in an unforgettable collection. Sometimes the only way to do the right thing is to break the rules. Love, Lies, and Murder is a collection of 19 short stories that explore the extremes of human emotion and the conflicts that result. Every story will leave you tense and breathless as the characters race to a conclusion that is as unexpected as it is satisfying. Intense and gripping, each story features a hero that seeks justice and the triumph of good over evil by whatever means necessary—regardless of what society’s rules find acceptable. The collection is taut, visceral, and addictive. All the emotions we feel every day, when taken to their extremes, offer a roller coaster of passion, conflict, and chills. Nineteen droplets of suspense in a thrilling anthology that will leave you unsettled, longing for more. Fans of David Baldacci, Robert Dugoni, and James Patterson will love reading Leslie Wolfe. **Only .99 cents!!**Goodreads * Amazon

Leslie Wolfe is a bestselling author whose novels break the mold of traditional thrillers. She creates unforgettable, brilliant, strong women heroes who deliver fast-paced, satisfying suspense, backed up by extensive background research in technology and psychology. Leslie released the first novel, Executive , in October 2011. It was very well received, including inquiries from Hollywood. Since then, Leslie published numerous novels and enjoyed growing success and recognition in the marketplace. Among Leslie’s most notable works, The Watson Girl (2017) was recognized for offering a unique insight into the mind of a serial killer and a rarely seen first person account of his actions, in a dramatic and intense procedural thriller. A complete list of Leslie’s titles is available at http://wolfenovels.com/order. Leslie enjoys engaging with readers every day and would love to hear from you. Become an insider: gain early access to previews of Leslie’s new novels! Website * Facebook * Twitter * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!

He ran parallel with the train as fast as he could, reaching for the handlebar and trying to figure out how he
could hop inside, when the freight car was that high. It was above his waist level, and he needed to grab onto
something with both his hands and pull himself inside the car, if he didn’t want the risk of slipping under the
car and losing one or both of his legs in the process.
Freight train hopping was more difficult than he’d expected. He was almost out of breath and the train seemed
to move faster, catching speed, while the distance between his extended hand and the handle he was aiming
for increased inch by inch. At least that car had its door wide open and seemed empty. If he could only push
forward some more, gain up on the damn thing, come close enough to venture a foot up that step, while
grabbing onto the handle.
The train squealed and slowed down, as the tracks curved a little, and he pushed himself to run faster. Then he
lunged forward with the last drop of energy he had left, and grabbed that handle while his left foot found the
wide step underneath the car’s open door. His right arm flailed in the air, desperately looking for something to
grab, while his body was pushed backward by inertia. Then he felt a strong hand grip his right wrist and yank
him up forcefully. He landed face down on the car’s floor, while the same strong grip dragged him all the way
inside.
“A thing like that could get you killed out here,” he heard a man’s voice say calmly.
He looked up at the man who’d pulled him inside. He was young, barely twenty years old, if even. His face
was grimy, smudged with dust and sweat and dirt, and his clothes were nothing unexpected for a habitual train
hopper. His blue eyes were fixed on his Rolex, and he quickly covered it with the sleeve of his windbreaker.
Still panting hard, he pulled himself up to his feet and shook the young man’s hand.
“Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it.”
“Huh,” the young man replied with a grin, dazzling white teeth sparkling against the grime on his face. “You
should.” Then he laughed, a quick laugh cut short by a few coughs. “You’re no train-hopper material, dude,”
he continued when he was able to catch his breath. “What, you got lost, or somethin’?”
“Nah,” he replied, still panting. “Just looking for someone.”
The young man whistled. “So, you got a place to live, and nice clothes, and food, but you hop trains for fun?”
“Not for fun, no. I’m looking for my brother,” he replied. “Someone said he might have been riding freight
trains through these parts of the country.”
The young man gave him a good look, head to toe, and he felt he was being evaluated. Maybe the kid was
thinking how much money he had on him, or if it was worth killing him. He held his gaze steadily, unafraid,
glad to feel the holster of his weapon tight against his ribs.
“Name’s Travis,” the kid said, extending his dirty hand again.
He took it and shook it firmly. “Jack.”
“Got some food on you, Jack?”
He hesitated a split second, then took out two of the chocolate bars he’d stuffed his pockets with before
leaving the city.
Travis took one carefully, almost as if he expected him to slap him or punch him or something. Then he
whistled again, and slowly unwrapped the bar, savoring the experience. Then he wolfed it down in two good
bites, chewed hastily with his mouth open.
“Umm, good stuff.”
Jack watched him eat and felt something tug at his heart. This kid was about the same age as Conrad, his
younger brother who had vanished almost two months ago. Conrad was going home from school one day, and
it was later than usual. He’d stayed at school longer, working in the lab with three other med-school students,
colleagues of his at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, and those three students were the
last people to have seen him.
From the lab, he had to cross the campus and walk a few blocks through Streeterville, to the Brown Line train
station. From what Jack was able to deduct, it was already dark when Conrad had left the university about
seven, his banjo strapped on his back, and a small backpack in his hand. That’s the way his colleagues
described his appearance that day. He was his normal self, maybe a little tired after a long day studying
countless blood samples on the electronic microscope, and he’d told everyone he was hungry.
Then he vanished. When he didn’t come home that night, Jack had called the cops, but Conrad was an adult
and they weren’t going to open an investigation for at least twenty-four hours. His brother’s phone was going
straight to voicemail and, lacking any other means of investigating, Jack had gone to the university the next

morning. He talked with Conrad’s colleagues and heard that he had been in a good mood the day before, doing
his usual routine after lunch, when he sang a couple of songs in front of the building for his cheering
colleagues and passersby. There was no girlfriend who anyone knew about, nor did he seem disturbed by
anything. He’d just left the night before, going home, as he normally did.
Only he’d never made it home.
Jack retraced his steps, with the help of a couple of students who’d walked to the Chicago/Franklin Brown
Line with Conrad before, and knew which side of the street he liked to walk on, and where he usually stopped
for a snack before hitting the train station. He walked the same street, by the ballpark, carefully observing
every detail, yet almost missed the white wood shards that littered the street corner, next to some tangled,
coiled banjo strings.
When he realized what those were, all the blood rushed to his chest and his heart thumped heavily, as if
fighting to escape his chest cavity. He dropped to his knees next to the scattered pieces of wood, and took one
in his hand, gently running his fingers over the glossy finish. Then he crouched lower, looking under the
nearby trash can and saw a photo, barely showing from underneath some street litter. He grabbed it with two
fingers and held his breath. He already knew what it was, an old photo of Conrad and him, when they were
much younger, taken the day Jack had bought Conrad the banjo.
That day Jack had taught him how to play it, and Conrad, a talented guitarist and a natural for anything with
strings, was playing the theme song from Doctor Zhivago before the end of the day. Not perfectly, but it was
recognizable, and soon thereafter it was better, the twangy sound of the banjo warm and full under his fingers,
sounding more and more like the balalaika in the original theme song. Since that day, Conrad had kept their
picture tucked inside his instrument’s pot, taped in place with a piece of transparent adhesive tape still clinging
to the photo in Jack’s hand.
He moaned loudly when he noticed the bloodstain on the photo, and, as if living through a nightmare, he heard
one of Conrad’s colleagues make a 911 call.
Nothing happened after the cops came; nothing useful anyway. Yeah, they’d confirmed the blood on the photo
was his brother’s. But that’s where the trail went cold, despite countless video cameras scattered in the area,
and endless interviews with pedestrians whose normal commute took them along the same street at about the
same time of day. Then they speculated Conrad might be dead, a John Doe in some morgue, or an amnesic lost
somewhere in the hospital system. But they couldn’t find him anywhere, not in any morgue or hospital.
Jack didn’t trust the police would do a good enough job. Per their official statement, they didn’t have anything
to go on. No other evidence, no body, no witnesses. Instead, they had countless crimes happening in Chicago
every day, so many they were overwhelmed with work and unable to continue pursuing a case that had gone
cold that quickly. But Jack didn’t give up. He took the rest of the semester off, leaving his students in the
capable hands of a colleague, and took to the streets, determined to find out what happened to Conrad. He
talked to people, and spent day after day at that street corner, with Conrad’s photo in his hands, showing it to
everyone.
He was about to give up, defeated, although he still dreamed at night that his brother was out there
somewhere, waiting for him, needing his help. But he’d already spoken with everyone, and he recognized
almost all the people who commuted on that street on a daily basis. He kept going to that street corner though,
as he’d done every day for the past month, and showed Conrad’s photo to anyone willing to take a look. More
and more people threw sympathetic, sad glances his way, while slowly shaking their heads; no, they hadn’t
seen him. Not then, not since.
Until one day, he found a homeless woman at that street corner, going through the trash can with shaky
fingers. She stared at the photo for a long time, then said she must have been mistaken, because the man she’d
seen still had his banjo. It was banged up, but the man still played, mostly at night, riding the freight trains.
She’d seen him on the Burlington Northern Santa Fe rail, headed south, like many others, fleeing the cold and
bitter wind of Chicago winters. Or maybe it was Union Pacific? She didn’t remember. Probably he was going
to California, but she wasn’t sure; the man she’d seen didn’t talk. He just played sad songs, she’d added, some
reminding her of movies she’d seen, many years ago when she still was somebody who had a life.
Now, looking at that kid munching on the second chocolate bar, he only hoped that someone out there had
shared their food with Conrad, wherever he was.
“So, who you’re looking for?” Travis asked, wiping his mouth with an off-brown sleeve.
Jack took out Conrad’s photo. “This is my brother; his name is Conrad. He disappeared from Chicago, two
months ago. Have you seen him?”
Travis smacked his lips and sucked his teeth. “What if he don’t wanna get found, huh? Man’s got the right to
roam free, ya know.”
“If I find him and he tells me to get lost, I will,” Jack said. “Have you seen him?”

Travis thought for a while, biting his lower lip. “I should be smarter than this and milk you of some cash, but
you’re an okay guy. No, I haven’t seen him, but train beaters barb about some guy playing a banjo on them
trains.”
“Where? When?” Jack asked, suddenly invigorated.
“On the UP lines, mostly, back and forth from California. It’s like the man doesn’t wanna get anywhere; just
wants to ride. Maybe he’s a gypsy, not like you and me. But that’s just what I heard tramps talk, that’s all. I
haven’t seen him.”
“What the hell is a UP line?” Jack asked, frowning impatiently.
“Union Pacific, man. You gotta learn your trains if you want a future that don’t end up in the big house.”
Jack scrambled to the car’s open door, looking outside as if getting ready to jump off the train.
“Whoa, hold it; you’re on a UP train now. Relax.”
He still stared into the darkness of the moonless night, letting the wind cool off his burning face. One second
his heart swelled with hope, and then next it dropped to the abyss of despair. How was he going to find Conrad
among so many trains, going in all directions? He could spend years searching and not find him, passing him
in the night without even knowing.
Then he turned toward Travis, a glimmer of renewed hope glinting in his eyes. “Will you help me? I got
money. I got more in the bank. I just want to find him.”
Travis stared at him for a long moment, then muttered, “Uh-huh, it’s not like I got any prior engagements, if
you know what I mean,” he laughed, then coughed some more. “Get some sleep. We’ll need to change trains,
hit the California line.”
Jack sat on the dirty floor, leaning against the car’s rusty wall, and tried to doze off but couldn’t. The train was
going faster, rattling and chugging rhythmically against the tracks. Then it slowed and pulled into a side line
where it stopped with a long, screeching sound of iron against iron.
“Uh-oh,” Travis said, jumping to his feet. “Not good. Bulls might come.”
“Say what?”
Travis rolled his eyes. “Bulls, as in railroad cops. They catch us here, we’re screwed.” He leaned outside,
checking the surroundings. It was quiet and dark, nothing moved.
“Ah, we’re cool,” he said, “we’re on a branch line. They’re keeping us parked here until another train passes
us by. We’re low priority,” he scoffed, “we’re unimportant. What else is new?”
Then he curled on the floor, hands folded under his head in a makeshift pillow. “Great time to nap,” he
muttered, half-asleep. “It’s quiet for a bloody change.”
He followed suit, but only leaned against the car wall as he’d done before; he couldn’t bring himself to put his
face on that grungy floor. The long hours caught up with him, because he dozed off without even knowing it.
He dreamed of his brother, playing the banjo, and sometimes singing with it, although he always thought his
voice didn’t reach the skill of his fingers. But whenever music transported him, he added words and vocals to
the instrument, and Jack loved the end result, although Conrad didn’t always. Then the sound of a chugging
train overlapped, almost drowning the banjo chords, and his eyes opened wide. He lunged to the door and held
his breath.
There it was, faint, disappearing with the passing train, the sound of a banjo in the darkness. Without thinking,
he got off the train and started running to catch the other one, his feet unstable against the loose ballast. He
didn’t care, and he forged ahead, clinging to the sound of that banjo as if it were a lifeline. Then he heard
Travis behind him, coming fast.
“Move it, if you wanna catch this one, it’s a dicer! Move your ass!” he yelled, and slapped his back as he
passed him. He was younger, taller, faster, all helpful traits with train hopping.
Travis got his footing on a car and pulled himself inside, then yanked his arm and Jack let himself be pulled
up, flailing desperately until he landed on the dirty floor of a freight car covered in loose straw that stunk of
cow dung. But he didn’t care; if he listened hard enough, somewhere under the chugging noise of the train, he
could still hear the sound of the banjo.
“How do we get to him?” he asked, as soon as he could catch his breath.
“Ever been on a train car before?” Travis asked. “On top of it?” he added, gesturing with his finger.
He shook his head.
“It ain’t that hard, I’ll teach you,” Travis said. “Let’s wait until we clear the branch line. Someone might see
us.”
Jack looked at the kid with unspoken gratitude. He could’ve robbed him by now, taken his money, his cards,
and his watch, or just killed him altogether. Instead, the kid was helping him, without asking for anything in
return.
“What’s your story?” Jack asked. “How come you’re here?”

Travis smiled crookedly and turned away a little. “It was either this, or the system. My mom died, and they
came to get me. My foster family was crooks, really bad people. I couldn’t stay.”
“How old are you?” Jack asked.
“Almost eighteen,” Travis replied. “Soon I’ll be able to do something other than ride these trains. Don’t know
what, and don’t know how, but at least they won’t chase me no more.”
Slack-jawed, Jack found himself at a loss for words. He worked with young people, he was used to seeing
them in school, clean and fed and loaded with attitude, texting and laughing and undisciplined. He wasn’t
prepared to see someone so young battle life on his own like that, starving on a train.
“Let’s get going, we’re good now,” Travis said. “This cannonball’s slowed down a little.”
He led the way, demonstrating skill and athletic dexterity in getting them to the end of the car, then on top of
the next car. From there, knees shaking worse than they’d ever done, Jack crawled on all fours behind the
daring, young boy, who walked the train upright, wind in his face, unafraid as only teenagers can be.
As they got closer to the engine, the sound of the banjo grew louder, clearer, and Jack started to recognize
some of the songs his brother used to play. Energized, he felt his fear vanish, and came down from the car’s
rooftop like a pro, imitating all of Travis’ moves without hesitation. Then Travis pulled open a panel, and they
entered the car where the banjo sounds were coming from.
It was dark, and the open side door only let occasional, distant light come in. The man didn’t stop playing
when they entered, and didn’t look at them. He continued to play, his fingers comfortable and accomplished
on the strings. Jack approached him, holding his breath.
“Conrad?” he called, but the man didn’t stop playing.
He stared at the man and didn’t recognize his brother. It was dark, and the man wore an unkempt beard that
could have been growing for about two months. His clothes were so grimy, he couldn’t tell if they were the
ones Conrad had last been seen wearing. Jack resigned to listen,crouched on the floor next to the man, not
daring to breathe. Soon a new day would break, and he’d know.
When the early light broke through the panels of the freight car, the man laid his banjo on the floor and closed
his eyes. Jack searched the man’s face, looking for a familiar trait, and couldn’t be sure.
“Conrad,” he called again, quietly. “It’s me, Jack,” he said, touching the man’s arm.
The man kept his eyes closed, as if sleeping.
“May I?” Jack asked, gesturing toward the banjo, but the man didn’t say anything and didn’t open his eyes.
He took the banjo gently and started playing “Lara’s Song,” the theme music from Doctor Zhivago. In his
hand, it sounded weird, almost unrecognizable; he’d never had Conrad’s talent, only schooling. Note after
note, the music came back to him, and his playing became stronger, more confident, and more recognizable.
When he started playing the unmistakable chorus, the man’s eyes opened, and in those green irises Jack
recognized his brother. He smiled and continued playing, hoping Conrad would say something, but he
remained quiet. He watched Jack play the entire song, his eyes speaking volumes, but his words absent.
Then Jack set the banjo down and took out the photo. Conrad looked at it without a sound, but after a while, he
took it and tucked it inside his banjo.
“Yes, yes,” Jack exclaimed, “that’s us, Conrad. You and me.” Whatever had happened to his brother, there
was still a part of him left intact, buried deep inside that man, and that part would guide Conrad home, just as
it had helped him find another banjo to replace the broken one.
The train screeched and stopped, and Travis quickly pulled the door shut. “Trouble,” he said. “Be quiet. We’re
in a big station; I believe it’s Yuma.”
“Good,” Jack replied, and helped his brother to his feet. “We’re going home. Come on, Conrad, let’s go.”
He pulled the car door open and jumped off, then Travis handed him the banjo and helped Conrad down. The
kid’s eyes were hollow, and his lower lip trembled a little. Jack took his hand to his pocket, and then changed
his mind.
“You too, kid.”
Travis stood there, in the doorway, staring, stunned.
“Yeah, you’re coming home with us. Come on, it will be fun to have another brother. We might even teach
you how to play the banjo.”

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I’d tell you I love you… But then you’d make me change the baby’s diaper. Kristian Clark can go undercover for months on end, combat multiple enemies at once, and even teleport through dimensions. He should be ready for everything. But having a newborn child… is a little outside his skill set. And the universe isn’t ready for little Shannon either. The tentative layers of the universe begins to peel apart and his adopted son gets pulled through a portal in the hospital. Along with an angry wife and reunited best friend, Kristian travels the dimensions to find his son and somehow find a way to save reality without giving up his little girl. Also includes seven other stories. All profit goes to charity. Goodreads * Amazon

Agents Adam and Eve Kristian Clark and the American Agenda Book 1

Dream not of other worlds… They call him agent and he answers. They tell him conquer and he does. But there’s something they don’t know. He’s beginning to remember. His name is Kristian Clark. He has a wife and four children. Or he did. But he will find them again, whoever is left, wherever they are, and whatever it takes. They call her the Aisling. She does their missions only as far as it helps her accomplish her own: to find and rescue the children of a fallen woman. And she will not let anyone get in her way- most certainly not the brainwashed father who has for so long been an unthinking weapon for the government. To save the innocents, she will not hesitate to do whatever it takes- no matter how much it condemns her. They are the root of a conspiracy that would bring two worlds together, for good or for evil, for better or for worse, for life or for death. Their choices shall echo throughout all eternity. Advanced Praise for Agents Adam and Eve: “Agents Adam and Eve is the kind of book you can’t put down, the kind that has you laughing and crying. Jes Drew successfully keeps you turning the page and renders you longing for more when the last page has been turned.”~Karsyn Shae, Creative Writer “Kristian Clark is back in an all-new duology after the birth of his twins. Are he and his wife finally able to enter parenthood safely without the threat of anarchist groups, or will Kristian have to sacrifice everything to save those he loves?”~Allyson Kennedy, author of Speak Your Mind “I love the story! It felt so real and very intense! I felt like I was in the story with the characters!” -Shine, author and blogger of Hauntingghosttown Goodreads * Amazon

Jes Drew is the author of the Ninja and Hunter trilogy, the Howling Twenty trilogy, the Kristian Clark saga, and the Castaways trilogy. She lives with her mom, dad, younger sister, four younger brothers, and two dogs, obsessing about her true love, Captain Steve Rogers. There is a possibility that she may or may not be a superhuman, but she hasn’t discovered her powers. Yet. Also, she might be a spy, but that’s classified. Website * Pinterest * Goodreads * Amazon

Excerpt from Agents Adam and Eve:
Miss Smith frowns at me when I appear beside her again. “What were you—?”
I hold up the gun. “It was too pretty to die.” Then I hand it to her with a gentlemanly bow. “For you, milady.”
This puts a distracted smile on her face as she pets it like a child would a puppy.
I’ve just given a child firearms. Lovely.
In the distance, the NEO base explodes.
I am the child’s firearm.
Maybe they all escaped. Maybe not. Why I care either way, I don’t know. Yet I do. I didn’t use to.
But things are different now. Since I began remembering. Since I realized the world I’m beginning to remember
will never be mine again.
I walk and she follows my lead, unaware of the fact that I could teleport us from any point.
Then I come to a halt as realization washes over me. As Miss Smith keeps walking. As the fire burns beyond.
I’ve killed people. I’ve felt no remorse. All because I had no memories? Is that what makes me human and
humane—my memories? Something that can be so easily taken away?
My hand reaches out to touch Miss Smith, and I teleport her back to her chambers before teleporting myself
to mine.
Then I drop to my knees and bow my head. My bedpost makes a shadow of a cross beside me, and I find
myself focusing even as my heart finds other things to occupy itself with.
“Oh, Susan,” I whisper. “How I have failed you.”
A mental image of my children flash through my mind’s eye. I know naught where they are or what’s become of
them.
But if Aisling is right, then there are some who know. And if there is even a chance that I can somehow save
what’s left of those who need me, then I will do whatever is necessary for as long as necessary to save them.
With this commitment in my heart, I look straight at the camera I know to be monitoring me 24/7. Then I rise and
go on pretending nothing has happened whatsoever—that I am not an autonomous, independent, intelligent being
capable of thought and willpower.
If a charade is what it will take to save my children without losing my memory and conscience again, so be it.
This is my holy ambition, and nothing on earth or below the earth will be able to stop me.
I only pray that somehow that distant place called Heaven will fight with me.

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