Category: book tour

Dead Air signals trouble at the radio station. Glenn Beckert discovers his

high school best friend is shot in the head while on the air. Beck,
the owner of Blue Water Security, is employed to provide security for
the station.

He becomes willingly embroiled in the investigation by the
not-so-innocent widow. The list of potential suspects is long,
gleaned from the numerous extramarital affairs of the victim and
widow. The pending sale of the radio station has created friction
between his now dead friend, Richie Zito and the major stockholders.
Motives for murder becomes increasingly murky after the search
reveals an encrypted file on Zito’s laptop.

Beck enlists the help of an old flame, Irene Schade, to break the code,
revealing a money laundering network leading to the financial and
political powers of his beloved city of Pittsburgh. Their
collaboration ignites the flames of passion each had considered
extinguished.

A former college teammate, police Lieutenant Paglironi delivers a
message to back off. Arrogantly, he ignores his friend’s advice.
The threats from less friendly sources are more ominous, forcing Beck
to move in an unfamiliar world. A startling revelation from his
client forces Beck to deal with his inner conviction of right and
wrong, challenging the gray areas of his ethical principles.
Betraying his client’s confidence could expose the killer. Thealternative is to confront the suspect and take matters into his own
hands. Either way his life is in jeopardy.

 

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Chapter 1

Dead Air. It was the most unforgivable of sins. I was standing at the
bar in Jergel’s Rhythm Grille in Warrendale, PA when the overhead
sound system finished blaring “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” the seventeen-
minute, two-second version, then dove into silence… and stayed there.
Minutes crawled past while WZOC, better known as Z-Rock to
Pittsburgh-area listeners, remained silent. The long version of the Iron
Butterfly song was played when DJs need extended bathroom time.
Apparently, it was not enough time.
The seventeen-thousand-square-foot bar and restaurant was
beginning to fill up. The stage hands scrambled over the stage in a well-
orchestrated dance as they prepared the stage at the rear of the building.
I was at the front bar, one of six serving the customers. The crowd noise
increased due to the silent overhead system. The bartenders and service
personnel went about their jobs, oblivious to the lack of music. I
appeared to be the only person who noticed it. The dead air was an
unexpected lapse for a normally proficient staff at Z-Rock. The station
owned by my high school best friend, had been my first client, so I was
always glad when the bar staff piped it in to provide background noise.
A Pittsburgh favorite, The Clarks, were scheduled to take the stage
in forty-five minutes. Their classic rock style was often compared to
Tom Petty. Z-Rock had introduced The Clarks to the Pittsburgh market,
and it remained a strong supporter of the band. They had parlayed the
station’s promotion into a broader following along the Southern Atlantic
states. The quartet was almost as well-known in the city as the
Pittsburgh Steelers’ starting lineup. I had had the great fortune to see
many of their local performances.
Before heading to the front door, I finished my IC Light, a low-
calorie brew from Pittsburgh Brewing. The bartender grabbed my empty
bottle and asked, “Another one, Beck?”

“No thanks; probably later.” I headed toward the entrance,
featuring solid wood double doors, the left side closed to restrain the
incoming crowd. The line stretched outside beyond my view.
My firm was in charge of crowd control for the event. Even though
I was on duty tonight, my plan was to be more of a spectator.
In my earpiece, I heard my site manager of Jergel’s security, Lance
Parisi. “Beck, we have a problem at the front door. This patron is drunk
and belligerent. He may be armed. I’m trying to get him to leave.”
I replied, “On my way.” As the owner of Blue Water Security, I
was always glad to help with situations like these. I tried to hire only the
best, so backing them with my support was always a pleasure.
An obviously intoxicated man was pointing a finger at Lance who
had to be at least six inches taller than the swaying man. “You fucking
asshole! I have a ticket! You can’t keep me out!” I heard the word
motherfucker and that was that. This wasn’t going to end well for the
drunken ticket holder.
In my mouthpiece, I said, “Stay cool, Lance. He’s all talk,” but
before I could arrive, the man took a swing at Lance. So much for my
expert analysis. In one quick movement, Lance had the man’s right arm
twisted behind his back, Lance’s left arm firmly around his neck in a
choke hold.
I rushed to Lance’s side. The man’s open coat displayed the butt of
a gun in his waistband. I jerked the .38 Special from his belt holster and
turned to look him in the eyes. The combined stink of beer and whiskey
oozed from him.
Adrenaline was pumping through my body as if facing a 3-2 pitch.
I regained my composure before speaking in a calm, determined voice.
“Sir, even with a concealed carry permit, it is illegal to bring a gun into a
bar, especially when you are intoxicated.” The other patrons waiting to

enter had backed away when they saw the gun. “The man with his arm
around your neck is going to escort you to the office. The police will be
called. I hope you have your permit with you. You can walk to the office
quietly. If not, I’m certain Lance will find a way to get you there. Is that
clear?”
The man nodded as best he could with Lance’s muscular arm
wrapped around his neck. Lance released his stranglehold, keeping a
firm grip on the man’s arm. I handed the gun to my employee. The drunk
remained calm and allowed Lance to lead him away. Using my mic, I
paged Jason Weaver, who had been assigned to dance floor security for
the night, to come to the front door.
I remained at the door, checking tickets for the anxious concert
fans, until Jason appeared. It was then I realized there was still silence
coming from the sound system. The normal professionalism of Z-Rock’s
staff made me wonder about the cause of the extended silence. I could
imagine engineers scrambling to locate and repair whatever technical
problems had occurred.
Jason arrived, assuming Lance’s position at the door. I turned back
to the bar as my cell phone rang. “Glenn Beckert,” I answered.
“This is John Waner at Z-Rock.” He paused and I wondered if I
was truly surprised to be hearing from my security guard at the station.
His voice was high-pitched, his words rushed as he said, “There’s a big
problem here.”
“John, what’s the problem?”
“Beck… H-He’s… I don’t know what to do. R-Richie’s been
murdered.”

 

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No, I’m not psychic nor do I claim to be. I’m just your average girl
with an above average talent. Unfortunately, that talent had me
seeing a murder I was never meant to see, which in turn, led me two
of the sexiest men on the planet – Det. Denton Archer and PI
Mitchell Caldwell. When Denton asked for my help on the case, I
jumped in with both feet not realizing that that decision would
change everything.

Now, I’m in love with both men and the killer is after me. Can my life
get anymore complicated?

 

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One of the girls from Para University has gone missing. Her last known
whereabouts is a strip club called Tailpipes, owned by the notorious
Hellhounds motorcycle gang. My mission… infiltrate the club, become
an insider and find out what happened to her.

Easy peasy! Or so I thought. Getting into the club was easy. Getting out
alive is the hard part.

Charlie Daye began writing at the tender age of thirteen. With an obsession

for romance, happy endings and the supernatural she delves into your
greatest fantasies and worst nightmares. She will have you laughing,
crying, falling in love and getting angry. She will always give you a
HEA but getting there is the journey worth taking.

Charlie Daye was born in Lynwood, California. Her greatest passions are
musicand writing. Her first short story was written at the age of
thirteen. At the time her entire class was asked to write a short
story for Halloween as part of a homework assignment. Most of the
kids in the class wrote one to two page stories… Charlie wrote
eight. The short story titled The Haunted House went on to win her
district wide awards and was published locally. From their she began
writing poetry as means of expression.

Since her writing career began she’s has published several titles… The
House, The Colonial, The Reservation, The Portrait, The Gypsy’s
Dance, Mistaken for a Call Girl, Her Last Request and Breeders. Four
of which have been nominated for the 2012 RONE Award.

I’m not quite sure how to begin to spin this tale of the supernatural for you. It something that I myself am still
learning to deal with but since I’ve had the “gift” since I was a child there is no use in trying to make it sound
worse than what it really is, especially now that I’ve learned to turn it on and off at will.
My name is Sidney Rinn and I am a Seer. No, I’m not psychic nor do I claim to be. My gift is by far, at least in
my opinion, a hell of a lot more disturbing than being able to see the future. I can walk into any building, room
or space, whether inside or out, and if something happened there I can see it just as clearly as I can see
someone standing in front of me. It’s almost as if I was there or more rather like watching a movie that is
always on instant replay.
Sometimes what I see are residual hauntings. Ghosts who are stuck in a loop forever tormented by whatever
traumatic event shook them to their core and it doesn’t necessarily have to be death. It can be something
strictly on an emotional level that left its mark.
Other times, it’s the energy of the place itself. It could be that something so horrible or phenomenal happened
that the event tattooed itself on the essence of the environment. Occasionally, the actors or actresses in my
visions, if you will, are still very much alive.
How did I come by this gift, you ask? Well, to be honest. I’m not sure. I assume it came from my parents but
sadly they either died or abandoned me as a child. I was raised in an orphanage.
How was it that a strawberry blonde child with pink puffy cheeks and strikingly blue eyes was never adopted,
you ask? Well, there were several couples who entertained the idea of adopting me, however, when they found
me huddled in the corner of my room screaming bloody murder or laughing hysterically, they opted to take me
back. Those that kept me on longer than that just assumed that I was having some sort of childhood meltdown
at living in a new house, but they too took me back once I started asking questions about things that I should
know absolutely nothing about – like when I enter my “parents” room and ask why mommy is in bed with
someone who wasn’t daddy. Oops!
So, I spent my childhood in St. Matthew’s orphanage. The nuns that ran the place were supremely awesome
ladies. They never gave me any grief about my gift and pretty much let me do whatever I wanted, but I guess
when you’ve been somewhere as long as I was you just become part of the landscape.
Secretly, I think Mother Superior either knew my parents or of my parents, because the only place I was never
allowed to go into in the entire building was in her office. I swore one day I’d break in there just to find out
what she was hiding from me, but sadly never got the chance. As you would expect, life got away from me
especially once I became a teenager. I was no longer interested in what lay hidden behind closed doors and
much preferred to hide behind them with cute boys.
Hmm… boys. Brings to mind my hot little P.I. friend that convinced me to join his team of sneaks and a
smoldering detective who constantly asked for my assistance on cases but we’ll get to that later. And yes, you
did catch the meaning behind “friend” correctly. Ok, maybe they’re both more than just my “friends” but like I
said… later.
I guess I’ll start my story from where I aged out of the orphanage and set out on my own. I was excited,
overwhelmed and had absolutely no idea where I was going or what I was doing but isn’t that what makes life
interesting?

Tell us something really interesting that’s happened to you!
I lived in more haunted houses than I could care to admit to. I seem to be drawn to haunted locations like
a moth to a flame. LOL. I’ve been touched, spoken to, woken up in the middle of the night, had things
thrown across the room, etc. Life is never dull around me.
Who is your hero and why?
Walt Disney. The man created an entire empire with a mouse!
What do you do to unwind and relax?
I read or watch Criminal Minds.
When did you first consider yourself a writer?
After I hit the best-seller’s list two years in. I went from a nobody to a somebody and that was pretty
amazing!
Which of your novels can you imagine made into a movie?
The Seer for sure. I just love Sidney and I think if people ready her story, they’d love her too.

 

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A rash love affair with a member of the Irish Mafia catapults Luna
Mulkerrins into scandal, murder, scorn and decadent friendships in
Ragtime Manhattan. Escaping from the blaze of publicity, a new Luna
emerges: Blythe of the Seven Gates. Her meteoric rise as a magician
leads to fame, vaudeville, silent movies and the notoriety of a
damaging court case. Can Luna reclaim her reputation and reinvent
herself as an independent woman of the time?

From Leah Erickson, author of The Brambles, winner of the Crime
Fiction
award from the IPA.

 

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Covered in cracked, brown leather and very old, the box had rows of
hammered
brass tacks along its edges, the lock held shut with a heavy latch of blackened
metal. Only the Magician was allowed to use the key, and he kept it in his
breast
pocket at all times.
Luna knew about the faded red velvet lining. And she knew how the antique
metal hinges creaked when he opened it. She knew about the ancient smell of
mildewed newspaper, the smell of trapped life, the smell of time passed by …
“Luna. Open your eyes and look at it!”
Why the Magician did this to her, she did not know. Some nights when he was
in a particularly wicked mood, he’d take the box down from the top of his closet
and make Luna look inside, even though she turned away, and shut her eyes to
it.
This made him laugh. “Girl, I am your husband. Listen to me! Look at it.”
But it was unbearable, to look straight into it, because it hurt. Looking straight
into the thing was like looking straight into the sun; when she shut her eyes,
she
saw pulsing blood, red and floating orbs …
“Look.”
To look inside the box was to feel dissolution, deep down in her very center,
spreading out and out until she had no more edges to her.
But once she did look, it was so hard to look away again.

 

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Billionaire Aidan Cross longs to escape his life of celebrity and become a

regular guy, if only for a brief time. His chance comes when his
yacht breaks down near quaint Cypress Key, Florida—the site of his
planned five-star golf resort. The golf resort no one in town wants.

Casey Stuart has given up her dream of escaping to the big city. She
refuses to desert her uncle, even when he hires the new stranger in
town to replace her at their golf course. Casey vows to steer clear
of the stranger called Aidan and the danger their inescapable
chemistry provokes. Aidan’s stay is temporary, and falling for him
promises only heartbreak.

When Casey discovers Cypress Key’s mayor is making underhanded
business
deals, she ends up on the wrong side of the powerful autocrat. Aidan
steps in to rescue her, but secrets from his past threaten to bogey
their newfound relationship.

 

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Petie spent a large part of her career working at Walt Disney World — “The

Most Magical Place on Earth” — where she enjoyed working in the
land of fairy tales by day and creating her own romantic fairy tales
by night, including her new series, The Cinderella Romances. She
eventually said good-bye to her “day” job to write her
stories full-time. These days Petie spends her time writing sequels
to her regency time travel series, Lords in Time, and her
cozy-mystery-with-a-dash-of-romantic-suspense series, the Mystery
Angel Romances.

Petie shares her home on the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee with her
horticulturist husband, a spoiled-rotten English Springer spaniel
addicted to pimento-stuffed green olives, and a noisy Nanday conure
named Sassy who made a cameo appearance in Angel to the Rescue.

Casey cracked open her eyes, and the chocolate-brown ones hovering
inches away widened a bit. Luckily, the big warm body didn’t move. The hunk
watched her like a hawk, and the skitter up her spine wasn’t fear of being prey,
more like desire to be prey. What had he said his name was?
“You’re awake.”
She nodded once and frowned. The movement cost her a few smacks from
the hammer in her head.
“Did that hurt?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Sorry.”
“What are you doing?”
He gave her the same slow, sexy smile that weakened her knees on the
boat and probably assisted PJ’s wake in tossing her over the side.
“Counting your freckles. Figured it was my only chance to get this close.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Not her wittiest repartee, what with her headache
and lingering sleepiness, but at least a game effort.
His smile deepened. “You wouldn’t be teasing me, would you?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
The hunk’s sensuous chuckle vibrated along her skin. Damn, but she
wanted one kiss before the guy slipped over the horizon.
“I haven’t thanked you properly for saving me.”
“Well, you did at the clinic, but you were pretty out of it. I admit, I’m
curious what you mean by thanking me properly.”
She couldn’t get enough of those warm, dark eyes that now twinkled with
mischief. Definitely, mischief.
She tried a smile. “You tell me.”
“Weeelll.” He drew out the word as he rubbed the stubble on his chin with
his free hand. The arm braced on the back of the couch allowed him to hover
close.
She could feel his warm breath on her cheeks and tried to memorize his
scent for later, after he was gone. The strange urge left her disconcerted since
she’d never responded like this to a man before. At least, never this quickly.
Must be the concussion. Had to be the concussion.
“I’m thinking a kiss would be a proper thank you.”
Her heart skipped over one full beat in its rhythm. And she tried one more
smile. “Maybe—”
Hunk grimaced. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“Um, yes.”
“What?”
He’d been whispering all along in deference to her headache, but now he
barked. The stab of pain in her skull came and went with the single word. His
eyes widened.
“Maybe yes,” she repeated in a whisper.
His eyes narrowed. “No teasing?”She shook her head, immediately winced.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I should kiss it and make it better since I caused
it.”
She inhaled sharply.
“Here.” He placed a feather light kiss on her forehead. “And here.”
Another kiss brushed across her right eye. “Then here.” The other eye.
Pulsebeats sprinted and blood whooshed through her veins.
Could that be good for a concussion?
Oh, who cares?
“And definitely here.” His voice had gone hoarse, as his lips caressed hers
lightly with one smooth stroke.
No, no, no. Come back. That was too fast.
He chuckled low and deep. “I’m not done.”
Oh Lord! Had she said that out loud? Could she be more embarrassed?
And then she couldn’t think at all as his lips nuzzled hers, then pressed
warm against them. His tongue lightly stroked her lower lip, and she sank back
into the pillows to see if he would follow her.
Yes!
He pressed his tongue gently between her lips, and she timidly sampled
his taste. Mmm. Better than chocolate. She pressed her palm to his chest, and he
stilled. Did he think she would push him away?
Hardly.
This was one fabulous kiss, and she intended to make the most of it. She
quickly slid her arms around his neck. He wasn’t getting away until she was good
and ready.
Hunk smiled against her lips.
Oh no!
Had she said that too? No way! She hadn’t heard anything. Of course, she
hadn’t heard herself the first time either.
She had to know. “Why are you smiling?”
The twinkling mischief vanished from his eyes as he gazed down at her.
“Just glad my thank you was proper this time, and you’re awake enough to
remember.”
“Oh, I’ll remember.” She tugged his face closer. “But it’s not over yet, is
it?”
“Not by a long shot.” He stared at her now well-kissed lips and slowly
lowered his mouth.
Frank’s voice boomed through the living room. “What the hell do you
think you’re doing?”

 

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When a woman slithers into his hot tub, Kainui Keahi thanks the Kahuna
gods for providing the mermaid of his dreams. But when it becomes
clear it was his brother she was looking for, not him, he does the
honorable thing and sits on his hands while she flees. The woman is
impetuous, driven, and all kinds of wrong for him. But he can’t shake
the feeling her body is meant to be his.

Brooke doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about a misplaced fondle in
the
dark. She’s headed for World Surfing League glory, her eyes focused
on winning the surfing competition. Until she dislocates her shoulder.

Kainui is assigned as her physiotherapist and Brooke struggles to accept
he’ll get her skin under his hands once more. But when Kainui whisks
her away from the competition and shows her a different side of
Indonesia, their doctor/patient relationship is in danger of becoming
something deeper, and hotter.

Perhaps Brooke got the right brother after all…

 

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Maya Taylor is all sass and style when it comes to closing a PR deal, but
when it comes to men, she has about as much witty banter as a
drowning grommet. So when fashion mogul, Dominic Wolfe, enters her
life, he seems to be bringing the perfect deal.

She’ll teach him all there is to know about the highly competitive side of
surf sponsorship. And in return, Dominic will turn the beautiful
surf-klutz into a man-magnet. Dream deal, right?

Only the lessons start getting hotter than the beach mid-summer and
Dominic realizes he wants more. Much more. But the deal was their
relationship wouldn’t cross the line between business and pleasure…

 

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After an accident stole his surfing career, Ashton Evans has a chance to
reinvent his life by photographing the leaders of the World Surfing
League. The problem? Summer Roberts is his first client. Now the
woman he can’t forget is spending long, hot Indonesian days in
front of his lens. In a bikini. And worse, she’s steaming up his nights.

But no matter how tempting Summer is, Ashton must keep his hands to
himself. For the sake of her career, Summer is pretending she’s
still in a relationship with someone else. Being seen with Ashton
could blow her chance at making it onto the World Surfing League
leader board for good. But with their attraction as unstoppable as
one of the giant ocean waves that rule their lives, will they be
tumbled under by it? Or will Ashton finally get his second shot with Summer?

Get ready for a wet, hot ride.

 

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She now writes full time in a studio
surrounded by the whisper of wind in the treesand only intermittent interruptions from her young son, husband and
hunger pangs. She’s based in New Zealand (land of beaches and
hobbits) loves chocolate, yoga, sunshine, her boys and happy endings.

You can get in touch through facebook or twitter or through her website
and blog
www.micheledewinton.com

Excerpt from Another Shot with Summer
The photographer had suggested using the very end of Grumari Beach
for their shoot, and now Summer could see why. Part of an
environmental reserve about fifteen miles from the main sand bar and
shops, it had a deserted island feel, although nowhere in Brazil could
strictly be called deserted. She headed over to where a man moved
around a stack of camera equipment, his back to her.
“I thought about doing something more urban. You know, with the
backdrop of Rio to spice up the image, but it seemed wrong. If the
client really wants sun-kissed, this is about as sun-kissed as it gets.”
Summer froze. That voice. And then the photographer stood from
where he’d been partially hidden behind his gear. The full impact of
Maya’s text sunk in.
“You!” Summer’s heart swelled to twice its usual size, and she felt
the blood beating all the way up to her ears. Ashton. The man whose
picture she’d kept under her pillow as a teenager, and the man who
had haunted her loneliest moments as a young woman. The bastard.
“Oh. She said she’d squared it away with you. She pulled a fast one
on both of us, huh?”
“Don’t worry. The cab can’t have got far. I’ll just call him back.”
Ashton caught her arm as she swiveled to leave, and she tried to
pull free as if he’d stung her. Her reaction to his touch was the same as
when she’d been a teenager. Hot, firm, sending her senses into sharp
overdrive, his fingers made her skin burn. These were feels she was
not ready to feel again.
He dropped his hand, and there was an awkward moment where
they looked at each other, frozen, and Summer realized he felt it, too.
His face was shocked, his eyes wide. The moment grew longer, her
breath catching in her throat as she waited, unsure of what to do next.
Then his pupils returned to normal, and his face softened. “We’re
here now, and the light is about to turn. Maya’s told the client I’m on
the job, so I need to get the shots. I’ll just be the photographer.
Everything else…” He waved his hand between them. “It’s history.
Ancient history.”
She felt his gaze on her a moment longer than was strictly
necessary. She brushed at her face, as if trying to get the sensation of
him off her skin. Then her awe turned to anger. “I guess it is all about
you, after all. Wouldn’t want you missing out on keeping your newclient happy.”
“That’s not what I meant. Shit.” He rubbed his chin. “This is not
how I wanted to see you again after so long.” He looked about as if
trying to find a distraction and came up empty. “I’m a different guy
behind the camera. I promise.”
She kicked the sand and wished the extra freckles the sun had added to
her face today would fade instantly. Nothing like freckles to make a
girl feel like a girl, instead of a woman. You are not a girl. Be the
bigger person.
There was an awkward pause. She straightened. “Fine,” she said. That
was all she was going to give him. Short, calm, professional.

 

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