Category: book tour

This
movie script for the full-length feature film, Hell Hole, is based on
Donald Firesmith’s novel, Hell Holes: What Lurks Below.

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It’s
August in Alaska, and geology professor Jack Oswald prepares for the
new school year. But when hundreds of huge holes mysteriously appearovernight in the frozen tundra north of the Arctic Circle, Jack
receives an unexpected phone call. An oil company exec hires Jack to
investigate, and he picks his climatologist wife and two of their
graduate students as his team. Uncharacteristically, Jack also lets
Aileen O’Shannon, a bewitchingly beautiful young photojournalist,
talk him into coming along as their photographer. When they arrive in
the remote oil town of Deadhorse, the exec and a biologist to protect
them from wild animals join the team. Their task: to assess the risk
of more holes opening under the Trans-Alaska Pipeline and the wells
and pipelines that feed it. But they discover a far worse danger
lurks below. When it emerges, it threatens to shatter Jack’s
unshakable faith in science. And destroy us all… 

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Book
2: Demons on the Dalton

By
night and on weekends, his alter ego writes modern paranormal
fantasy, apocalyptic science fiction, action and adventure novels and
relaxes by handcrafting magic wands from various magical woods and
mystical gemstones. His first foray into fiction is the book Magical
Wands: A Cornucopia of Wand Lore written under the pen name Wolfrick
Ignatius Feuerschmied. He lives in Crafton, Pennsylvania with his
wife Becky, and his son Dane, and varying numbers of dogs, cats, and
birds.

“Professor, take a look at this,” Mark said, squatting down and pointing at the nearest mound of
dirt. He held his hand a few inches over it. “There are small holes, and I can feel gas escaping
from them. That’s weird; it should be freezing, but it’s actually warm.” He leaned over and
sniffed the air just above the hole. “Jesus, that reeks,” he cursed as he stood up and rubbed his
eyes.
I reached down. There was a surprisingly large flow of gas coming out of the hole. I looked
around at all of the other mounds of dirt dotting the ice on which we were standing. “Shit,” I
exclaimed. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“Why?” he asked with a confused look on his face. “We just got here.”
“Prudhoe Bay natural gas is about three fourths methane. One eighth is ethane, propane, and
other heavier hydrocarbons, while the remaining eighth is carbon dioxide. I’m not worried about
the methane and ethane; they’re lighter than air and will drift up and out of the hole. But carbon
dioxide, propane, and hydrogen sulfide are all heavier than air and build up in low areas.”
“Like the bottom of this hole,” Mark said as the nature of our danger dawned on him.
“Like the bottom of this hole,” I agreed.
Although I was breathing rapidly, it was becoming increasingly harder to catch my breath.
Both were early signs of carbon dioxide poisoning. Meanwhile, my eyes were really watering,
my nose was running, and my lungs were starting to burn. Hydrogen sulfide combined with the
water on their moist surfaces to form hydrosulfuric acid. I had a dull headache and was
becoming increasingly nauseated. Worse, the stench of sulfur had begun to disappear: a classic
symptom of hydrogen sulfide poisoning. “We have to head back up and strap on oxygen tanks
and full face respirators before we come back down.”
“Okay, Professor,” he replied, looking at me with concern. “You’re definitely not looking so
good.”
Weak and increasingly clumsy, Mark had to help me reach the rope and secure it to my
climbing harness. Then he said into his walkie-talkie, “Angela, there’s hydrogen sulfide and
excessive carbon dioxide down here, and we need to get out of here right now. It’s made the
professor sick, so I’m sending him up first.”
“Understood, Mark,” Angie replied, her voice indicating her concern. “Is he ready?”
“Yes, all hooked up,” Mark replied.A second later, the rope began pulling me up. It sped faster and faster until I was practically
running up the side of the hole. Soon, I was up to where the permafrost gave way to damp dirt. I
slipped going over the boundary, and the rope dragged me face first over the short muddy slope.
Bill helped me climb over the ridge of dirt surrounding the edge and unhooked my climbing
harness.
Coughing and unable to catch my breath, I stumbled into Angie’s arms. The caustic gasses at
the bottom of the pit had set off one of my ordinarily rare asthma attacks, leaving me gasping for
air. I fumbled through my pockets, found my rescue inhaler, and had to give myself three puffs
before my breathing became easier. Meanwhile, my eyes were still burning and watering so
heavily that I heard rather than saw Bill throw the end of the rope back into the pit and use the
winch to lower it rapidly into the hole. After helping me wipe the mud from my face, Angie
wrapped me a bear hug, totally heedless of the muck she was transferring to her own face and
clothes.
“It’s down,” Jill said, her voice amplified through our walkie-talkies.
Bill stopped the winch, and we waited for Mark to tell us when he was ready to come up.
“Okay, I’m ready,” Mark said. “Bring me up.”
Bill restarted the winch, and the rope began winding itself back around its spinning shaft.
Feeling stronger, I let go of Angie and turned back towards the pit so I could watch Mark
being raised over the edge. It was at that moment, through eyes still somewhat blurry from tears,
that I saw Kowalski. He was standing near the edge of the hole, a few feet downwind so that the
smoke from his cigarette wouldn’t bother us. He took a final puff and carelessly flicked the still
smoldering butt into the pit.
“Stop!” I croaked, my voice raspy and painful from coughing.
Kowalski turned towards me, and our eyes met. Unaware of what he’d just done, he was
completely confused by the expression of horror on my face.
After seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity, the cigarette butt tumbled past Mark and
eventually reached the depth where the concentration of methane and hydrogen sulfide reached
explosive levels.

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While
Tori battles the vile memories of her own kidnapping as a child, she
accepts the help of widowed father, Mark Bolton. As he and Tori join
forces with the local police, their attraction and intimacy
grows…along with their fears for Abby.

Linksare uncovered between Abby’s disappearance and Tori’s kidnapping,
and Tori is forced to accept the monster who held her captive is
back. But this time, Tori is all grown up, and there is no way she
will let him hurt another little girl.

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Agent
represented in the US, Rachel is a member of the Romantic Novelists
Association and Romance Writers of America, When she isn’t writing,
you’ll find Rachel with her head in a book or walking the beautiful
English countryside with her family. Her dream place to live is
Bourton-on-the-Water in South West England. And in the evening? Well,a well-deserved glass of wine is never, ever refused…

Sensing her discomfort, he stopped and leaned against the bureau. God, did he frighten her?
Surely not, or she wouldn’t be here. Or did she sense his attraction toward her and would do all
she could to deflect it? He didn’t doubt for one minute his eyes gave away his appreciation
whenever he looked at her.
He lifted the can to his lips. “So, what have you been thinking about?”
She tapped a peach-painted nail on the bureau. “This.”
“The bureau?”
“Principal White’s bureau.”
He frowned. “How did you know it was hers?”
“She mentioned you were working on a bureau for her when I was in the school office. I
assumed this is it.”
“It is.”
“Good, because that makes it all the easier for me to give you your first assignment.”
“You want me to talk to her.”
She smiled, took a few tentative steps closer to him. “Got it in one, Watson.”
He smiled, pleased to see genuine mischief shining in her eyes. “I’m Watson?”
“Yep.”
“So that makes you Holmes. Not sure I like being anyone’s sidekick.”
Another couple of steps closer until no more than a couple of feet separated them. She met
his eyes and his heart kicked. Her V-neck shirt was just the right side of professional. Yet, the
way it revealed her collarbones and hugged her full breasts made him want to reach out and pull
her into his arms, kiss her, taste her…
“You’re staring, Watson.”
He blinked and snapped his gaze from her breasts, rare heat hitting his face. “Sorry. You
look nice.”
“Thanks.” She raised her eyebrows and nodded toward his chest. “So do you.”
He smiled. “Why don’t we go inside? It’s way too hot out here.”

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Ten
years after Roscoe Winston dropped out of her life, all Simone Payton
wants is to exploit him. She’d also like some answers from her
former best friend about why he ghosted her, but if she never gets
those answers, that’s a-okay. Simone let go of the past a long time
ago. Seriously, she has. She totally, totally has. She is
definitely
not still thinking about Roscoe.
Nope. She’s more than happy to forget he exists.

But
first, she needs just one teeny-tiny favor . . .

Dr.
Strange Beard is a full-length romantic comedy novel,
can
be read as a stand-alone, and
is the fifth book in the USA TODAY bestselling Winston Brothers
series.

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to Goodreads

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“Why are you here?”
Simone twisted toward me, resting the side of her head against the back window of the truck’s cab. “Are
you asking me why am I in Green Valley? Or are you asking me why I’m here, now, in Hawk’s Field?
Because we already covered the latter and, honestly, I don’t want to discuss the former.”
I lifted an eyebrow at her slippery response. “No. We did not cover the latter.”
It seemed to me like she didn’t wish to discuss anything of substance except how much she hated the idea
of falling in love.
“Yes, we did cover it.” Her eyes were on my raised eyebrow and her lips pressed together, like she was
combating a grin.
“No. We didn’t. I asked, ‘What are you doing out here, Simone?’ And you said—” I paused here to lift
my voice and imitate hers, Yankee accent and all, “‘Oh, well, you know. Shelly and Beau mentioned that
you like to camp one night a week.’”
“Roscoe.” She laughed, hitting me lightly on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “I do not sound like
that.”
I caught her wrist so she couldn’t hit me again, she was a double hitter. “So then I asked, ‘You were
looking for me?’ And you said, ‘Yes.’ And then you asked a hundred questions in order to change the
subject—”
“I was not trying to change the subject,” she hollered.
The uneasiness and charged atmosphere from moments prior had dissipated, and I breathed in a full
breath, rolling my eyes with a great deal of exaggeration. “As I was saying, in order to change the subject
and distract me from the fact that you never answered my original question.”
“I’m sorry”—she put on a mask of confusion, the effect mostly ruined by the cute and mischievous smile
she was attempting to iron from her features— “what was the original question?”
I wasn’t going to ask again, but I didn’t need to. As she’d alluded earlier, there were other ways to get
answers out of her, tried and true methods.
My eyes dropped to her neck. A tick of meaningful silence passed, during which I questioned myself and
the wisdom of what I was doing—teasing her, threatening to tickle her, which would necessitate putting
my hands on her, disregarding the levelheaded precautions I’d put in place to maintain the essential
barrier between us in order to avoid making new memories I couldn’t control—but I actively decided to
ignore wisdom and good sense.
Just for a minute.
Just for a moment.
Just to be with her again, like this.
Simone gasped, breaking the silence and yanking her hand away.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
I grinned, my eyes still on her neck, where she was most ticklish.
She covered each side of her throat with her hands, a preemptive defense strategy, but she was giggling.
Lifting my eyebrows, I tilted my head to the side and braced my hands on either side of me, preparing to
launch myself if necessary. “Answer the question.”
Now she was laughing again, watching me, as though waiting to see if I did dare.I pushed myself up and she squealed, her hands bracing against my chest. I easily captured her wrists with
one hand, wrapped my other arm around her torso, and brought her back down on the bed. Straddling her
thighs and sitting on her knees, I lifted her arms over her head while she focused her defensive efforts on
tucking her chin to her chest.
Between gasping laughter, she said, “I should have worn a turtleneck.”
“Poor planning, princess.” I laughed, trying to get my fingers under her chin, and had to work to keep my
seat because she was now bucking her hips and trying to bend her knees, proving herself to be stronger
than I’d assumed.
No matter. Pulling her arms to the right, I maneuvered her on her side and found the sweet skin at the
back of her neck.
Simone bucked again, but this time it was a reflexive response, because I’d found her spot. She shrieked
as I tickled her.
“Oh my God, I can’t breathe.”
I stopped. “Answer the question.”
She panted and gasped, shaking her head, and giving me a big, teasing grin. “Never!”
Squinting in suspicion, I studied her twisted form. She wasn’t struggling, her wrists in my hands were
slack, her body was both relaxed and clearly bracing for another attack, like she anticipated it, like she
wanted it, like she was having a good time and wanted it to last.
Despite the chill, I was getting hot under the collar. My eyes moved over her prone form, traveling from
her beaming smile to her neck, the swell of her breasts, the indent of her waist, the generous curve of her
backside. The urge to do something—to her, with her, inside her—seized my lungs and nerves and
muscles, a blazing flare of carnal want shot down my spine.
Yeah, I’d definitely lost control of this new memory.
Breathing out at the dizzying instinct, I moved completely off her body. I released her wrists—releasing
her—as I averted my eyes and backed away to gather my wits. She sat up, reaching for me. I twisted
away. The bed of the truck was too crowded, so I turned to jump down. Before I could, she caught me by
the arm.
“Hey.” Her grip was tight and she tugged. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, tossing my thumb over my shoulder. “Just remembered something.”
“Roscoe—”
Pulling my arm from her fingers, I hopped over the edge of the truck and walked toward the tent. I
reached the first post, I walked beyond it, my direction aimless.
I suspected it wasn’t like this for most folks, but this sporadically cruel and often inconvenient time travel
to my past was all I knew. Therefore, I dealt with it the only way I knew how.
I retreated.

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Silver
Bear Shop and Factory manager Sasha Silverman is cozying up to the
fall season by hosting Silver Hollow’s Cranbeary Tea Party, theopening event of the village’s Oktobear Fest—a too-cute
celebration themed around teddy bears. She barely has a moment to
agonize over the return of her former high school rival, Holly
Parker, whose new toy and bookstore in town could spell big trouble
for the Silver Bear Shop and her cousin’s small bookstore . . .

As
manager of the family teddy bear shop and factory,thirty-one-year-old Sasha Silverman leads a charmed life. Well,
except for the part about being a single divorcée with a ticking
biological clock in small-town Silver Hollow. And that’s just kid’s
stuff compared to Will Taylor, the sales rep who’s set on making
drastic changes to the business her parents built from scratch—with
or without Sasha’s approval . . .

The village clock struck the half hour while we walked down Theodore Lane. I heard a car’s
rumbling muffler ahead of us, probably on Kermit, and hurried past Holly’s corner shop.
Once across the street, Rosie led the way to the Sunshine Café; the fog parted, showing
Uncle Ross’s vintage pale blue Oldsmobile parked at the curb. He always drove the car in
the village Memorial Day and Labor Day parades, chock-full of teddy bears, but never
offered anyone a ride if he could help it.
My uncle cussed a blue streak if any speck of dirt marred the leather seats, and he routinely
checked the polished fenders for any scratches or nicks.
I caught sight of his grizzled beard and cap through the window. Mayor Bloom sat with him
at the counter. Dad and Gil Thompson usually joined them for coffee and the café’s popular
French toast, but they hadn’t yet returned from up north.
Past the half-hidden brick library, I cut through a stretch of blacktop to Church Street. It
wasn’t easy navigating in the denser fog. Rosie nosed her way through the narrow alley
between Abby Pozniak’s antique shop and Blake’s Pharmacy until we emerged into the
mist-covered graveled parking lot.
Shadowy forms that loomed in our path turned out to be parked cars, a Dumpster, and a
mailbox. I stepped cautiously over the stones.
“Ouch!” I’d hit my shoulder on a lamppost that appeared beside me. I peered at each parked
car in the uneven lot. At last I found mine and unlocked the door. Rosie’s whining suddenly
turned into loud barks. That meant trouble.
“What is it, girl?” She wouldn’t budge, so I followed the leash hand over hand.
I found Rosie guarding an inert form on the ground, right beside a blue MINI Cooper. Was it
Holly Parker? My heart jumped into my throat. The jacket’s hood covered her head. I stood
gaping, frozen in place. My brain couldn’t register for several minutes. Letters sparkled in
the dim light on the hoodie’s pale pink fabric. THINK, that was clear enough to read, but PINK
was darkened by a mottled brown stain.
So was the knife hilt embedded in her back.

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Warning,
contains explicit sex acts, language, and violence. Adults only!

An
outlaw biker who likes to work alone. 

Fierce.
Dangerous.

A
killer when he needs to be.

He
calls no place home, and no woman owns his heart.

Until
her.

Luna.

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Ruthless (Book 1) –
I grabbed Ginger by the hand and pulled her out of the room, down the hall and to the
bathroom. Her resistance was futile, her fear unimportant. I knew what I had to do, and if she
were smart, she’d realize it, too. If she wanted to live. I opened the bathroom door and yanked
her inside, thanking fuck that I found it empty. It was filthy, but better than nothing, and it had a
shower that everyone used when they felt the need to be clean, which wasn’t often.
Ginger spun around when I shut the door, the look of a trapped animal in her pretty blues. I
ignored her growing terror, steeling myself for what I had to do. Even behind closed doors I had
to make it real, had to be convincing that I was an unfeeling bastard. I saw her swallow, could
see her tits rising and falling rapidly as the fear of the unknown overwhelmed her. She was
expecting the worst, preparing herself to do whatever she had to do to survive.
“Take off your clothes.” I kept my tone harsh, indifferent to her growing panic.

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