Category: giveaway

**Winnerof the

bestromantic comedy for the 2018 American Fiction Awards!

**

Clutch is
the laugh-out-loud, chick lit romance chronicling the dating
misadventures of Caroline Johnson, a single purse designer who
compares her unsuccessful romantic relationships to styles of
handbags – the “Hobo” starving artist, the “Diaper Bag”single dad, the “Briefcase” intense businessman, etc.  With
her best friend, bar owner Mike by her side, the overly-accommodating
Caroline drinks a lot of Chardonnay, puts her heart on the line,
endures her share of unworthy suitors and finds the courage to
discover the “Clutch” or someone she wants to hold onto.

“LOVED.
The perfect blend of sassy, smart and stylish!”

“This
book is absolutely hilarious!”

“I
thought the comparison to men and handbags was so
genius! Becker really knows how to write to her audience,
and this clever novel had me giggling throughout.”

Mimi Johnson was casually dressed in a brightly-colored blouse with enormous turquoise jewelry and
equally-oversized glasses. Despite that largesse, the only thing truly bigger than her personality (and her
bosom) was her handbag. Always perfectly matched to her clothing, shoes, and jewelry, she was like a
walking Chico’s advertisement, if you added forty years, forty pounds, and a Virginia Slims cigarette.
From her Mary Poppins-like bag, she pulled out a box, impeccably-wrapped in glossy pink paper with awhite grosgrain ribbon bow. A cigarette teetered between her two fingers while she produced a lung-
hacking cough.“Open it… <cough, cough> …sweetie. Open it,” she said to her seven-year-old great niece, Caroline, a
beautiful and vibrant girl with long blonde hair and oversized blue eyes.
Alive with anticipation, sweet young Caroline eagerly took the box and smiled up at Mimi. She gingerly
removed the ribbon, planning to save it for later. The glossy paper was of less interest and she ripped
through it quickly. She opened the box and gently lifted out a hot pink purse, adorned with pale pink
flowers and rhinestones. An enormous smile overcame her. Caroline nearly set her own hair on fire from
Mimi’s cigarette as she bounded into her aunt’s arms.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Mimi. It’s lovely.”
And that was when Caroline’s love of handbags began. From big and loud ones that would make Mimi
proud to unimposing wristlets, from bowler bags to satchels; it didn’t matter if they were made of canvas
or calf-skin leather, were distressed or embellished with metal studs. Hell, she didn’t care if you called
them pocketbooks or purses. She just loved them all – almost as much as she loved Mimi.
By the time she was a junior in high school and well on her way to being class valedictorian, it was the
hundreds of bags Caroline owned that helped her conceptualize her ticket out of her suffocating small
Georgian town. She would design handbags. And it was Mimi who was her steadfast cheerleader.
“Caroline, sweetie… <cough, cough> …you find something you love and you just hold onto it.” It had
never mattered if Caroline was asking Mimi’s advice about a friend, lover, or career. The advice was
always the same: “Find something you love and hold onto it.”
Mimi’s words ever-present in her mind, Caroline headed to the Fashion Institute of Design and
Merchandising and spent four years in Los Angeles learning everything there was to know to pursue her
passion. Then, right out of college, she spent three years working in the design and marketing
departments of two of the world’s leading, high-end handbag designers.
She was schooled in beauty and how to accessorize the perfectly-coiffed women on the way to their
Botox appointments. But Caroline was pulled by the nagging feeling that the very person who had
inspired her career, Mimi, could never afford the bags she designed, even if Caroline used her generous
employee discount on Mimi’s behalf. And God forbid Mimi would ever accept one as a gift, always
preferring to give rather than receive. But Caroline believed there was no reason for anyone to be denied
the ultimate in accessories. She saw an untapped market of designing beautiful and affordable bags, but
she just wasn’t sure she was start-up potential. Again, it was Mimi who nudged her to learn the business
side of things and apply to MBA programs. When Caroline was accepted to Harvard Business School,
Mimi, of course, encouraged her.
“You’ve got this, sweetie. <cough, cough>,” she said. “It’s in the bag.”

• • •

Caroline was sitting in Financial Reporting and Control on her first day of Harvard classes (and yes, the
class turned out to be as boring as it sounded). That’s when she first eyed Mike, who was wearing a faded
pair of Levi jeans, a washed-out vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt, and Converse sneakers. He oozed
charisma. Turning her head away from him and back toward the front of the lecture hall, Caroline thought
that if he were a handbag, he would be a grey leather tote – confident and dependable, but not trying too
hard.
Mike surveyed the large lecture hall as he walked in, a Starbucks coffee cup in each hand. After
descending the steps slowly, he took a seat next to Caroline and planted one of the white and green cups

on her desk.
Flashing a wide, dimpled smile, which she mused he reserved for getting girls to drop their panties, he
said, “Here. You look like you’re going to need this.”
“Thanks,” she replied in a suspicious tone, turning her head sideways to look at him and raising an
eyebrow.
“I’m Mike,” he said, again flashing a smile and reaching out for a handshake.
“I’m Caroline. Thanks for the…”
“Latte.”
“Latte,” she confirmed. “Thanks. But just so you know, I’m not gonna sleep with you,” she said in an
apparent attempt to establish up front she wasn’t taken in by his obvious charm.
“I know,” he replied matter-of-fact.
Before she could respond, Professor Beauregard, a stout man with excessive eyebrows, spoke up. “Please
take note of where you are seated. I will send around a seating chart for you to mark your spot. This will
be your seat for the remainder of the semester.”
“Looks like we’ll be seatmates,” Mike said, grinning at her.
“Looks like it.”

• • •

About three months into the first semester, Caroline learned that her fun-loving, easy-going, new best
buddy Mike wasn’t exactly who he appeared to be.
A blanket of white snow dusted the Harvard grounds and it was a particularly slow day in another mutual
class, LEAD – Leadership and Organizational Behavior. Professor Moss, a frail man who weighed less
than his years, was droning on and on about establishing productive relationships with subordinates or
something to that effect. He initiated a discussion about what works better – the carrot or stick approach.
“Mr. Barnsworth,” he called, referring to his seating chart and scanning the room until he found Mike in
the fifth row. “What are your thoughts?”
“Well, it seems to me that good management is all about empathy and being able to enthuse and inspire
your staff. You know, appreciating them and respecting them. Showing you care,” he said, placing his
hand over his heart in a gesture of true compassion and concern. “And if they can’t get that through their
thick skulls, you fire ‘em,” he continued, drawing his finger across his throat.
Several students sitting around them started to chuckle while Caroline stifled a laugh. Mike looked around
the room and nodded his head, soaking in the appreciation of his sense of humor.
“Mr. Barnsworth,” said Professor Moss in a menacing tone, “I would have expected a better answer from
you, considering your family history.”
Confused by the conversation unfolding before her, Caroline leaned over and whispered to Mike, “What
is he talkin’ about?” Mike put up a hand to quiet her.
“Later,” he hissed.
Twenty minutes later, the two shared a bench outside Baker Library, the chill of winter causing Caroline
to pull her scarf closer around her neck.
“What was that all about?” she asked, scrunching up her nose in confusion.
Reluctantly, Mike began to speak. “My full name is Michael Frederick Barnsworth the Third. My family
owns a large brokerage firm in New York,” he confessed, unsure of how Caroline would react.
Caroline listened as she took in just how old money his family really was. Mike’s great, great, great, great
– actually it was hard to keep track of how many “greats” it went back – grandfather ran the first Bank of
the United States, which Congress chartered in the early 1800s. His family had advised presidents, dined
with royalty, and amassed a fortune that continued today through the Barnsworth Brokerage Firm.

“I’m the seventh person in my family to attend Harvard including my father, uncle, three cousins, and
grandfather, who was a classmate of Professor Moss,” he continued.
Surprised by this unexpected news, she joked, “So you’re just slummin’ with a simple Southern girl like
me – and makin’ me pay for drinks, mind you – until you go join the family business and marry someone
named Muffy…”
“That’s my family’s plan,” Mike laughed. “There’s even an office in the Woolworth Building owned by
my family, sitting empty, until I finish business school,” he said reluctantly.
“But…” she pressed, touching his hand gently, sensing the family plan may not actually be Mike’s plan –
though they had never discussed his plans before.
“I want to open a bar,” he said, matter of fact and looking her square in the eye.
Caroline’s head leaned back as she let out a raucous laugh. “You want to own a bar?” she questioned, her
shoulders shaking from laughter. “Now I get your goal to drink at every one of the six hundred bars in
Boston before you graduate.”
“Yup, it’s research,” he said emphatically.
“Research?”
“Yeah. Every time my parents call, which isn’t very often – they are usually off with their snobby society
friends or at Met Balls – I tell them I’m working hard and doing research.”
“Gotta give you credit. That’s pretty clever,” she replied, nodding her head.
“And true. If I’m going to open the best bar ever, I need to know what works and what doesn’t.”
“Okay. I get why you don’t want to be a wizard of Wall Street. But why a bar?” she asked, not
understanding his desire for the life of a bar back.
“My parents weren’t around a lot growing up. My father spent more time in the office than my mother
spent jetting between boutiques in Paris and ski chalets in Switzerland. And believe me, that was a lot,”
he confessed. Caroline looked down in her lap, her heart sinking at the thought of the small boy with the
winning smile being ignored by his family.
“I was pretty much raised by a series of au pairs. My favorite was Linnea who was nineteen when she
came from Sweden to live with our family. She was obsessed with Tom Cruise movies and we would
watch them all the time,” he explained, a wistful look on his face as he recalled fond memories.
“Cocktail!” Caroline exclaimed.
“Yup, I want to be the sole proprietor of a place where you can shake margaritas bare-chested,” Mike
laughed. “It’s going to be called The Last Drop,” he stated, not looking for her approval.
“Great name,” she admitted, nodding her head. “Especially when your folks drop kick you out of the
family.”
“I know. I’m preparing to be disowned, which is why I’m getting you used to buying the drinks,” he said,
flashing her a smile.
“Well with any luck my business will allow me to continue payin’ for drinks.”
“The purse thing?”
“Yes. The purse thing,” she said, mocking him. “I aim to start a line called Clutch, because it’s one of my
favorite handbag styles, and in honor of my aunt Mimi. She always says ‘Find somethin’ you love and
just hold onto it.’”
“Sounds like a smart lady.”

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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.

Followthe tour HEREfor exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!

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.”

Followthe tour HEREfor exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!