Category: blog tours

blog tours, book extract

Blog Tour: Melody Bittersweet and the Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency by Kitty French.

if only I could read faster

I am really excited to be part of the blog tour for Melody Bittersweet and The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency. I mean have you ever heard a better name for a book?! I’ve heard lots of talk about it too and how funny it is so it’s great that If Only I Could Read Faster can give you the first chapter to read before you click to buy it!

Blurb:

An absolutely hilarious, totally entertaining, spookily sexy read that you won’t be able to put down!

Life’s tricky for Melody Bittersweet. She’s single, she’s addicted to sugar and super heroes, her family are officially bonkers and … she sees dead people. Is it any wonder no-one’s swiping right on Tinder? 
Waking up lonely on her twenty-seventh birthday, Melody finally snaps. She can’t carry on basing all of her life decisions on the advice of her magic 8 ball; things havegot to change. 

Fast forward two months, and she’s now the proud proprietor of her very own ghostbusting agency – kind of like in the movies but without the dodgy white jumpsuits. She’s also flirting with her ex Leo Dark, fraternising with her sexy enemy in alleyways, and she’s somehow ended up with a pug called Lestat. 

Life just went from dull to dynamite and it’s showing no sign of slowing up anytime soon. Melody’s been hired to clear Scarborough House of its incumbent ghosts, there’s the small matter of a murder to solve, and then there are the two very handsome, totally inappropriate men hoping to distract her from the job… 

Welcome to Chapelwick, home of the brand new and hilarious Girls Ghostbusting Agency series, where things really do go bump in the night. 

Melody Bittersweet and The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency

Chapter One

‘So, what do you do with your spare time, Melody?’

I look my date square in his pretty brown eyes and lie to him. ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ I shrug to convey how incredibly normal I am. ‘I read a lot . . . Go to the movies. That kind of thing.’

I watch Lenny digest my words, and breathe a sigh of relief when his eyes brighten.

‘Which genre?’

‘Movies or books?’ I ask, stalling for time because, in truth, I don’t get much in the way of spare time to do either.

‘Movies. Action or romance? No, let me guess.’ He narrows his eyes and studies me intently. ‘You look like a sucker for a rom-com.’

‘Do I?’ I’m genuinely surprised. I’m five foot three and look more like Wednesday Addams than a Disney princess. Maybe Wednesday Addams is over-egging it, but you get the idea; I’m brunette and my dress sense errs on the side of edgy. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me and thought whimsy. Maybe Lenny sees something everyone else has missed, me included. I quite like that idea, mainly because everyone who knows my family has a head full of preconceptions about me, based on the fact that my family are all crackers.

‘Four Weddings?’ He shrugs hopefully.

I nod, not mentioning that the only part of that particular movie I enjoyed was the funeral.

‘The Holiday?’

Again, I try to look interested and hold my tongue, because I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear that I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than ever watch an over-optimistic Kate Winslet drag some old guy around a swimming pool again.

I’m relieved when the bill arrives and we can get out of there, because so far Lenny has turned out to be a pretty stellar guy and somehow I’ve managed to convince him that I walk on the right side of the tracks. Maybe this time, things will be different.

Lenny pulls his dull, salesman’s saloon into the cobbled cartway beside my building and kills the engine. I don’t mind dull. In fact, my life could really use a bit of dull right now, so I shoot him my most seductive smile, cross my fingers that my mother will be in bed, and invite him in for coffee.

Oh, just when it had all been going so well. Why couldn’t I have just given him a goodnight kiss, with maybe the smallest hint of tongue as a promise, then sent him on his way? He’d have called for a second date, I’m sure of it.

But no. I got greedy, pulled him by the hand through the dark back door, placing my finger against my lips to signal he should be quiet as we tip-toed past my mother’s apartment and up the old wooden staircase to my place.

He rests his hand on my waist as I turn the key, and a small thrill shoots down my back. Look at me, winning at this being-an-adult thing today! Dinner with an attractive man, sparkling conversation, and now back to mine for coffee . . . and maybe even a little fooling around. It’s not that I’m a virgin or anything, but it would be fair to call my love life patchy of late. By ‘of late’ I mean the last two years, ever since Leo Dark and I called things off. Well, by Leo and I, I mean Leo called things off, citing conflict of interests. Ha. Given that he was referring to the fact that my mad-as-a-bag-of-cats family are the only other psychics in town besides him, he was, at least in part, right.

But enough of Leo and my lamentable love life. Right now, all I want is for Lenny not to know anything at all about my peculiar family, to keep seeing me as a cool, regular, completely normal girl, and then to kiss me.

‘You remind me of Clara Oswald,’ Lenny whispers behind me at the top of the stairs. ‘All big brown eyes and clever one-liners. It’s very sexy.’

Lord, I think he’s just brushed a kiss against the back of my neck! My door sticks sometimes so I shoulder it open, aiming for firm and graceful but, I fear, ending up looking more like a burly police SWAT guy ramming it down. Thankfully, Lenny seems to take it in his stride and follows me into my apartment. Then I flick on the table lamp only to discover that my mother is standing on my coffee table in a too-short, too-sheer, baby-blue negligee with her arms raised towards the ceiling and her head thrown back.

‘Shit!’ Lenny swears down my ear, clearly startled. He isn’t to blame. My mother’s a striking woman, ballerina-tall and slender with silver hair that falls in waves well beyond her shoulder blades. It isn’t grey. It’s been pure silver since the day she was born, and right now she looks as if she’s just been freshly crucified on my coffee table.

I sigh as I drop my bag down by the lamp. So much for me being normal.

‘Err, mother?’

Slowly, she takes several heaving breaths and opens her eyes, changing from crazy lady to almost normal human lady. She stares at us.

‘For God’s sake, Melody,’ she grumbles, taking her hands from above her head and planting them on her hips. ‘I almost had the connection then. He’s hiding out in the loft, I’m sure of it.’

I risk a glance over my shoulder at Lenny, who sure isn’t kissing my neck anymore.

He lifts his eyebrows at me, a silent ‘what the hell?’ and then looks away when my mother beckons to him like a siren luring a fisherman onto the rocks.

‘Your hand, please, young man.’

‘No!’ I almost yell, but Lenny is already across the room with his hand out to help her down. My mother eyes me slyly as she steps from the table, keeping a firm hold of Lenny’s hand.

‘Long lifeline,’ she murmurs, tracing her red talon across Lenny’s palm.

‘Mother,’ I warn, but my somber, cautionary tone falls on her selectively deaf ears. I expected nothing else, because she’s pulled this trick before. Admittedly, the standing-on-the-table thing is a new twist, but she’s got form in scoping out my prospective boyfriends to make sure they’ll fit in with our screwball family from the outset. Not that her romantic gauge is something to put any stock in; Leo passed her tests with flying colours and look how that ended up. I got my heart broken and he got a spot on morning TV as the resident psychic. Where’s the justice in that?

Look, we may as well get the clanky old skeleton out of the family closet early on here, people. It’s going to come out sooner or later, and despite my attempts to pull the wool over Lenny’s eyes, there’s never any running away from this thing for long.

My name’s Melody Bittersweet, and I see dead people.

It’s not only me. I’m just the latest in a long line of Bittersweets to have the gift, or the curse, depending on how you look at it. My family has long since celebrated our weirdness; hence the well-established presence of our family business, Blithe Spirits, on Chapelwick High Street. We’ve likely been here longer than the actual chapel at the far end of the street. That’s probably why, by and large, we’re accepted by the residents of the town, in a ‘they’re a bunch of eccentrics, but they’re our bunch of eccentrics,’ kind of way. What began as a tiny, mullion-windowed, one-room shop has spread out along the entire row over the last two hundred years; we now own a run of three terraced properties haphazardly knocked into one, big, rambling place that is both business and home to not only me, but also to my mother, Silvana, and her mother, Dicey. Gran’s name isn’t actually Dicey, it’s Paradise, officially, but she’s gone by Dicey ever since she met my Grandpa Duke on her fifteenth birthday and he wrote Dicey and Duke inside a chalk heart on the back wall of the building. He may as well have written it on her own racing heart.

‘Silvana!’

Speak of the devil. Does no one go to bed around here?

I open my door to find Gran on the threshold with her hand raised, poised to knock. I guess I should be glad she’s slightly more respectably dressed, if a floor-length, purple shot-silk kimono, bearing huge technicolor dragons could be considered as such. Her usually pin-curled gold hair is piled elegantly on her head and she wears a slash of fire-engine-scarlet lipstick for good measure. Most people couldn’t carry the look off, but thanks to her poise, confidence and couldn’t-care-less attitude, Grandma Dicey wears it with artful success. She glides past me without invitation and gazes at my mother and Lenny, who are still hand-in-hand on the rug.

God.

First thing tomorrow morning, I swear, I’m going to look for a new place to live, somewhere, anywhere, that is not in the same building as my mother and my gran. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a charming old place and I love my family dearly. It’s not even as if I don’t have my own space here, because, theoretically at least, I do. Mum and Gran have the ground floor apartment behind Blithe Spirits, and I have the smaller flat upstairs, at the back. In lots of ways this makes me fortunate; I get to have a nice little home of my own and stay close to my family. It would all be fine and dandy, were it not for the fact that my family are officially bonkers and liable to come up and let themselves into my flat – using the spare key I gave them for dire emergencies only – and embarrass the shit out of me.

‘Why is Silvana entertaining a man half her age in your flat?’ Gran looks from me to my mother. ‘You should have said you were expecting company, darling. I’d have gone out.’ She touches her hand lightly against her hair. ‘Put a towel on the doorknob or something, isn’t that the modern way to signal these things? Don’t come a knockin’ if the caravan’s rockin’?’

She looks spectacularly pleased with herself, and one glance at Lenny tells me that he knows he’s way out of his depth with these two and is in the process of writing me off as the worst date he’s ever had. His eyes slide from me to the door, and I can almost hear him begging me to let him go unharmed.

‘He’s not mum’s date, he’s mine. Or else, he was,’ I mutter, and then I’m distracted as a beer-bellied pensioner in a soup-stained shirt slowly materialises through the ceiling, his flannel trousers not quite meeting his bony ankles. Stay with me; I see dead people, remember? As do my mother and my grandmother, who also watch him descend with matching expressions of distaste.

‘Finally,’ my mother spits, dropping Lenny’s hand so she can round on the new arrival. ‘Two hours I’ve been chasing you around this bloody building. Your wife wants to know what you’ve done with the housekeeping she’d hidden in the green teapot. She says you better not have lost it on the horses or she’s had it with you.’

Grandma Dicey rolls her eyes. ‘I rather think she’s had it with him anyway. He’s been dead for six weeks.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk, given that you still sleep with your husband twenty years after he died.’ Mother flicks her silver hair sharply. Touché.

Lenny whimpers and bolts for my front door, turning back to me just long enough to splutter ‘something’s come up, gotta go,’ before he hoofs it out and down the stairs two at a time.

I listen to the outside door bang on its hinges and wonder what came up. Probably his dinner.

Author bio:
 
Kitty French lives in the Black Country with her husband, two young sons and two crazy cats. She’s a lover of all things romantic – songs, music, and most of all, books. 
Her USA Today best-selling Lucien Knight series topped the erotic chart on both sides of the pond, and she also writes romantic comedy as Kat French for Avon, HarperCollins. She’s over the moon to join Bookouture with her brand new paranormal romantic comedy series, Melody Bittersweet and the Girls Ghostbusting Agency.
 

Melody Bittersweet and The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency by Kitty French is out now and available from  Amazon UK and Amazon US.

blog tours, guest author

Blog Tour: Prima Facie by Netta Newbound

if only I could read faster

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I’m delighted to kick off the blog tour for Netta Newbound’s Prima Facie today. Although book 4 in the Adam Stanley series Prima Facie can be read as a standalone book. If you look on Goodreads you will see that all of Netta’s books get good reviews and are well worth reading. I love that she has written about ‘writing about shocking and sensitive subjects’ for If Only I Could Read Faster today because Netta’s book, An Impossible Dilemma, had a number of scenes that were so shocking and graphic that they have stayed with me long after finishing the book. Netta has a real talent and I thoroughly recommend her books.

Writing about shocking and sensitive subjects.

When I first decided to write a book, I found myself approaching certain scenes with fear – tiptoeing around them, giving only the most basic details. It wasn’t because I didn’t know what to write about, in fact the opposite was true. I was wary of exposing my thoughts –always in the back of my mind I worried about how I’d feel if my parents read them.

It didn’t take me long to realise I wouldn’t get very far with this approach. I found the best way to get over the fear was to just write the scene—however graphic, and worry about the rest later. At first I felt as though I was doing something illicit, I’d slam the laptop closed if anybody entered the room, my face turning crimson. Once the scene was written, I read it over and over again. Each time it became a little less shocking than the last. Then, once I was familiar with every word, I asked a friend to read it. This was the scariest part and I still get butterflies to this day when I hand over a new piece of work.

On the whole, I’ve got away with the sick scenes. I don’t do sick purely for sick’s sake, but the awful events in my books are needed to drive the story forward. In Behind Shadows for example—Amanda, as a child, had been a victim of her father’s paedophile ring. When, years later, her father is released from prison, he and a couple of his cronies turn up dead. The subject is sick, but whichever way we look at it, this kind of thing happens in every walk of life. I didn’t glorify the abuse; however I needed some graphic scenes in order to justify the actions of the killer. Nine times out of ten I find myself writing about killers I hope the reader can identify with.

Another thing I avoid doing is filling the pages with gratuitous sex scenes. I’m far from prudish, and will add one if I feel the scene calls for it, but I refuse to describe in detail the same thing over and over again. Now I’m not knocking erotica or sizzling romance, but I figure if a person wants this particular genre they wouldn’t be looking at my books.

Netta Newbound Psychological Thriller Author

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Blurb for Prima Facie:

In this fast-moving suspense novel, Detective Adam Stanley searches for Miles Muldoon, a hardworking, career-minded businessman, and Pinevale’s latest serial killer.

Evidence puts Muldoon at each scene giving the police a prima facie case against him.

But as the body count rises, and their suspect begins taunting them, this seemingly simple case develops into something far more personal when Muldoon turns his attention to Adam and his family.

Prima Facie is available now from Amazon UK and Amazon US.

blog tours, guest author

Blog Tour: The Good Kind of Bad by Rita Brassington

if only I could read faster

I’m delighted to have Rita Brasington on If Only I Could Read Faster today talking about qualifications for writing. Rita’s book The Good Kind of Bad is, according to many, a very good read and I look forward to reading and reviewing it soon.

Qualifications for writing by Rita Brassington:

Well, I have a GCSE in English…

A double first in English from Cambridge – that’s what I’d like to write on my literary CV, but I can’t. I never went to Cambridge, or Oxford, or Edinburgh, or King’s. I do possess an honours degree from UCLan, and university diploma from Durham, though not in the literary field. With so many writers graduating from prestigious universities with an armful of certificates/attending writing courses/intensive workshops/working in the print industry in various guises, it forced me to take a look at my own credentials.

I have a GCSE in English Literature. I got an A, in 1999, though how much of producing a good read is letters after your name and which portion is a good imagination? I agree that writing has to be taught, at whatever level. No one is born knowing how to read and write (the reading being just as important as the writing). I toyed with the idea of taking a course after I’d completed most of my life in education, but that was after I’d written my book. Writing The Good Kind of Bad almost felt like a ‘bet’ to myself to see if I could do it – I’d never planned on writing a book so hadn’t looked into educating myself on how to achieve it first. I had always enjoyed putting pen to paper, but it was short stories or diary entries – nothing quite as mammoth as a full-length novel.

Maybe it doesn’t matter to the reader whether they’re perusing the work of an Oxbridge graduate. I doubt they’d ever know unless they actively sought out their bio. Maybe it only matters to me, that somehow I would be a better writer because I’d donned a cap and gown. Of course, different experiences produce different work, and each audience will seek out their preferred pitch.

Does it matter to me, really, if I don’t have the literary degree?

Nah. I wrote a book. I did it. And people like it. That’s all that matters. Anyone can write. You just need some gentle guidance along the way to turn it from a dream to a reality.

To anyone who is thinking of writing a book, I’d definitely recommend it, whether you’ve got the ‘credentials’ or not. What’s the worst that could happen? It could take over your life, you might never finish it, or you might become a bestseller. There’s nothing better than a stranger taking a chance on you, buying your book, then telling you how great it was. No amount of education can prepare you for that, and that’s a good thing.

Every time I beat myself up over my work, thinking it could be better, that I could have done things differently if only I’d had the certificates to back me up, my friends give me a reality check. They ask if I’ve seen their book in the Kindle Top 100 recently. No. Why? Because they haven’t written a book. They remind me how proud I should be of myself, and of what I’ve achieved in even finishing it.

Success and failure are measured by how you look at them. Deep down, of course I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.

Now, where’s that Cambridge application form…

 

The Good Kind of Bad is available from Amazon UK and Amazon US now.

Rita Brassington can be found on her website, Facebook and Twitter.

 

4*, blog tours, book review, guest author

Blog Tour: When The Killing Starts by RC Bridgestock

if only I could read faster

I’m delighted to have Carol and Bob aka RC Bridgestock on If Only I Could Read Faster today as part of their blog tour for When The Killing Starts which was released yesterday. First I have a guest post from them followed by my 4* review. Enjoy!

From Fact to Fiction – A job like no other…

It is often said that we should ‘write what we know’ and so far that method has worked for us. But then again we write crime fiction, and between us we have nearly 50 years of police experience. This unique combination has enabled us to create our down-to-earth character Detective Inspector Jack Dylan, with warmth and humour because he is loosely based on Bob. Dylan’s partner Jen is also loosely based on me, very loosely I might add… And some traits of characters you meet in the Dylan series are also taken from those we’ve met ‘in the job’ – a profession often regarded as ‘a job like no other’.

It is one thing reading or writing fictional crime novels or watching them on TV; but why would anyone want to deal with the aftermath of man’s inhumanity to man, or be able to? Questions like this makes me wonder if ‘life’ prepares us for what’s to come …

Bob spent his school holidays on his grandparent’s farm, he had a paper round before and after school and his Saturday job was in a butchers. Leaving Grammar school before the mock exams, because he was offered an apprenticeship, meant that he had no academic qualifications, and he soon realised after qualifying as a butcher that unless he owned a shop there was little money in it. So, with a young family to provide for he went to work in a dye works. He stuck it our for two years. The money was good but when he saw colleagues with terrible burns, and when he blew his nose it gave off the colours of a rainbow, he knew enough was enough.

He had encountered three runs-in’s with the police in his young life. Once when he was five; his brother gave him a fog detonator that he had taken from the railway line. Bob being smart knew it wasn’t the watch his elder said it was and he threw it away. His railway inspector father found out what he had done and knowing how dangerous the detonators could be, immediately called the police. A short ride in a blue and white Morris 1000 police van took him to the ‘scene of the crime’, in the company of a stern looking police officer. Bob got a clip round the ear for wasting police time and another from his dad when he got home. The second incident was in his butchering days. Returning home on the bus one dark night, over the moors, from the slaughter house, the bus was stopped and a police officer climbed onboard. After speaking to the driver the officer walked slowly down the aisle, his eyes only for Bob. He grabbed the young butcher boy by the scruff of the neck and escorted him unceremoniously off. Apparently an eagle-eyed passenger had caught sight of Bob’s blood splattered smock which was tucked neatly under his arm, and on alighting promptly informed the police. Bob assumed the blue and white apron might’ve given the police officer a clue as to his profession, but nevertheless he was given a clip around the ear for wasting police time and told to put it in a plastic bag next time. He and was left by the side of the road to walk the four miles home – his allocated bus fare already spent! On the third occasion he was quietly enjoying his ‘pie and peas’ from the van in Birstall market square after a night out, when a copper barked at him to ‘move’! Before Bob could say, ‘Bob’s your uncle,’ he was thrown into the back of a police van with a dog that, if it wasn’t called Bite, it should’ve been. Luckily on this occasion the officer got an urgent call and Bob was released promptly with another clip around the ear.

So he decided, if he couldn’t beat them he might as well join them…

But please don’t despair if you haven’t walked the walk and talked the talk. You already know more than you think…

Eight years ago we had never put pen to paper – some confidence for those just about to start writing their first novel. The bad news is on hearing the words write what you know I have seen faces immediately show defeat. But, these four short words can be misleading, build barrier as well as impose limitations on the imagination, and breed uncertainty.

The good news is that we all know a lot more than we think we do. Funny, it took me years to realise that little snippet of wisdom! What we ‘know’ isn’t just what our everyday material life we live. It is so much more…

For instance, we all know what scares us, what being frightened feels like, how we react if we touch something hot or cold, or smell something rancid. It’s that knowledge that we, the author has to draw upon to make our stories believable to others. Your fears of the dark, pain, the unknown, are other people’s fears too. You know what prompts these feelings just as much as the other primal emotions of happiness, sadness and anger; for these are a range of feelings that we all share as human beings. Just remember that when you are writing your story to make those emotions/reactions real to your reader.

Everyone knows what it feels like to have the sun on your back, to sit in front of a nice warm fire and feel snuggled, warm, safe; to fall over and scrape your knee – you probably did that hundreds of times as a child.

Think also of the other senses. What do you hear?

You know full well how you react to a loud bang and how others do too. Or what your body does when you put something tart in your mouth. By sharing those sensations the reader will immediately know how your character is feeling too. For example, Daisy put a slice of lemon in her mouth and pulled a sour face. We don’t need to add, she recoiled and cringed at the tangy taste because we, the reader, can imagine it.

So, by drawing upon what you share with others you’ve instantly created a rapport between you, your reader and your character, and this trigger in turn will help share emotions. This in turn will help you build a place. What do you see? The place is irrelevant you could be in a garden, a lounge, a bedroom… Now, as you move on you’ll begin to realise that the situations that you ‘know’ does not necessarily have to happen where it happened to you. This experience could happen anywhere you want – even in another time, or in a fictional world.

The next step is to create a character – someone who we want people to remember whether they love, hate or feel indifferent towards. Give them a look, a trait, a catch-phrase that is unforgettable – for instance, do you remember Kojak the big, bald, hard-nosed detective with a lollipop addiction who constantly said, ‘Who Loves Ya Baby’? See what I mean?

To make characters in stories in the past or the future come alive we do our research to find out what the fashion was, transport, the technology of the time. Research is another form of knowing.

You will need to know how to make them real today.

Remember people are people, no matter where or when they lived. They will all have experienced love, hate and curiosity just like you and me. Even if your characters are from another planet, or exist in some futuristic land you’re going to have to give them traits that your readers can identify with, here and now so the story will work.

So, taking what you have and what you know, from experience and research you can make-believe….

A story’s success is only waiting to be shaped by your imagination.

Now what are you waiting for?

We often get asked how we write together.

Bob writes the police procedural which is the main storyline for each DI Jack Dylan novel. All the Dylan books stand alone in terms of the crime story. He writes this with the ‘mask’ of the detective clearly on, as he doesn’t concentrate on the victims background until the evidence is given to him by way of it being revealed to the investigation team. The initial crime scene in mind he writes through the enquiry. The reader of a Dylan book is firmly sat on the detectives shoulder throughout both in his professional life and at home treating them to all the highs and lows of any case he takes charge of.

Once the crime has been solved I get the narrative and I start from the beginning – Bob doesn’t do a re-write – that’s my job. I write the home-life storyline, the emotion. I draw out of Bob his ‘real’ feelings and write the scenes from his sometimes harrowing descriptions. Personally I think writing has been cathartic for Bob. Bob says its work! We’re lucky to write procedurals as there is never a case of not knowing how to move the story forward.

However, we don’t write about factual murders. We have too much respect for the victims, or the relatives of the victims who have already suffered enough; but every crime scene we write about Bob has seen. Every post-mortem is etched in his sub conscious forever: all he has to do is draw on the memory of the incident. He will never forget. The family saga which ties the books as a series also allows a new storyline in each book so the books do truly stand alone and this is due to us watching the couple grow, as well as their family with all the drama that brings…

‘When The Killing Starts’ Di Jack Dylan (Book 7) released 30th June 2016

All DI Jack Dylan books also stand-alone.

RC Bridgestock – http://rcbridgestock.com

Caffeine Nights Publishers – http://www.caffeinenights.com/rc-bridgestock

DHH Literary Agency – http://www.dhhliteraryagency.com/r-c-bridgestock.html

My 4* Review of When The Killing Starts:

When the Killing Starts is the seventh book in the D.I. Jack Dylan series. However, it is the first book in the series that I have read and I had no problem keeping up so it can easily be read as a standalone book.

RC Bridgestock is in fact two people, a husband and wife team who now write together (and do a huge amount of amazing charity work).

Perhaps because it is written by an ex police officer, this book felt really real and true to life. Dylan’s relationship with his wife felt particularly genuine which may well be down to the real life experience of the other half of the writing team.

The main storyline in When the Killing Starts is focused on the frankly evil Devlin brothers. I found their part of the story really good, and I enjoyed reading about how Dylan was tracking them down. While Dylan is running that investigation he is also overseeing another murder investigation. I found that a bit of a distraction really, I would have preferred it if Dylan had focused on one investigation. Although I do recognise that no doubt in real life they do run multiple investigations at the same time.

If you are new to police procedural books then these are great books to start with. The assumption is made that the reader has little to no knowledge of how police investigations work, so things are explained clearly.

When the Killy Starts is a really good book, it is well written and I will definitely be reading more from RC Bridgestock and D.I. Dylan.

I received a copy of When the Killy starts from the authors in return for an honest review.

You can buy When The Killing Starts from Amazon UK and Amazon US now.
RT 3 Bob & Carol 89755 RT
RC Bridgestock
4*, blog tours, book review

Blog Tour: The Caller by M.A. Comley and Tara Lyons

if only I could read faster

Blurb:

The first gripping book in The Organised Crime Team series by NY Times bestselling author of the Justice series, M A Comley and co-author Tara Lyons, author of In The Shadows.

When The Caller rings… what would you do?

The Organised Crime Team is a newly-formed unit with one of the toughest tasks in London. Led by DI Angie North, their first investigation is a cold case that has foxed several officers in the Met for months.
After Angie holds a TV appeal regarding the case, a number of similar aggressive attacks are brought to her attention. The team call on their contacts on the street for help. Their interest is sparked when several local names surface.
To bring the criminals to justice a member of the Organised Crime Team is asked to risk their life in a dangerous covert operation.

My Review:

I was quite excited to read The Caller, I haven’t read any books by either of the authors but have heard plenty about them. I also felt intrigued about two authors writing a book together and how that works and comes together.

The premise of The Caller is simple enough, but very realistic and something that as the reader I couldn’t help but think that this could happen to me. In fact, to a degree it did. While I was reading The Caller I got a phone call just like the one that the victims in this book do, someone wanted me to confirm my address. I refused and the bemused caller no doubt thought that I was slightly strange, I was tempted to tell them that I was reading a gripping thriller and this call was too close to the storyline of it, but I didn’t and eventually they agreed and told me the address they had for me so that I could confirm that was correct.

It isn’t often that a book impacts real life like that, to me it is the sign of a really good book, and one that feels very real. The Caller is really well written, it is seamless in that there is no obvious difference depending on which author is writing. I liked the characters, especially Angie and her wonderful relationship with her husband. I liked how The Organised Crime Team were introduced to us and the snippets that we got to find out about each of the members and I look forward to finding more about them in future books in the series.

This book came very close to getting 5*’s from me, unfortunately I felt that the ending was rushed which was disappointing and frustrating. But The Caller is still a very good book and definitely the start of a series to watch out for, it is a shame that both authors are currently working on individual books and there is no firm plan for when book 2 will be written.

I received a copy of The Caller from the authors in exchange for an honest review.

The Caller is available now from Amazon UK and Amazon US now.

blog tours, book extract

Blog Tour: Lovers and Liars by Nigel May

if only I could read faster

 

Today I can share with you an excerpt from Nigel May’s book Lovers and Liars, published by Bookouture.

LOVERS AND LIARS BY NIGEL MAY

Prologue

The paint on the domed ceiling of the Velvet hotel’s specially erected sports arena was barely dry before the boxing match was announced globally. Hatton Eden, reigning welterweight champion of the world, the man known to his legion of superfans worldwide as ‘TMM’ – The Main Man – was to take on newcomer Orlando Vince in what TV sports channels around the globe had dubbed the ‘Belter in the Swelter’ from the moment tickets for the 18,000-seater arena went on sale. The boxing world had lived through the legendary ‘Thrilla in Manila’ and been hypnotised by the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ and now a new gladiatorial pairing was set to make sports history.

The Belter in the Swelter was the perfect title for the match which would take place at the famous Velvet hotel in Barbados, the island’s six-star celebrity haunt and the flagship of the lucrative worldwide chain of luxury hotels owned by Sheridan Rivers. Situated on the west side of the island, the hotel was a triumph of cool, with the Hollywood elite, fashionable rich-kid popstars and megabucks media moguls alike booking in to sample its many amenities and to feel their skin change colour as they lay on the powder-fine sands under the blistering heat of the Caribbean sky.

It was Sheridan who had fought to have the arena built at Velvet in the first place, determined to draw the boxing crowds away from Las Vegas and bring the sporting superstars of the world to the tropical jewel in his billion-dollar crown. And when Sheridan Rivers decided he wanted something, nothing or no one could stand in his way. The Brit businessman had not built his empire, now with twenty-plus hotels around the world in destinations ranging from Tokyo to Honolulu, by rolling over and submitting to money men who said no, planners who tried to wrap him in red tape or architects who said that something couldn’t be done. Everything was possible in Sheridan’s world so long as you didn’t have to listen to other people’s opinions and surrounded yourself with ‘yes’ people who would always loyally agree with everything you suggested.

And after months of hard work the night of the bout had finally arrived. Sheridan couldn’t have been happier as he watched the crowds starting to take their seats at the beginning of the evening. He was watching from the highest point of the arena, a gangway that ran around the top edge of the dome. It was the perfect vantage point from which to calculate how much money he would be making from the evening. He’d spent a lifetime looking down on others so why stop now? All 18,000 seats had been filled, with tickets ranging from $1,500 through to $7,500, and then there were the pay-per-view TV rewards to be considered. All in all, he’d make a tidy sum out of tonight’s proceedings, maybe enough to open another hotel, which considering everything that had happened in the run-up to fight night was pretty incredible. It had been quite some ride and he was glad that the night was finally underway.

He gazed down at Blair Lonergan, famed DJ and worldwide music star, the man spinning his musical web of wonder from a purpose-built stage on the far side of the arena. His latest chart-topping collaboration, a funky slab of dance-floor-filling beats mashed with vocals from some vacuous pop starlet of the moment, boomed out from a bank of speakers either side of the stage. New Yorker Blair was adored worldwide and even Sheridan had to admit that he could see why – even if he wasn’t his number-one fan. He was ridiculously handsome, his chiselled features giving him an almost action-hero quality. His blond buzz cut, streetwise air of cool and rock-hard abs had made him the poster boy of the DJ world and the face and body of countless fashion houses. He was Abercrombie & Fitch fit with a talent that had seen him bag DJ residences around the world, including a twelve-month run at a succession of Velvet hotels across the globe. He was the best and that’s why Sheridan had employed him, both for regular nights at his hotels and also to keep the party pumping before the evening’s main event.

‘Make the most of it though, you fucking upstart,’ sighed Sheridan as he watched. ‘Because this is it.’ A smile spread across his face, a grin of knowledge and power puffing out his chest as he spoke. Sheridan felt good – he always did when he was on top.

A female voice sounded beside him. ‘It’s time to get ready, sir. The fight starts in about an hour and a half and you need to be looking your best – the eyes of the world are upon you tonight. Not that you ever look anything less, of course.’

Sheridan turned to look. ‘Thank you, Kassidy. Is my suit ready for tonight?’

‘Yes, sir. Clean, pressed and set for wearing.’

‘And my diamond cufflinks are here?’

‘Two commissioned diamond boxing gloves arrived by courier from London this afternoon.’

‘Shoes polished?’

‘I had one of the bellhops shine them until he could see his face in them.’

‘My daughters?’

‘Nikki will be here despite everything. Have you two managed to—’

‘I’m not talking about that now.’ Sheridan’s words, brusque and sharp, cut Kassidy off in full flow. ‘What about Heather?’ Sadness washed over him as he asked.

‘Well, boxing’s not really her thing but she said she’d be here. I’ll check for you.’

‘And my wife?’

‘Mrs Rivers has booked herself into the hotel spa for a last-minute manicure and facial and says that she’ll see you at your seat for the fight.’

‘Typical Sutton,’ stated Sheridan. ‘So, we’ll be alone again in the penthouse then, Kassidy. Mind you, my wife’s not slept there for days anyway.’ He moved towards her and gave her backside a squeeze as he walked past. Not as firm as it used to be, he thought to himself. ‘Good, I’m thinking there might be some last-minute odd jobs that need doing.’ He gave his growing erection a squeeze too as he felt it through his linen trousers. ‘You reckon you can sort that for me, too?’

‘Of course, sir,’ smiled Kassidy. But it was a smile riddled with doubt. After ten years of being both Sheridan and Sutton Rivers’ personal assistant, a job she had started when she was just nineteen, Kassidy Orpin was more than a little over blowing the boss whenever he demanded. But as she trotted off behind him in the direction of his hotel penthouse she knew she’d be on her knees within a few minutes – it was what she did. If she wanted to get ahead and realise her ambitions then giving head was just one of the many things on her to-do list. It was how she’d secured the job in the first place. A willing mouth and no gag reflex could erase a CV stating that she left school at sixteen back in Dublin with no real qualifications, especially if your potential boss was a player who couldn’t keep his prick in his pants. And Sheridan Rivers had been good to her over the years, which is why she had loved him, both in and out of the bedroom. But only when he chose. And only when Sutton was not within nagging distance – and preferably in another time zone.

Lovers and Liars by Nigel May is available now from Amazon UK and Amazon US.

blog tours, book extract

Blog Tour: The Little Village Bakery by Tilly Tennant

if only I could read faster

 

Today If Only I Could Read Faster is taking part in the blog tour for The Little Village Bakery by Tilly Tennant. It’s nice to have something bright and colourful on the blog for a change! I have yet to read the book but today I’m sharing the first chapter with you.

THE LITTLE VILLAGE BAKERY by TILLY TENNANT

CHAPTER ONE

On the hottest day of the year so far, the sprinklers on the green of the tiny village of Honeybourne made miniature rainbows in the shimmering air. Jasmine Green’s triplets, Rebecca, Rachel and Reuben, squealed as they raced backwards and forwards through the water, while Jasmine folded the last of the bunting from her stall of homemade crafts and furnishings.

‘It’s been a fabulous day for it,’ she commented cheerily to the vicar as he wandered over.

‘Certainly has,’ he agreed, looking round at the other stalls lined up around the perimeter of the green, their owners also packing away. ‘I love the fête, the one day of the summer when the whole village comes together to have fun.’

‘The children have certainly enjoyed it this year.’ She looked fondly over at her offspring, now soaked through but grinning all over their faces.

‘Some of the adults have had a good time too,’ he replied, angling his head to where Jasmine’s husband, Rich, was sitting on a deckchair looking distinctly sunburnt despite his dark hair and complexion, grinning drunkenly and staring into space.

She blew a ringlet the colour of candyfloss from her damp forehead and giggled. ‘I told him to be careful with Frank Stephenson’s scrumpy.’

‘Who’s got scrumpy?’ Rich asked, now squinting up at them.

‘No more for you today,’ Jasmine scolded, but only half-heartedly. He pouted like a little boy and she smiled indulgently. ‘If you can manage to walk in a straight line, how about you gather the kids up and help me get this stock back to the van?’ She folded her arms. ‘I suppose I’m driving home too as you’ve lost the ability to coordinate your limbs properly?’

He pushed himself up from the chair and made a move to take her into his arms. ‘Who can’t coordinate his limbs? You wait till later, my gorgeous little hippy chick,’ he said, wrapping her in his strong embrace. ‘I’ll show you how to coordinate limbs.’

‘Richard Green, the vicar is standing right there!’ Jasmine giggled.

‘Don’t mind me,’ the vicar said amiably, ‘I’ll just peruse the lovely items you have left on your stall here. Honestly, this metalwork is quite spectacular.’ He picked up a pendant and turned it over in his fingers. ‘You have lots of special things here, Mrs Green, but in the main a remarkable talent for making unusual jewellery.’

‘Take something home for Mrs Vicar,’ Rich said with a grin. ‘Pretty trinkets always work on the missus.’

‘Not when the missus has made them herself, they don’t,’ Jasmine said with a mock scowl.

‘Fair point.’ Rich hiccupped. He was a good foot taller than Jasmine and she had to stretch up to kiss him.

‘Go and get your children, there’s a good boy,’ she laughed.

He let go of her and staggered off. But when Jasmine looked up again, he was chasing the children through the sprinklers, making monster noises as he went, sending them scattering and squealing with delight. Some of the other villagers had joined in with their children. Jasmine stopped her packing for a moment and watched them all play their elaborate game.

‘You know, Vicar,’ she said in a voice full of lazy contentment, ‘I really don’t think there is a happier place to live on Earth than here.’

* * *

In her kitchen, a hundred miles to the north of where Jasmine Green was ushering her reluctant family into a van, Millicent Hopkin – Millie to the handful of people who dared get close enough – was sobbing. It felt like she did little else these days, though she was always careful to save it for when she was alone. Some would take great satisfaction in her pain. She probably deserved it, but that still didn’t give anyone the right to victimise her.

The car had been the last straw. She’d spent the last three hours trying to scrub away the vile words. Whoever wrote the old rhyme about sticks and stones was wrong. The smashed windows, the faeces shoved through her letterbox, the mysterious taxis and pizza deliveries in the early hours that she had ended up having to pay for when they insisted she’d ordered them – she’d borne it all with a quiet fortitude. But the words… Words had magic, they had power – the power to heal, to hurt, to make things happen, and the ones she’d failed to

remove from her car, even though she’d rubbed and rubbed until her hands were raw, had hurt her as much as any stick or stone could. She’d had enough.

Drying her tears, she tried to concentrate on the task in front of her. The only constant in her life now was her creativity, and baking was the one creative thing she could still do that brought pleasure to others. Although these days she didn’t know who she could share this one with when the people she had once called friends had all turned against her. She had tried to be a good person, to set things right, but in the end it had meant nothing. Turning her attention to the mixing bowl in front of her, she added ingredients to the mix – cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla, a pound of dried fruit, a sprinkle of heartsease, her unintentional tears – and thought about how she needed a new start, somewhere far away where people didn’t know her. Somewhere people wouldn’t judge her or hurt her or blame her for everything that had gone before.

She focused on the thought, on the photo of a tumbledown old building on a property website that had captured her imagination, four walls in an adorably named village that might just be the new start she’d been searching for. She closed her eyes, pictured the bakery – her bakery – and tried to imagine the sweet smells, the bright colours of the cakes, the chatter of customers, opening the shutters on every new day and welcoming it in; she tried to remember what happiness felt like, how

it was to want to live. She longed for it with every fibre of her being. In less than a week, if the universe was finally smiling on her, maybe she would find out.

When the mix was done, she poured it into a tin and whispered a last wish before she put it into the oven. She needed a new start. Perhaps the cake would make it so.

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Tilly Tennant

The Little Village Bakery is available now from Amazon UK and Amazon US.

4*, blog tours, book review, guest author

Blog Tour: My Husband’s Son by Deborah O’Connor

if only I could read faster

My Husbands Son Blog Tour V3

I’m delighted to share Deborah O’Connor’s post today on If Only I Could Read Faster as part of the blog tour for her book, My Husband’s Son. When I first read this I had a good chuckle, so I hope that you enjoy it too!

HOW MUCH SEX IS TOO MUCH SEX IN A NOVEL?

 ‘It’s good but there’s one nipple too many for my liking.’  This was the feedback from my friend and trusted first reader Tom on an early draft of my debut novel MY HUSBAND’S SON.

In actual fact, at that time, there were only two mentions of the word ‘nipple’ in the entire book.  But sex scenes are funny like that.  They and the words you use to describe them tend to lodge in the head.  Our brain gives undue emphasis to the mucky stuff.

Which begs the question, when it comes to writing a novel, how much sex is too much?

In light of recent publishing history you’d think the answer would be, never enough.  EL James, Lisa Hilton and a whole host of others have made their names (and their fortunes) by writing blockbusters packed with shagging.  But what if, like me, you’re writing a psychological thriller and although the sex scenes play an important, even critical part, they’re not the be all and end all.  What then?

I started writing my novel during a six-month long stint at the Faber Academy.  Occasionally we could request to focus a session on a specific aspect of the craft.  So one week, halfway through the course, I asked if we could please talk about how to write sex and how to write it well.  Louise Doughty our teacher agreed and asked us all to bring in an example of a fictional sex scene we thought was awful and one we thought was good.  Great, I thought.  Problem solved.  Then it came round to the actual class.

That evening we all sat there clutching our choices in our sweaty little hands.  We thought maybe we’d have to paraphrase them, that maybe (best case scenario) we would pass the offending passages around the table so we could each study them in turn.  Wrong.  Louise now revealed that she would like each of us to READ OUT LOUD TO THE REST OF THE GROUP from a pertinent section of our chosen novels.  (Dear reader, it is one thing to see the words ‘purple’, ‘moist’, ‘thrusting’, and ‘shaft’ photocopied on a nice white sheet of A4, it is another thing entirely to verbalise them to a room full of your peers.)  Naturally, there followed a lot of nervous laughter, but we all did it and it turned out to be yet another brilliant session on the course.  When it came to the end of the night I felt like I’d learned an important lesson.  Namely, for a sex scene to earn its place in a novel it needs to have a subtext.  Not only that, it needs to add something to the action that you wouldn’t be able to add any other way.

I set about sharpening the existing sex scenes in my book and then I went and wrote in a whole heap more.  They say show don’t tell.  I found that I could show a whole lot of really important stuff whenever I described how and when my main character had a sexual encounter, either with herself (yes, yes, my novel features masturbation) or with others, especially people other than her husband.  I also took guidance from one of my favourite thrillers – In The Cut by the American writer Susannah Moore.  Moore’s novel is a masterpiece in the use of sex and sexuality as a way to advance and reveal different aspects of her character and plot and, although quite graphic in places, she manages to do it without it ever making it feel cringey or like some superfluous, titillating add on.  I hope that I’ve managed to do the same (but I’ll let you be the judge of that).

Which takes me back to the original question of this piece:

how much sex is too much?  Ultimately, I think the answer lies in real life.  If you ask a group of people how often they like to get their leg over they will all reply differently: some people like to do it five times a day, some only once a year, on the Queen’s birthday, others not at all.  It’s up to you how much sex (if any) you decide to include in your book.  You might decide to really go for it, like me, and throw in ‘nipples’ here there and everywhere, or you might decide to abstain.  But if you do decide to go for it, then just keep in mind that a year or so from now, a group of students sat around that legendary oval Faber Academy table might be reading your work aloud, to the rest of the room, and trying their absolute hardest not to stutter and blush and wishing to god they’d asked their teacher to run a session on the merits of the omniscient third person instead.

My Husband’s Son (eBook) by Deborah O’Connor is published by Twenty7 on 16th June 2016 at £4.99.

Deborah O'Connor (1)

My Review of My Husband’s Son by Deborah O’Connor:

‘Heidi and Jason are a couple brought together by their shared experience of losing a child. Heidi’s daughter was kidnapped and killed while Jason’s son went missing and was never seen again. His life is consumed by finding Barney and the fact that Heidi understands his grief more than most people brings them together.

This book has a really interesting premise, Heidi believes that she’s found Barney but Jason is convinced that she is wrong, but Heidi just cannot let it go. As the reader you’re never quite sure whether Heidi is right or not, everything seems to be suggesting that he is not Barney, but could she be right?

I found Heidi to be really unlikeable. As a parent I can’t help but feel compassion towards her for the loss of her daughter, but she makes some really really strange decisions that I just struggled to make sense of. I spent large portions of the book convinced that she was totally crazy, however I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that maybe she wasn’t.

Jason meanwhile is a bit of a non event. He is clearly being eaten up by the loss of Barney, the not knowing what happened to him, and he isn’t dealing at all well with it. Although who can blame him?!

I found My Husband’s Son really easy to read, the author writes well and keeps the intrigue going throughout the book. The ending was nothing that I had imagined at any point while reading. It totally threw me, and confused me, and then once the shock had worn off it made me think.

I received a copy of My Husband’s Son via Netgalley from the publishers in return for an honest review.’

My Husband’s Son is released today and is available from Amazon UK and Amazon US.

3*, blog tours, book review

Blog Tour: When He Fell by Kate Hewitt

if only I could read faster

Tour banner When he fell for JENNY

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When He Fell by Kate Hewitt

Blurb:

The powerfully gripping new book from USA Today bestselling author Kate Hewitt.

Josh and Ben are nine years old and best friends, until a single, careless act in the school playground destroys the lives of both families – and wrenches their small Manhattan school apart.
As both mothers Maddie and Joanna try to find out what really happened between the boys, they discover the truth is far more complicated and painful than either of them could have ever realised with lasting repercussions for both families.
And when tragedy strikes again in the most unexpected of ways, the lives of these two women will be changed once more, and this time forever.
When He Fell explores the issues of parental responsibility and guilt, and whether there are some acts that human nature just cannot forgive.

 

My 3* review:

When He Fell tells the story of two families, their sons are best friends, two misfits who form a bond. One day in the school playground tragedy strikes. One boy is in a coma and the other is refusing to talk, throwing the families into a nightmare that neither were expecting.

I really enjoyed the start of When He Fell, the concept was interesting and I wanted to know what had happened and why. But as the book continued I became more and more frustrated with the characters, none of them were very likeable and a lot of their decisions really didn’t make a lot of sense. I also felt that the book lost its way in the middle, there were large chunks that didn’t do anything to add to the story.

The last part of the book did improve, the questions were answered and we saw the future of the families involved. It was a shame that a book that had started so promisingly lost its way, but I still enjoyed reading When He Fell, and it certainly made me think about the fragility of life and the way that I parent my children.

I received a copy of When He Fell from the publisher via Netgalley in return for an honest review.

Author Bio:

bio_pic3

Kate Hewitt is the author of over 40 novels of women’s fiction and romance. She loves telling an emotional story in a variety of genres, and has been nominated for the Romance Writers of America RITA Award twice. An American ex-pat, she lives in the Cotswolds of England with her husband, five children, and an overly affectionate Golden Retriever. You can follow her adventures in village life on her blog, A Cumbrian Life.

You can also find Kate Hewitt on:

Facebook

Twitter

Instagram

Goodreads

Where to buy When He Fell:

Amazon UK

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

Google Play

Waterstones

WHSmith

Giveaway:

Who doesn’t like winning something? Click here to enter a giveaway to win A Fragile Life, also by Kate Hewitt.

blog tours, guest author

Risks I’ve Taken- by Karen Rose

if only I could read faster

alone in the dark

‘Risks I’ve taken’: Karen Rose talks about jumping into the breach.

Every time I start a book, it’s an emotional risk – and a terror.  It’s like standing at the edge of ravine and realizing that the first step is a freakin’ lulu.  Parts of me end up in the book, whether I want them to or not.  That’s great when it’s a heroine who is totally kickass, but when it’s the villain … not so cool.  

Most of the time I’ll worry, Gee, I hope nobody thinks that I’m really like that.  But there have been a few villains I’ve read later and thought, Dang girl, I do that.  (Not killing anyone, of course, but sometimes the OCD stuff.  Or sometimes the evil villain laugh spills out, too.  Bwahaha.)

I sold my first book in Dec, 2001 and it was released in July, 2003.  For eighteen months I waited…  It was like being double-pregnant and waiting for the child to finally emerge.  New mothers sometimes experience a panic shortly before birth – OMG, I’m going to be responsible for a LIVING THING. I won’t breathe easily for the REST of my LIFE!

About a month before the release of DON’T TELL, I felt a similar panic.  OMG, I’m going to have a real book.  On the shelves.  People will READ it.  AND KNOW WHAT’S INSIDE MY HEAD!   ACK, my thoughts are NAKED!

It’s emotional exposure at its most extreme. 

Now, thirteen years and sixteen books later, I’ve learned to live with the risk and to mask the panic.  And to only claim ownership of the parts of me that end up in my good guys!