Excerpt, Giveaways, New Release, Release Week, Reviews, The Wild Rose Press

#ARC Review of Red Snowflakes by Kristal Dawn Harris w/a rafflecopter giveaway! @Kristal081670 #paranormalromance #vampires

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Kristal Dawn Harris will be awarding a $10 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Forensic photographer, Dena Williams, has spent her life trained to see what others cannot. Vampire, Dimitri Kovac, has waited every Christmas for a miracle that does not come. In the Oregon wilderness, during a snowstorm, these two destined souls collide. Dena’s only hope of survival rests in a vampire with the heart of a poet. Dimitri only has five days to win a skeptical woman’s heart. As the Christmas tree lights burn brightly and the snow continues to fall, will Dena succumb to a vampire’s charms? With so little time, can Dimitri win her love?

Read an Excerpt

Dena stood her ground waiting until he stopped directly in front of her-toe to toe. Her eyes lifted from his broad chest to his face. His breath caressed her skin in whispery touches. This close she could see the small lines around his eyes and the long length of his eyelashes. She’d photographed numerous crime scenes and witnessed the arrest of several criminals, so she knew the eyes of a killer. This man did not have those eyes. Predator yes. Murderer no. The sea-blue depths emanated tranquility, but there was something else there as well.

Trained to see things others didn’t, Dena’s head tilted while studying him trying to see what evaded her eyes. Engrossed in his features, almost drawn to him on a level her mind didn’t understand, her body leaned forward. He didn’t move away, but his pupils tracked every move she made. Dena focused on his eyes letting her own senses expand. Something was different in those sea-blue depths. They say the eyes are the mirror to the soul, but his seemed more like a mask. Her body jerked when the black of his pupils bled into the white until his sockets completely blacked out, then shifted back to their normal sea-blue color. Curiosity led her. One foot slid between his as she moved even closer until their bodies brushed. For some odd reason, she wasn’t afraid. “What are you?”

 

What’s the matter with you?  Harlie, you read a paranormal romance with a vampire?  And it was Christmas themed?  I’m sure most of yall thought I must have been out of mine but I wasn’t.  I needed to read something different and this book delivered on all counts.  Since I lost interest in all things paranormal when Twilight came out, I’ve been very picky and I tend to yawn at the PNR books that have come out in the last decade or so.  Ms. Harris has written a gem of a novella that will tug at your heartstrings, make you wish for snow and want to decorate for Christmas right now.  No worries on decorating for me.  I don’t do that until the day after Thanksgiving.  But I am thinking more candles…

I will have to say that this book is shorter than most and it mostly features just Dena and Dimitri.  Ms. Harris didn’t muck up the story with extra characters that you have to keep up with or any fluff for filler.  This is a book about a vampire that is dying, waiting for his mate and a woman that sees things that others can’t.  The above excerpt is a perfect example of Dena’s personality.  She takes no prisoners, asks questions and goes with her gut.  I loved her.  A bit lonely when she discovers Dimitri, she is all in.

Dimitri broke my heart at times.  A vampire with a soul and a mate to convince.  I admired that he didn’t pressure Dena at all.  He was honest, forthright and fell instantly in love with her.  Ms. Harris gives us a bit of a backstory on Dena and Dimitri but considering that the book is shorter with minimal characters, she does an excellent job with both of them.  I loved the give and take that Dena and Dimitri had with each other.  The joy of Christmas is alive with them and it shows in Ms. Harris’ writing.  It flows and there is never a dull moment.  In fact, the ending was a bit of a shock to me.  I never saw it coming and neither will you.  Great job.

If you are looking for a great Christmas read that will get you in the spirit, this is it.  Just keep in mind that there is a vampire, a mate to be had and a red snowflake to find.  Oh yes, don’t want to spoil that little gem in the book.  He he!

 

About the Author:

Kristal Dawn Harris is an American author, born in Middletown, Ohio. She currently resides in Ohio with her husband. Kristal has been married for 27 years and has two children. She graduated from Carlisle High School, then furthered her education at Miami University. She has a business degree in Accounting Technology. Kristal spent twenty years working as an Office Coordinator in the hospital until she released her debut novel, “The Rings of Faolan-Emeralds,” through The Wild Rose Press.

In 1999, Kristal suffered a debilitating disease called “Guillain-Barre Syndrome.” This rare disease damaged the nerves in her body requiring the use of drop-foot braces in order to walk. Kristal considers herself a survivor and encourages anyone with a disability to follow their dreams.

Kristal is considered a hybrid romance author since she published “Hand-Carved Wolf” and “Thief of Hearts” on her own. Kristal is an avid reader who enjoys romance from all genres, but paranormal is her favorite.

CURRENT BOOKS BY KRISTAL DAWN HARRIS

The Rings of Faolan-Emeralds
The Rings of Faolan-Rubies
Hand-Carved Wolf
The Burn
The Red Heart
Thief of Hearts

UPCOMING RELEASES

Red Snowflakes (November 6)

Website: http://www.kristalharris.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Kristal081670
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kristalharrisauthor
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Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Kristal-Dawn-Harris/e/B07HP1YKMM/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

https://www.amazon.com/Red-Snowflakes-Kristal-Dawn-Harris-ebook/dp/B07YCXKCM6/ref=sr_1_3

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Excerpt, Free Books, Release Week

Happy Early Release of The Business of Blood by Kerrigan Byrne! #Historical #Mystery @Kerrigan_Byrne

The Business of Blood, an all-new intriguing historical mystery from USA Today bestselling author Kerrigan Byrne, is available now!

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London, 1890. Blood and death are Fiona Mahoney’s trade, and business, as they say, is booming.

Dying is the only thing people do with any regularity, and Fiona makes her indecorous living cleaning up after the corpses are carted away. Her childhood best friend, Mary, was the last known victim of Jack the Ripper. It’s been two years since Fiona scrubbed Mary’s blood from the floorboards, and London is no longer buzzing about the Ripper, but Fiona hasn’t forgotten. She hasn’t stopped searching for Jack.

When she’s called to a murder in the middle of the night, Fiona finds a victim mutilated in an eerily similar fashion to those of the Ripper, and only a few doors down from Mary’s old home. The relentless and irritatingly handsome Inspector Grayson Croft warns her away from the case. She might have listened, if she hadn’t found a clue in the blood. A clue that will lead her down a path from which there is no return.

As a killer cuts a devastating swath through London, a letter written in blood arrives at her door, and it is only then that Fiona realizes just how perilous her endeavor is. For she has drawn the attention of an obsessive evil, and is no longer the hunter, but the prey.

Fiona Mahoney is in the business of blood. But she’s not the only one.

With intriguing twists, blood-chilling discoveries, and dazzling prose, USA Today Bestselling author Kerrigan Byrne shows that a woman’s work is never done, even when is sleuthing out a serial killer.

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Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!

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Excerpt

Aidan stood behind me for a moment, motionless and silent. I could hear every word ever spoken and unspoken between us spilling onto the ground at my back.

“I understand what the years have done to you, Fiona. I know all the reasons you do what you do.” The pity in his voice summoned a scream from deep, deep in my soul, and I swallowed three times to keep it from escaping. “I appreciate that you have to be cold sometimes. But have a care this profession of yours doesn’t make you heartless.”

Heartless.

Struck by an idea, I frantically searched until I found Frank Sawyer’s heart in the center of the basin. An unceasingly strong muscle upon which one’s entire existence depended. I counted four chambers. Four valves. I stared hard, unblinking in the wan light until Aidan’s retreating footsteps plodded away.

I’d never found Mary Kelly’s heart.

Every single part of her had been catalogued in all its exposed and grotesque exactitude. But not her heart. The Ripper had taken that, along with her life.

I searched for the palpitations to prove Aidan wrong and found them, faint and fluttering, against my rib cage. I still had a heart, even though he owned pieces of it. And yet, I’d stood over too many corpses of those I loved, each time expecting my bleeding heart to just…stop. It should, I think. When a heart was broken as many times as mine, it shouldn’t work anymore. But somehow, it still did. It kept going.

And so long as it beat in its chamber, I’d search for the Ripper.

About Kerrigan

Kerrigan has done many things to pay the bills, from law enforcement to belly dance instructor. Now she’s finally able to have the career she’d decided upon at thirteen when she announced to her very skeptical family that she was going to “grow up to be a romance novelist.” Whether she’s writing about Celtic Druids, Victorian bad boys, or brash Irish FBI Agents, Kerrigan uses her borderline-obsessive passion for history, her extensive Celtic ancestry, and her love of Shakespeare in almost every story.

She lives in a little Victorian coast town on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State with her wonderful husband. When she’s not writing you can find her sailing, beach combing, kayaking, visiting wineries, breweries, and restaurants with friends, and hiking…okay…wandering aimlessly clenching bear spray in the mountains.

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Connect with Kerrigan

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Website: https://www.kerriganbyrne.com/

Excerpt, New Release, Release Week

Happy Release Week to When the Marquess was Mine (The Wagers of Sin novel) by Caroline Linden! @thekayleighwebb @Caro_Linden #historicalromance

When the Marquess was Mine by Caroline Linden

On Sale: September 24, 2019

ISBN: 9780062913593

E-ISBN: 9780062913609

Digital Audio ISBN: 9780062963123

 

In the game of love…

 

Georgiana Lucas despises the arrogant and cruel Marquess of Westmorland even before learning that he’s won the deed to her friend Kitty’s home in a card game. Still, Georgiana assures Kitty the marquess wouldn’t possibly come all the way to Derbyshire to throw them out—until he shows up, bloody and unconscious. Fearing that Kitty would rather see him die, Georgiana blurts out that he’s her fiancé. She’ll nurse the hateful man back to health and make him vow to leave and never return. The man who wakes up, though, is nothing like the heartless rogue Georgiana thought she knew…

 

You have to risk it all

 

He wakes up with no memory of being assaulted—or of who he is. The bewitching beauty tending him so devotedly calls him Rob and claims she’s his fiancée even as she avoids his touch. Though he can’t remember how he won her hand, he’s now determined to win her heart. But as his memory returns and the truth is revealed, Rob must decide if the game is up—or if he’ll take a chance on a love that defies all odds.

 

Buy Links:

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Book Depository

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IndieBound

 

Excerpt:

Chapter One

1819

 

It was to be a bacchanal for the ages.

As Heathercote remarked, a man only turned twenty-nine once. Marlow pointed out that a man also only turned twenty-eight, or thirty, once as well, but they were well used to ignoring Marlow’s odd points of reason, and this one was promptly forgotten.

Heathercote planned the entire affair, inviting the most dashing, daring rogues and scoundrels in London. He declared it to be the invitation of the month, and that he’d turned away several fellows for lacking wit, style, or both. “You mean they aren’t up to your standard of mayhem,” said Westmorland, whose birthday it was, to which Heathercote mimed tipping his hat in acknowledgment.

After a raucous dinner at White’s, they decamped for the theater. The production was well under way when they invaded the pit in search of amusement. By the time the show ended, they had drunk a great deal of brandy, thrown oranges at the stage, and lost Clifton to the company of a prostitute.

Everyone’s memories ran a bit ragged after that, with vague recollections of singing in the streets and Marlow casting up his accounts somewhere in Westminster, but eventually they settled at the Vega Club. It was so late, the manager tried to dissuade them from play. Mr. Forbes knew every one of them could wager for hours, and the Vega Club closed its doors at dawn.

But Heathercote persuaded him to let them in and to give them the whist salon all to themselves. “We’ll leave by noon,” he promised, patting Forbes on the chest as he slid a handful of notes into the man’s hand. His words were remarkably steady for a man who’d been drinking for eight hours. Grim-faced, Forbes let them in, where they commandeered the main table and called for yet more wine.

A few intrepid souls followed them from the club proper. Forbes tried to stop them at the door, but Forester recognized one and waved them in. “We don’t mind winning their money,” he said with a hiccup.

They played whist, then switched to loo. One loser was dared to drink off the contents of his full flask in one go, which he did. The room filled with cigar smoke and ribald language, and the wagers grew extravagant. Marlow won a prize colt off Forester. Heathercote wagered his new phaeton and ended up with someone’s barouche. Sackville won the largest pot of the night, and everyone pelted him with markers.

And then one of the hangers-on spoiled it. He had the look of a country fellow new to London, with an arrogant bluster that was initially amusing but eventually turned annoying. He’d played well enough, winning a bit and losing with colorful curses that made the rest of them roar with laughter. But it became abruptly clear that Sir Charles Winston was in over his head when he wagered his house.

Marlow laughed. Heathercote picked up the scribbled note Winston had put forth and read it with one brow arched. “Can’t wager property, Winslow.”

The man was already ruddy from drink, and now he turned scarlet. “Can so! Your fellow wagered a horse.”

“Horses are portable,” said Forester, his Liverpool accent bleeding through. “Houses are not.”

“Houses are worth more!”

“Aye, too much more.” Heathercote flicked the note back across the table. “Markers.”

“I haven’t got any more markers,” muttered the younger man. For a moment everyone focused in surprised silence on the empty space in front of him. None of them had run out.

“Then fold your hand,” Forester told him. “You’re out!”

Winston’s chin set stubbornly. His mate tried to slide some markers toward him, but he angrily shoved them back. “Give me a chance to win it back.”

“All the more reason to walk away, if you’ve lost ‘em all.” Marlow waved one hand, nearly toppling out of his seat. Mr. Forbes, watching grimly from the corner, came forward. “Forbes, Windermere is done.”

“Sir Charles,” murmured the manager. “Perhaps it’s time to go.”

“Not yet!” Winston scowled at them all, shaking off his friend’s quiet attempts to get him to fold. “Not now, Farley! They got a chance to turn their luck. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Luck is like the wind,” said a new voice. Nicholas Dashwood, the owner of the Vega Club, stepped out of the shadows. “It rarely turns propitiously.”

Winston stubbornly sank lower in his seat. “I deserve ‘nother chance.”

Heathercote slung his arms over the back of his chair. “Well, West? What say you? Shall we let him stay and wager away everything he’s got?”

Lounging in his seat, the Marquess of Westmorland looked up in irritation. “Really ought to go, Winsmore.”

“Wins-less, more like,” snickered Marlow.

Winston sat up straighter in his seat. “Please, my lord.”

“Oh, let him ruin himself,” muttered Forester, shuffling his cards restlessly.

The marquess lifted one shoulder. “Damned if I care.”

“Sir Charles,” said Dashwood evenly, “do not wager what you cannot afford to lose.”

Winston scooped up the scribbled paper and added a line, signing his name with a flourish. “I won’t, sir.”

But he did. Within four hands, he’d won a bit and then lost it all—including the deed. Suddenly he did not look so belligerent or so stubborn. He looked young and quite literally green, staring at the winning hand, lying on the table.

“Should have listened,” said the unsympathetic Heathercote. “Should have left.”

Winston puffed up furiously. “Should have known better than to play with the likes of you!”

“Di’n’t y’know that before you sa’ down?” Marlow’s words slurred together. “Stupid bloody fool!”

“That’s my home!”

“And you risked it at loo!” Heath made a derisive noise. “Idiot.”

Winston was the color of beets. “Don’t call me that.”

Sackville raised one brow. “No? ’S not your home anymore.” He reached out and plucked the scrawled paper from the pile of markers and examined it, although his eyes never quite managed to focus on it. “It ‘pears to be West’s.”

His friends howled with laughter. “He doesn’t need it,” cried Winston. He made a convulsive grab for the paper before his lone remaining friend caught his arm. “He’s got a dozen houses!”

“Set it up as a brothel, West,” suggested Forester. “And give all your mates discounted fees.”

“Free!” yelped Marlow with a wheezing laugh.

Winston drew a furious breath, but instead of continuing the fight he turned and rushed from the room, rather unsteadily; he wrestled with the door, and then almost tripped on his way out, causing more howls of laughter from the table. His friend helped him back onto his feet before the door closed on them both.

“Who invited him?” asked Heathercote in disdain.

“Marlow.”

“Ballocks,” mumbled Marlow, putting his head down on the table. “Never did. Was Forester.”

Forester made a rude gesture. “I vouched for the other man, Farley.”

“Your friends are all bad ton,” said Sackville.

Forester’s face tightened. He rose and swung his wineglass into the air in a toast, spilling some. “Thank you all for a most exciting evening, gentlemen.” Pointedly he bowed only to Viscount Heathercote and Lord Westmorland. Sackville repaid him with a rude gesture at Forester’s back.

Heathercote protested, but Forester waved him off and left. With Marlow asleep on the table and Sackville still giggling drunkenly to himself, Westmorland placed his hands on the table, hesitated as if gathering strength, then heaved himself to his feet. “The carriages, Dashwood.”

Stone-faced, the owner left. Westmorland surveyed the table. “Did I win the last?”

“Aye,” said Heathercote with a wide yawn.

“Credit it all, Forbes,” said the marquess. “God above, I’m tired.”

As expressionless as his employer, the manager stepped forward. With an air of distaste, he picked up the deed promise and held it out. “I cannot credit this, my lord.”

West stared at it. “Damn. Right.” He stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket and staggered out into the morning sunlight with Heathercote, never guessing the trouble that wagered deed was about to cause him.