Monday, August 3, 2020

Review Tuesday: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil #Savannah #Murder #ReviewTuesday

Midnight cover

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt

Vintage Books, 1995

When it comes to my reading life (which is a significant part of my life overall), I frequently rely on literary serendipity. True, my “want to read” list on Goodreads rivals my “read” list in length, but it’s rather rare that I deliberately go out and buy a specific book. Far more often, I’ll stroll through a second hand bookstore, waiting to be grabbed by a cover, a title or a first paragraph.

About a month ago, I was fortunate to be snagged by Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, which turned out to be one of the most insightful and entertaining books I’ve read in quite some time.

John Berendt’s “non-fiction novel” was hugely popular when it was first released in the mid-nineties. I’d heard the title, but aside from a vague notion that it was set somewhere in the American South, knew nothing about it. In fact, I’ve never read anything quite like this book. The author, a veteran journalist from New York City, visits the quirky, historic city of Savannah, Georgia, and falls under its distinctive spell. As fascinated by the people who inhabit its graceful mansions as by the ghosts interred in atmospheric Bonaventure Cemetery, Berendt relocates to Savannah, where he immerses himself in the city’s customs, rituals and intrigues.

His book introduces us to the colorful, often contradictory figures who populate the elegant squares for which the town is famous: white-haired Southern belle Mary Harty, who brings the author to the cemetery for cocktails; charming ne’er-do-well lawyer Joe Odom, expert at occupying fancy houses that don’t belong to him, making money off tourist tours, and throwing outrageous parties; Emma Kelly, the lady of six thousand songs, who crisscrosses Georgia daily, playing free piano for anyone who needs music, be it for a wedding, a church service, or a bar; Minerva the conjure-lady, who casts spells and communes with the dead, trying to convince her deceased witch-doctor husband to give her a winning lottery number; and my favorite, the Lady Chablis, a gorgeous, mouthy drag queen who calls herself the Empress of Savannah.

The centerpiece of the plot – if a non-fiction book can be said to have such a thing – is the never-ending saga of Jim Williams’ trial for murder. Williams, a wealthy antique dealer who owns one of Savannah’s most celebrated mansions, is accused of having murdered his violent, volatile young lover Danny Hansford, a self-styled “walking streak of sex”. William’s repeated trials (four of them!), full of forensic incompetence and dirty dealing, provide a structure for the book. However, Berendt takes frequent detours, telling everyone else’s stories along the way. Some tales are ludicrous, others pitiable. Along the way we learn a bit about Savannah’s history, geography, internecine conflicts and race relations. By the time I’d finished the book, I felt as though I’d lived in the town, as though I’d recognize the characters if they passed me on the street.

One of the most remarkable aspects of the book is Berendt’s apparent ability to elicit trust and confidences from everyone he meets. As a Yankee and an outsider, he should have been treated with suspicion or at least reticence, but in fact he finds that everyone wants to share Savannah’s glories and shames. Jim Williams and Minerva take him on a midnight visit to the graveyard, to gather dirt for her conjuring on Jim’s behalf. Black beauty Chablis relies on him to be her “white chauffeur”. Feuding preservationists on both sides insist on airing the town’s dirty laundry. He even gets invited to the Black debutantes’ ball, a highly ritualized affair established by Savannah’s Black community leaders as a counterpoint to the lavish all-white Cotillion.

Somehow Berendt managed to keep a low-profile, fly-on-the-wall persona for nearly seven years, which allowed him to get to know Savannah’s unique society in surprising depth. Then, with equal skill, he has shared the city’s remarkable presence with his readers, spinning real-world personalities and events into an account easily as compelling as any fiction.

I was sorry when I finished Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I wanted to go back.

Get yourself a copy and you’ll see what I mean.

Take a taste of Hasty – Sizzling new #RomCom from Julia Kent (@jkentauthor)

Hasty cover
About Hasty

I never thought my perp walk would lead to true love.

Then again, I never thought I’d be arrested on RICO charges and hauled away in zip ties on camera for the world to see, minutes after closing the most amazing deal of my career.

And all of it in front of my biggest rival, billionaire wunderkind Ian McRory.

I am broke.

I am disgraced.

I am alone.

I am a sucker.

But the worst part? I have to go back to my hometown and live in my bedroom filled with relics from my childhood.

Lisa Frank never made me so mad before.

Just when I needed a rescue, I got one — in the form of help from my biggest rival.

He can’t bring back my money.

He certainly can’t bring back my reputation or my pride.

But there’s one thing he can bring back to me.

A sense of hope.

Maybe even love.

Ian sees something in me no one else does, and he’s relentless about making me see it, too. As we grow closer, I’m starting to see that while my entire life used to be a lie, the truth is staring me in the present — and it’s a truth I like very, very much, hot eyes and gorgeous smile and all.

But I have to be careful.

I can’t be too —

That’s right.


The final book in the USA Today bestselling Do-Over Series (Fluffy, Perky, Feisty), as Mallory's sister, Hastings "Hasty" Monahan gets her turn at a happily ever after that starts off with an arrest.


Other Standalone Books in the Series

Little Miss Perfect (FREE)





Ian keeps chasing me, though. Why? And why does the fact that he won't let up thrill me?

That's the part I hate. The thrill. The zing of arousal that shoots through me every time that jerkface–who isn't a jerk–does this. He's pursuing me and I don't understand it, but I do like it.

More than I want to admit.

The fight inside me feels like layers of muscles in my abs are in a tug-of-war. Ian McCrory represents everything I fought to achieve in my old life. Self-made billionaire. Liked by everyone. Admired by even more.

Respected for his hardcore negotiating skills.

And droolingly handsome.

He was my nemesis. My enemy. The guy who sniped deals, and who I sniped from. We were adversaries, but he flipped the script, didn't he? Coming to my rescue. Aiding me in a time of need.

I don't want to need him.

And I especially don't need to want him.

I stare at the phone. Just as my finger goes to the Power button to turn it off again, three dots appear.

One dinner. Indulge me?

I go into my contacts, and I block him.

He just proved me right.

Taking help from people means you're obligated.

And no matter how sweet the currency he's dangling, I don't like owing him.

I don't like owing anyone.

Burke turned my entire life into one big debt.

But my body isn't available as collateral.

And neither is my heart.

Buy Links

Amazon (all countries):

Audiobook narrated by Erin Mallon – Coming Soon

About the Author

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. Since 2013, she has sold more than 2 million books, with 4 New York Times bestsellers and more than 19 appearances on the USA Today bestseller list. Her books have been translated into French and German, with more titles releasing in 2020 and beyond.

From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men's room toilet (and he isn't a billionaire she met in a romantic comedy).

She lives in New England with her husband and three children where she is the only person in the household with the gene required to change empty toilet paper rolls.

Social Media Links

Release blitz organized by Writer Marketing Services.

Sunday, August 2, 2020

Sizzling Sunday: Super Hot Gay Romance! #mmromance #scifi #SizzlingSunday

Sizzlng Sunday Banner

For today’s Sizzling Sunday post, I’ve got an intensely erotic, X-rated excerpt from my latest release, a sci-fi, MM romance entitled The H-Gene.

About the Book

When love is forbidden, the whole world’s a prison

After a gay plague killed millions and sparked brutal riots, the Guardians locked up all H-positive men in remote quarantine camps – including Dylan Moore. H-negative guard Rafe Cowell blames the lust he feels watching prisoner 3218 on loneliness and isolation. When he finally meets the young queer, he discovers that Dylan is brilliant, brave, sexy as hell — and claims to be in love with Rafe.


Relax,” said Dylan. “Sit down.” He seated himself on the bench, the polished wood cool against his bare buttocks. Like an automaton, Rafe did the same. The black man kicked off the biohazard gear. For a moment they simply stared at each other.

Dylan felt his nipples tighten and his cock lift under the guard’s scrutiny. It really was lucky the guy was so attractive. It made everything easier.

He could read the emotions shuttling across Rafe’s face. Hell, the guy was an open book. The anger was mostly gone. Now fear, guilt and lust battled it out on those noble features. Dylan sat quietly, holding Rafe’s eyes, his own cock growing harder with every passing second. 

Rafe’s nostrils flared. He breathed through his mouth, panting as though he was running a marathon. His gaze flicked down to the rod of flesh rearing up from Dylan’s groin.

What do you want?” he asked finally, his voice almost a whisper.

You know what I want. You.”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips across Rafe’s. The other man started. Dylan seized the guard’s shoulders and pulled him into a fierce kiss. Rafe did not resist. In fact, he opened his mouth to allow Dylan’s questing tongue inside.

Exultation flared in Dylan’s heart. Still devouring the guard’s mouth, he slid his hands down Rafe’s massive biceps and then over his solid chest, pulling at the Velcro that kept the shirt closed. The guard’s skin was smooth, warm, and moist with sweat. Dylan’s fingers skimmed over the patch of tight frizz between Rafe’s breasts, then fastened on one fat nipple. Rafe gasped, grabbed Dylan’s head, and deepened the kiss.

This was almost too easy. Dylan cupped the huge bulk of Rafe’s erection, trapped inside the tight trousers. “I want to see you naked,” he said, close to Rafe’s ear. “Please, baby…”

Rafe abruptly broke the embrace. Damn. Had he moved too fast for the homophobic guard? Rafe turned his broad back to Dylan and shucked off his shirt. Dylan licked his lips at the sight of the muscles shifting in that sleek, chocolate brown expanse. Rafe kicked off his boots then yanked his pants down to his ankles. Finally he peeled off the gloves and tossed them onto the concrete floor.

When he faced Dylan again, his eyes were glowing coals. His cock rose like a pillar of basalt between his powerful thighs. His abdomen rippled as he sucked in breath. He was magnificent, like some ancient god. Dylan wanted to worship him.

Sinking to his knees in front of the naked guard, Dylan kissed the glistening bulb of that formidable cock, tasting soap and sweat. He was about to swallow as much of that engorged length as he could manage when a heavy hand gripped his skull. 

“No,” Rafe commanded. “On the bench. On your hands and knees.”

Dylan hastened to obey, his lust almost smothering his sense of triumph. He presented his rump for Rafe’s inspection, spreading his thighs as much as he could, given the width of the bench. His cock twitched when Rafe palmed one buttock. He nearly came when the man spread those cheeks, exposing his rear hole. He held himself still, struggling for control, as Rafe ran a spit-moistened finger up and down his crevice.

He’d be tight. It would hurt. Nobody had taken him there since Miguel had died, years—centuries—ago. And Rafe was so huge—but Dylan knew he could bear it, for the sake of his plan. In fact, the thought of that enormous cock ripping into him made him harder than ever.

Dylan expected violence. Based on their last encounter in the control room, he expected the guard to force his way into Dylan’s ass. He was astonished when, instead, he felt the wet prodding of the other man’s tongue wriggling against his sphincter. The slick pressure sent tendrils of electricity spiraling through him to tighten around the base of his cock. After a blissful while, the tongue was replaced by a careful digit pressing into his hole, circling, massaging, luring him to relax. He arched back, opening himself to the second finger that Rafe had inserted. Rafe pushed deeper, spreading his fingers to stretch the ring of muscle. Every movement transmitted itself to Dylan’s cock.

God, that feels good!” he moaned. “More. Please!”

Rafe did not speak. Dylan heard him spit. The probing fingers were replaced by a rounded mass Dylan knew was Rafe’s cock head. The guard rubbed the bulb back and forth over the loosened entrance. Dylan shivered at the sensations. The man was driving him crazy.

Steady pressure built at his rear entrance. Dylan’s muscles screamed in protest as Rafe’s cock breached him. Then, in the wake of the pain, pleasure rushed in, full and deep, as deep as Rafe’s prick buried in his ass. Dylan clenched around the invading bulk, reveling in the sensation of being filled. Rafe pulled partway out, then slid smoothly back in to the hilt. Dylan felt the weight of the other man’s balls swinging against his butt cheeks. Oh, God, it was good, so good…

Dylan sank down onto his elbows, elevating his ass and allowing Rafe to plunge deeper. The guard thrust steadily, hard but not too hard, exactly the way Dylan craved. A big hand reached around his hips and squeezed his cock. He whimpered, overcome by the pleasure.

You like that, boy?”

Dylan knew he didn’t need to answer. He wasn’t sure that he could. He felt fingernails scoring his butt flesh as Rafe picked up the pace. The guard rammed his cock into Dylan’s hole, again and again, each stroke more savage than the last. But Dylan was ready now, warmed up, loose and hot and hungry for whatever the guard dished out.

Get your copy today!

Friday, July 31, 2020

Writer's Instinct? #amwriting #amreading #StephenKing

I have a confession to make. I've never read any writing how-to book from beginning to end. Years ago, I started Susie Bright's How toWrite a Dirty Story, but abandoned it about half way through, partly because I found the author's tone patronizing and partly because the smell of ink from that very early POD volume was giving me a terrible headache. The other classic writing texts that are supposed to be on every author's bookshelf – Stephen King and the rest – I've never even opened. I don't own a copy of the Chicago Manual of Style or Strunk and White, either, though my paperback Roget's Thesaurus is definitely the worse for wear.

Sometimes I feel rather creepy about my basic disinterest in studying the nuts and bolts of the writing craft. I recognized the validity of the concepts and the terminology – the narrative arc and the character arc, the “Coming to Death” moment. I know that the writing process should involve internal queries about what the character wants, where a story is going and how it should flower. These are the sort of things I think about when I'm critiquing someone else's work. When I'm writing my own stuff, though, nothing could be further from my mind. Intellectual analysis has little to do with the process. I write from instinct.

At this point you're probably snorting with disgust at my presumption. “She thinks she's got so much talent she doesn't need to study the masters,” you might be thinking. Or, “Right, she was born knowing about characterization and conflict, suspense and catharsis. A regular Mozart of the written word.”

Honestly, I don't think that at all. I do believe I'm moderately skilled at the craft aspects of writing, but that's not due to some fabulous genetic endowment. Rather, it's the product of more than half a century's experience, reading and writing – plus a certain amount of early education.

My life was filled with words from its very first months. Before I could talk (hard to believe such a time ever existed!), my parents read to me, both fiction and poetry. All through my childhood, my father concocted fantastic tales of ghosts and monsters and wrote delightful doggerel that he set to music. He and my mom taught me to read at four years old, and almost immediately I began creating my own stories. I was writing poems by the time I was seven. Nobody ever showed me how. I guess I must have been emulating what I'd read and heard. It just seemed a the natural thing to do.

Reading was my absolute favorite occupation throughout my childhood. My mom had to force me to put my book aside and go out to play. I continued to write all through elementary school, high school, college and graduate school. And of course, I continued to read.

I adored the literature classes I took. There, we undertook the sort of analyses that the how-to books talk about, dissecting tales ancient and modern to see what made them tick. Although I majored in science, I tried to balance my schedule with at least one humanities course each term. I still recall the intellectual thrill I derived from the Shakespeare seminar in which I participated as a freshmen, the high I got from Russian literature in translation course in my junior year.

I still adore a lively discussion about a great book. A few years ago I spent more than an hour Skyping with my brother (who lives half a world away) about Erin Morgenstern's The Night Circus. We specifically set up the call for that purpose, and I enjoyed every minute.
So even though I've never deliberately studied the art of narrative, at least as applied to my own writing, I seem to have acquired a significant amount of knowledge by osmosis.

When I sit down to write, I don't consciously identify the “MacGuffin” that drives my story, even though it must be there somewhere. I may or may not know at the outset when and where my characters will experience that moment of total despair, when all seems impossible. If I don't know, I simply trust that I'll recognize the crisis when I get there. The story unrolls in my mind, a journey along a road where some parts may be foggier than others, but with a structure that seems to shape itself around the premise, the setting and the characters, without much deliberate effort on my part.

I do spend a significant amount of mental and emotional effort on the prose itself, trying to capture the elusive nuances of experience in words. I'm also focused on the big ideas that underlie the action, trying to birth the sort of startling, original tale that transfixes me with admiration when I am the reader.

That's what I find most difficult about writing. All the craft in the world won't make up for a ho-hum concept. All too frequently, I have the uncomfortable sensation that the story I'm working on has been written a hundred times before – sometimes even by me. I listen to some of my fellow authors complain about their so-called lack of talent, even as they produces tales so wild, terrible and beautiful that they bring tears to my eyes, and I try not to be envious.

That's something no craft book can teach.

Still, discouraged as I sometimes am, I don't stop writing. Through the combination of nature and nurture, I've absorbed the so-called rules of story structure. They're part of me now. I probably couldn't prevent myself from following them, any more than the Canada geese could abort their annual flight south.

Thursday, July 30, 2020

Into the folds of darkness... #ScienceFiction #Reincarnation #Apocalypse

Apophis cover

January, 2022: A dark monstrous twin-headed apparition – Apophis – feverishly races past the expanse of the Milky Way galaxy and bolts to the edge of the solar system. Recklessly accelerating, the sinister rock-dyad enters the gravitational keyhole of the blue planet and continues its resolute inebriated journey – to soon arrive with an apocalyptic impact on Earth.

December, 2012: Five sentient beings born in different cities – New York, Hong Kong, New Delhi, Azores Islands and Istanbul, discover amongst haunting memories of their phantasmal past lives, that it is their destiny to save humanity from the evil forces unleashed by the alien fiends – the Skyllats.

And now, the reincarnated 9-year-olds must rely on their shared, ancient wisdom to prepare humanity for the war across the galaxy that is imminent.


28.032848N, 85.530342E
Helambu. Langtang National Park, Nepal
January 23, 2022 (1100 hours)

Agasthi, you must learn to draw the sacred symbol accurately,” implored the Ban-Jhakrani or the forest shaman, wrapped in a resplendent white dress with a crown of tall peacock feathers. Her extraordinary life etched on a relucent wrinkled face, she continued to pry stirring sounds from her shaman’s drum that reverberated across the mountains.

Nata, what does ‘sacred’ mean?” asked the playful six-year-old moon-faced Agasthi with light gray eyes. Her loose, white, flared top and pants, twirled in the wind along with her.

The ‘sacred’, is a space and thought held within the folds of the benevolent earth mother,” explained the Ban-Jhakrani.

Nata, what does ‘benevolent’ mean?” the left-handed Agasthi, wondered.

The forest shaman laughed, “You are certainly an inquisitive young shaman; blessed by the primordial essence that unites us all. Now help me to place these peacock feathers, rice, and leaves within this sacred space. For I have much to teach you, but my time in this form…is limited.”

The large geometry drawn vividly on the forest floor, with red and yellow colors, was part of an ancient shamanic invocation to contact the mysterious forest spirits that remained nestled within these thick jungles. The forest adorned with the reverberant sounds of birds, animals, cicadas, scrambling waterfalls, and a bone-chilling wind that swooped across the Himalayan mountain range.

Agasthi, her name embodied in an indecipherable wisdom, followed her grandmother’s instructions while the Ban-Jhakrani added her chanting to the pulsating sounds of her shaman’s drum, to open the doorway of a limitless realm beyond time. And a beguiled crested goshawk swooped down and perched itself on her left shoulder.

The Ban-Jhakrani’s ancient incantations to initiate the young shaman began to increase in pitch and intensity as Agasthi sprinkled water over the rice, leaves, and peacock feathers. Soon the young girl became assiduously immersed in the spirits of the forest, before her eyes began to dilate and magnified all that surrounded her.

Agasthi, held within a trance, became drawn to a prodigious green leaf lying within the sacred space. She dropped to her knees and meticulously examined the giant blade; her dilated eyes following the mid-rib and the veins that branched off it as well as an occult dewdrop, which hovered just above the surface of the leaf.

Mystified, Agasthi peered deeper into this amplified, spherical, translucent world – seeded with infinite moons and stars – when an eerie, dark colossus with a serpent-like head and carmine eyes emerged. Swimming within this dark sea, it swallowed entire moons and numerous stars, before it turned and glared at a petrified Agasthi.

The charred monster abruptly shot across this uncommon convex world with its fangs bared, and a roar that pierced the young girl’s skin. A trembling, horrified Agasthi let out an unrelenting, terror-stricken scream that echoed across the forest before she collapsed, unconscious.

The Ban-Jhakrani stood over her granddaughter and smiled. What she had hoped for had become – the forest spirits had acquiesced. Agasthi had travelled across an immeasurable realm, and experienced an epiphany – a vision – for the very first time. The forest shaman patiently waited for several hours for the young girl to step out of her dreamworld.

What happened, Nata? Did I fall asleep?” Agasthi asked when she finally stirred.

No, my dearest Natini,” the Ban-Jhakrani whispered. “You drifted into a shamanic dream. An unerring state of being when multiple truths are revealed if your heart is pure. Search yourself and then speak of what you saw, for it is very important.”

The young shaman stared at her grandmother, while the recondite, eerie charcoal-black serpent reappeared and a petrified Agasthi began to quiver.

Do not be afraid, my child,” assured the grandmother and held her left hand.

A darkness that shamans have meditated upon…for thousands of years…has arrived,” mumbled Agasthi, lost within her trance.

Why?” the bewildered forest shaman inquired.

For a balance disturbed for so long…must be remedied…a justice delivered,” answered the swaying Agasthi and turned to stare in the direction of the sun.

Who delivered this message?” questioned the Ban-Jhakrani, overwhelmed by the young shaman’s inconceivable first pronouncement.

It was the Whisperer!”

About the Author

Savinder Raj Anand is an architect and has been teaching Architecture & Design at various Universities in India for more than 12 years. A long-distance runner with a wanderlust to explore the world, and write stories that traverse across diverse cultures. He lives in Goa with his daughter, a dog, and two cats.

Inspired by his then 18-month-old daughter – when she quoted Socrates – while they together sat in a children’s bookstore in Bangalore (LIGHTROOM) in early January of 2015, he has completed this – his first book – as she turns 7 years old.

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Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Houston’s Robo Brothel—Not!! #Androids #SciFiRomance #FantasyRomance @LNightingale

By Linda Nightingale (Guest Blogger)

Houston, Texas to host the first sex doll brothel in America? NO, said the Mayor, that single syllable resounding around this country. Immediately, the city council amended an existing ordinance to forbid business patrons from engaging in sexual congress with inanimate objects.

Not so the rest of the world.

At Aura Dolls, a love doll brothel in Toronto, clients pay $120 an hour plus $90 per half-hour to do whatever they desire to the six dolls on staff. Aura’s employees ‘freshen up’ the dolls between appointments, taking various safety precautions. The Toronto brothel is not the first of its kind. Similar enterprises can be found in Barcelona, Moscow, and Turin, Italy.

I was surprised that the Toronto firm chose Houston of all places to open its first brothel in the United States. I lived in Houston for 14 yeas, and it is a rather traditional and not the most liberal city. The brothel seemed destined to fail in its endeavor to open its doors.

In addition to the religious, legal, and moral issues, the sex doll brothel industry faces certain other disadvantages like the high cost of their ‘prostitutes’ themselves. A customized Real Doll costs about $6,000. Then we have the legal ramifications. The love doll brothels exist in a somewhat gray area. They don’t violate most state prostitution laws, but the intense moral opposition to sex work in the US will probably constitute an almost insurmountable barrier to robot sex workers..

Since the 1970s when Ben Skora created his human-like robot, Americans have been fearful of being replaced by robots. In some industries, this has proven true. There’s a humanlike newscaster and Sophia has appeared before the UN. These are androids as opposed to love dolls. Will this be true for sex workers or will flesh-and-blood win over silicones? A man in England—with his wife’s permission!—married his love doll.

Oddly enough, both of my Tomorrow's Angels books are set in Houston. Go figure. I’m psychic!

There has always been a demand for prostitutes. That fact is unlikely to change. Some of the opposition has even said it is degrading to machines. Not to get into robot rights, but does degrading machines compare to human women being degraded in similar circumstances?

I found out about the love dolls when a friend in Texas messaged me on Facebook. She said only, “Love For Sale.” (the title of the first book in the Tomorrow’s Angels series). Love For Sale and my new release, Life for Sale, star sentient androids indistinguishable from human who’re programmed as loving companions. The Special Editions created by Mayfair Electronics have emotions and react like a human. They are intelligent and charming. They’re everything you could want in a lover, but would you be creeped out?


Mayfair Electronics has created life.

But four of their Special Editions—sentient androids indistinguishable from human—have escaped. Rebel, Christian Aguillard and his owner, March, are on the run, but they have a bigger problem than his creator's plan to destroy him. They've discovered that one of the renegades has suffered a dangerous malfunction, threatening them with more than just exposure.

Trapped on a cruise ship in the middle of the Atlantic, March and Christian must stop the insane robot before someone else dies. All the evidence points to March being the killer's next victim.


Why are you here? To spout more nonsense?” Spitting mad, Monica reared up in her enemy’s face.

Not at all.” March’s hand flashed, almost too rapidly for Monica to see, and came down hard below her nose in a Judo-like attack.

Shocked and in pain, she stumbled back, switching modes as she pushed off the bed. “That’s it, whore. You’re a dead woman.”

I don’t think so,” her rival gritted out, hands braced on her hips, her expression as cold and hard as her mediocre brown eyes. She shook her head. “Look, Monica, I know you’re aware of your actions. I’m going to give you a chance. You must deactivate until we can safely transport you to Dr. Cross for testing. Surely, you know something is wrong.”

As they say in the films, you and whose army?” She squared her shoulders, preparing to strike without notice. “I didn’t do anything to that bloody dog. I didn’t do anything to you, fool.”

You didn’t mention Anne.” The other woman seized Monica’s arm. “What did you do to Anne?”

Claws out, Monica lunged. March darted beneath her guard, stabbing at a spot beneath her left earlobe. Monica shoved her back. “Looking for my off switch, fool? It’s well hidden, like where Ms. Goodie Two Shoes wouldn’t even think about going.”

Her insane human rival stood at the locked door, her stance as much as saying to leave Monica would have to get past her. No prob. She stalked toward her rival, murder in her eyes. March didn’t move. When Monica threw a punch at her eye, she moved by the gods.

The American whore lurched back, crossing her arms across her face, anticipating Monica’s next attack. Forearm struck forearm. A human bone should break, but March stood her ground, her limb intact. She recovered too quickly, dealing Monica a hard blow beneath her cheekbone, barely missing her eye, slamming her back against the wall.

I don’t know what you are, March Morgan,” she sneered. “But it’s not going to save your butt.”

No, but I am.” Looking like an avenging angel, Christian—in a Houston t-shirt and khaki shorts, his long hair disheveled—had somehow appeared behind March without either of them hearing.

Praise for Linda Nightingales’ Life for Sale

Linda Nightingale’s Life for Sale takes the characters from Love for Sale and sets them on a dangerous adventure for these androids posing as human. After fleeing at the end of the first book, they are trying to hide from the watchful eye of Mayfair, but decide a reunion is in order. One of the four, however, is suffering a murderous malfunction. The resulting story is not so much a murder mystery as it is a study of a chaotic mind, albeit lab created, yet eerily human in its madness. Nightingale has seamlessly made the unbelievable believable for the reader with a totally unexpected, but thoroughly satisfying ending to this duet. Imaginative premise, well developed characters and an insight into a mind gone wrong make this a great read…S. Hutchinson

About Love for Sale – first book in the Tomorrow’s Angels series

In Love for Sale, Mayfair Electronics company, in black and white, offers “love for sale”. Mayfair has engineered sentient androids indistinguishable from humans. March Morgan flies to England and meets the man she has been searching for her entire life. Christian requires no programming to love March at first sight, but her past and his future soon threaten their happiness—and their lives.

About the Author

After 14 years in Texas, Linda returned home to her roots in the South Carolina red clay. She has eight published novels, four of which are available from in audio. For many years, she bred, trained and showed the magnificent Andalusian horses. So, she’s seen a lot of this country from the windshield of a truck pulling a horse trailer. She’s won several writing awards, including the Georgia Romance Writers’ Magnolia Award for Excellence, the Raven Award, and the SARA Merritt. In real life, she was a legal assistant.

Author Links

Web Site: – Visit and look around. There’s a free continuing vampire story.

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