Tuesday, 28 October 2014

Jennifer Young: No Time Like Now

Help me wish Jennifer Young back to Heart of Fiction.

We met Jennifer back in February when she released her debut novel, Thank You for the Music.

Today, she introduces us to her latest work, No Time Like Now, published today.

Megan McLeod lost her baby years before, and in an effort to come to terms with it, and losing the man she loved, she move to Majorca and took up a job as housekeeper at the university. Not overly exciting work, but she loved this part of the world. It helped settle her mind.

When Tim Stone, a geological researcher, walks back into her life, Megan's life is thrown sideways. Not only had she moved to Majorca to get away from her old life, he's brought his new partner with him. Best course of action is to avoid the couple as much as possible. But when Tim discovers something strange going on, he turns to the only 'ally' he can think of. Megan.

No Time Like Now is an exciting romantic suspense set on the romantic island of Majorca on the eastern side of the Spanish continent. No better location for such a story as this. Two former lovers thrown together on a romantic island, with him in need and her the only one to help. It's the perfect recipe for adventure, and trouble. Jennifer uses her wonderful author voice to tell this emotionally charged tale with expertise. Readers will quickly come to like Megan and Tim and want to see what happens next. Jennifer sets the story well with wonderful imagery. If you're looking for a warming read, in more ways than one, there's no time like now to dip your toes into this Majorcan romantic suspense.

As always, there's a free book on offer today. All you need to do is comment with your email address to put your name into the draw for an ebook copy of this book. If you can't wait, just click here to grab your copy.

• • •

Hiding away from a disastrous past, Megan McLeod is getting along nicely in her job as housekeeper at a university field centre in Majorca. But the arrival of geological researcher, Tim Stone, throws everything into disarray — because Tim was the father of the baby she lost some years before and the two of them had parted very messily indeed.

As if having Tim on the scene wasn’t bad enough, he's there with his new partner, Holly. But when in the course of his research he comes upon something extremely nasty along the cliffs of north Majorca, he’s forced to turn to Megan for help.

Chaos. That’s what he brought.

Disorder; now there’s something I can handle. Disorder is fine, but when that extra element, that secret from your past, creeps in like a snake under an ill-fitting door, disorder turns to chaos.
And chaos is a whole lot different.

It was changeover day at the field centre where Domenica, Catalina and I faced the task of preparing to greet thirty second-year geologists. With their end-of-year-exams behind them, the students would theoretically be out for a week’s fieldwork but all of them were bound to view this trip to Majorca as an opportunity to let their hair down. In the eighteen months I’d been at the centre, I’d learned enough to know that none of them would intend spending too much time peering at layers of rock.

Fortunately for the local population, the field centre was based well out of town. These youngsters wouldn’t be the first to discover that if they did go down into Puerto Pollensa of an evening, they’d have to stay sober enough to struggle back for a mile or so along a rough track in the dark. Domenica had worked out the solution to that one several geology groups ago, and had laid in a stack of bottles of San Miguel and a couple of cases of rough local wine.

Because I was the one who lived in, I ran the informal bar and cleared up after them; but I liked it. Generally speaking, the students were pretty sensible once they’d got over the excitement of a subsidised holiday, sunning themselves and pretending it was work. But for us — the staff comprised me, Domenica, and Domenica’s daughter, Catalina — the days of their coming and their going meant hard grind.

‘What time are they due?’ I called, catching Domenica as she bustled up the stairs with an armful of sheets.

‘Four o’clock. Catalina, how are you getting on?’

‘Nearly finished upstairs!’ Cat always sounded frantic, her work always nearly finished but never quite complete, because every time she was nearly finished some other job ambushed her and held her back.

‘They’ll want something to eat when they get here. Megan, can you arrange that?’

‘Will tea and biscuits do?’ Four o’clock was an awkward time to arrive. ‘That should keep them going until supper, and we can always do that a bit early if they look like fainting with hunger.’

‘That sounds a good plan. Though actually, forget their tea and biscuits just now.’ A snatched glance at the clock told us that we had a good hour. ‘What about ours?’

‘I’ll make some.’

‘We’ll have it in the office. I want to run through my list.’

I abandoned what I was doing and went into the kitchen, mentally ticking things off on a list of my own. Dinner was under control. The wherewithal for breakfast was in the cupboard (I checked, for the umpteenth time, while I waited for the kettle). I’d intended to make cake but had somehow run out of time. Never mind — there was bought cake in the cupboard; they could have home-made another day. Biscuits would do in the interim, for the students, for Domenica, for Catalina, and for me.

First into the office, I slid with a deep sigh into one of the three worn seats. This room, facing south-west and with big picture windows, was a positive hothouse compared to the rest of the place. An old farm building which had been increasingly and eccentrically extended over the two centuries of its existence, the centre had tiny shuttered windows and thick walls. It never grew hot, even in the height of the Majorcan summer when the temperature, as today, regularly scaled well into the nineties.

Domenica came in next, untying her apron and tossing it over the back of her chair as she moved from cleaning to admin, and settled at her desk. ‘Catalina!’

‘Just coming!’ came the faint cry from somewhere above us.

‘That girl!’ Domenica beamed, knowing as I did that Cat, for all her tardiness, was thorough and efficient. ‘I do hope that coffee’s extra strong. I think we’re going to need it.’

‘We could do with some more help.’ I rubbed some polish from my fingers. ‘Even just for a few hours at changeover.’

‘I keep wondering about that, but there just isn’t the money in the budget.’

‘I expect we’ll cope.’

‘It isn’t usually this bad. Thirty, plus the lecturers.’ She ticked a number off at random on her fingers. ‘That’s a lot. That’s just about capacity.’

In the summer months, when the universities were on holiday, we hosted other parties. Languages and art were popular themes; the groups tending to be smaller and the participants older. They included people who found themselves newly single and looking for a fresh interest. They were easier to get on with than the university students; they were quieter and less self-absorbed, people who were interested in everything and wanted to chat. The groups of geologists — boisterous and enthusiastic — steamrollered everyone and everything before them, and only sometimes remembered to be penitent afterwards. Nevertheless, I liked them. It wasn’t that long ago that I had been a student myself.

My university career had imploded spectacularly before I was halfway through my second year. That was how I’d ended up keeping house out on the edge of nowhere, with a job instead of a career. It was a bitter lesson, and one I’d learned well — that it only takes a moment’s misjudgement for your life to derail. When it does, the best you can hope for is that when everything falls apart, you’re happy to stay where you fall. And if I wouldn’t say I was happy in Majorca, I couldn’t in all honesty say I was unhappy either.


• • •

Jennifer Young is an Edinburgh-based writer, editor and copywriter. She is interested in a wide range of subjects and writing media, perhaps reflecting the fact that she has both arts and science degrees. Jennifer has been writing fiction, including romantic fiction, for a number of years with several short stories already published. Thanks You For The Music, which is set on the Balearic island of Majorca, is her first published novel.

Find Jennifer online --

Jennifer Young - http://jenniferyoungauthor.co.uk
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/jennifer.young.771282
Twitter - https://twitter.com/JYnovelist
Twitter - https://twitter.com/JYoungWriter
Blog - http://jenniferyoungauthor.blogspot.co.uk
Blog - http://novelpointsofview.blogspot.co.uk
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Young_Jennifer

Buy your copy here: http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Young_Jennifer/no-time-like-now.htm

Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of this book!

Friday, 24 October 2014

Jaz Hartfield: One Night in Amsterdam

A hearty Heart of Fiction welcome to Jaz Hartfield.

Jaz, as his name and photo implies, is an author who lives on the edge. He enjoys traveling, new cultures, and a bit of an adrenalin rush. Admittedly, Amsterdam is one of his favorite locations to visit, but refuses to say if any of his experiences have made it into today's release.

One Night in Amsterdam is the seventh book in the City Nights series from Tirgearr Publishing.

City Nights is a unique erotic romance series with authors contributing to the collection. Each book title starts One Night in . . . and takes place within a 24 hour time frame in a city somewhere in the world. Previous cities include Boise, Idaho; Paris, France; Rome, Italy; New Orleans, Louisiana; and San Francisco, California. Today, we're back in Europe -- Amsterdam.

Chloe is in Amsterdam on a hen's night (bachelorette party) with friends. Dean is also in Amsterdam but on a stag's night (bachelor party) with friends . . . and he's the stag! Marriage doubts have plagued Dean for a while now, and when he meets Chloe, the temptation to stray it great. Surely, a one night fling is acceptable. Aren't stag nights meant for the groom to sew his last wild oat? But what happens when he falls for Chloe's charms? And will she fall for his? They only have tonight to find out.

True to the series, One Night in Amsterdam is a lot of story in a small space. Jaz does a great job of introducing his protagonists so we can quickly endear ourselves to them, as we follow them around Amsterdam, and the Red Light District. This story has a great romantic plot with lots of sexy encounters, which is the trademark of the series. And with Jaz's expert writing, we're pulled into the stories of both Chloe and Dean, who have some personal challenges in front of them as their relationship develops over the course of the night. Will they get it together, or will Dean return home to his fiance? You'll have to read the book to find out! Excellent addition to the series. Well done, Jaz!

As always, there's a free book on offer today. All you need to do is comment with your email address to put your name into the draw for an ebook copy of this book. If you can't wait, just click here to grab your copy.

• • •

Chloe organizes Jo’s hen weekend in Amsterdam, glad to get away from the usual boring or married men that she sleeps with. Perhaps she’ll meet some cool guys up for a bit of fun. If not, at least she’ll make sure her best friend gets very drunk while they all party in style.

Dean is getting married to Tamsin, but having serious doubts. His mates take him to Amsterdam for one last weekend of debauchery before settling down for the rest of his life. But is Tamsin the right woman for him?

When Chloe and Dean meet in Amsterdam’s red-light district, they are immediately attracted to each other. Dean tries to justify one last fling before marrying Tamsin. Chloe feels bad about having sex with someone else’s intended. Yet, a night of amazing sex is exactly what both of them want. So, why shouldn’t they just enjoy one night of fantastic, guilt-free sex?

Chloe smiled politely as she slipped the pink sweatshirt on. The name printed on the back was ‘Office Bike’. They weren’t allowed to choose their own name, of course. Still, it could have been worse: Di’s sweatshirt said ‘Bitch-Ho’, and Jo’s, whose hen party this was, proudly displayed the title, ‘Bridezilla’. Ushma had the most pleasant moniker with ‘Virgin Queen’. Jo’s sister, Glynis had ‘MILF’ printed on hers, which Chloe felt flattered her rather, but Jo had insisted on it.

They’d started drinking at Gatwick Airport, before their morning flight; continued on the plane with two white wines each. The flight only took two and a half hours. Once at Amsterdam Airport Schiphol, Chloe took charge, as chief bridesmaid. A taxi took them to their hotel where she did the talking at reception.

“Sorry, madam, but we have no reservation under that name.” The lady spoke in perfect English with only a vague hint of a Dutch accent.

Chloe suddenly regressed to being a humiliated, naughty child. She felt the judging stare of the receptionist as she stood in her ridiculous pink sweatshirt. She had no idea what to do.

“Which travel agency did you use? I could phone them for you, if you like.” The lady smiled with only her lips. “Do you have the number?”

Chloe blushed as everyone turned to stare at her. She’d not thought to bring contact details. It hadn’t occurred to her.

“I booked online and can’t remember the company name.”

“Oh, Chloe!” Glynis chided. “Told you I should’ve organised this trip.”

The others sighed and gave her irritated glances.

“We do have two rooms I could let you have. They are a bit more expensive and the only ones available tonight. Would you like those?”
The other four nodded.

“Not much choice is there?” Glynis mumbled.

“That’ll be two hundred and eighty Euros, please.” The lady tapped on her computer as Chloe held out her debit card. None of the others offered to pay their share. Chloe put in her pin number and hoped the bank wouldn’t charge too much for going overdrawn. She took the receipt, printed on watermarked, cream coloured paper.

“I’ll need all your passports, please,” the receptionist announced. “And your rooms are on the third floor.”

Once they had the key cards, Glynis dragged her case towards the lift on the other side of the lobby, huffing and puffing loudly.

“The elevator is out of order today.” The lady pointed to the red carpeted stairs.

They eventually found their rooms. Jo and Glynis shared one, while Chloe, Ushma and Di were round the corner in another.

Di bagged the sofa bed, leaving Chloe and Ushma sharing the double bed.

Chloe had a need to voice her irritation. “I expected some kind of an upgrade, at least. This is just another cramped room with no floor space.” She twisted her mouth and stopped to get a response. She got none. “Still, it’s gonna be such a cool weekend.”

“Someone check the mini-bar,” Ushma ordered, jumping onto her side of the bed. “Any vodka in there is mine.”

“See if we can clear it out in the first five minutes,” Di grinned without irony.

Chloe laughed aloud, wondering if the cost of the whole mini-bar would go on her debit card. To her relief nobody moved.

“So what’s the plan, Chlo?” Ushma asked, stretching languidly on the bed.

“Find a good bar and get Jo pissed.”

“A bar with lots of fit blokes, hopefully,” added Di.

“A male strip joint?” Chloe suggested.

“Yeah, to start with,” Di said. “But those places are just full of desperate slappers and sad biddies —”

“Like us, you mean?” Chloe snorted with laughter, making Ushma giggle.

“Speak for yourself,” Di answered, looking away.

“Says the girl with ‘Bitch-Ho’ on her back,” Ushma said, sending her and Chloe into convulsions.

“Whatever.” Di held up a hand and went to fill up the kettle.

“Okay,” Chloe said, regaining control of herself. “So we get Jo pissed, take photos of her in various naked, embarrassing positions, then post them on Twitter and Facebook?”

Ushma gave her a high-five.

• • •

Jaz Hartfield is a writer and actor who loves travelling. He’s always looking for his next thrill, having tried bungee-jumping, parachuting, white-water rafting, pot-holing and deep sea diving.

Jaz has lived in many different places; his favourite parts of the world include New Zealand, Kenya, Ireland, and the Lake District in England.

Having been on a stag weekend in Amsterdam, Jaz is unwilling to admit whether One Night in Amsterdam has elements of the truth in it or not.

Find Jaz online --

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/citynightsamsterdam
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Hartfield_Jaz

Buy your copy here: http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Hartfield_Jaz/one-night-in-amsterdam.htm

Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of this book!

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

Stella Whitelaw: Hauntings Once More

Help us welcome back the lovely, Stella Whitelaw.

Stella is a prolific author of  56 books and 327 short stories, including the popular Jordan Lacey Mysteries, Sweet Seduction, No Darker Heaven, Lucifer's Bride, and others.

In her newest, the Once More Series, Stella pulls together some of her favorite short stories into themed collections. Previously, she published the first in the series, Yesterday Once More, which was a collection of historically based stories -- settings from the 16th to 20th centuries . . . all 'yesterday' stories. Christmas Once More was a similar collection -- stories with a Christmas theme.

Today, Stella is publishing another collection in the Once More Series -- Hauntings Once More. And as the name suggests, these stories are themed at the paranormal -- ghosts, witches, and things that go bump in the night . . . and the day too ;-)

What I love about collections like this is there is usually something everyone likes. And for the season that's in it, some of these would even be perfect for those storytelling times around the campfire! It's hard for me to pick a favorite, so you'll have to grab a copy and see which is yours.

Thank you, Stella, for sharing some of *your* favorite haunting tales!

As always, there's a free book on offer today. All you need to do is comment with your email address to put your name into the draw for an ebook copy of this book. If you can't wait, just click here to grab your copy.

• • •

A collection of haunting short stories:

Beautiful Witch
Catching the Sea Wind
Day the Sea Stood Still
Dress Rehearsal
Free Fall
Ghost Train
Good Foot to Heaven
Memories Are Made of This
Merry Hell
Night Lighter
Other Cemetery Guide
Pillar Box Freak
Strictly Come Dying
Sunday Ghost
The Willows

extract from The Day the Sea Stood Still

The strangeness began as I stood on the shingle in my Wellington boots and looked out in disbelief. The clouds were still stitched to the sky but the sea was close pounding the shore, white topped waves high and powerful. The waves crashed on the shingle, pulling pebbles back onto the sand.

“This is all wrong,” I said to no one. But something was wrong. I could feel it.Every day I walk the coast from Worthing Pier to the Sea Lane Cafe in Goring, and back. Sometimes I walk on the promenade, occasionally on the wet shingle playing catch-me with the retreating waves at the end of each groyne, but other days far out on the wet sand among the squabbling seagulls and curiously running little pied wagtails.

I read the tide tables as if they are a book. The fine print tells me a story. The changing pull of the moon dictates my footwear. Is it to be trainers for the promenade or Wellington boots for the beach?

When the sea is right out I am unconnected, in a different world, the pier like a gigantic insect astride the sand on multiple legs, the sea-front hotels and terraced 18th Century houses lost in haze, the ugly multi-storied car park mercifully shrouded from view by the band stand. (They pulled down the elegant Grafton House to build that monstrosity. They should have gone underground, like Mole.) I know it's haunted. When I pass by late at night, I hear the clunk-clunk of croquet balls and the tinkle of china tea cups.

My watch said 4.20 p.m. A 6’3’’ high tide had been at 11.31 a.m. The sea should be seeping far out by now, nudging the distant pale horizon.

"Misprint," I said aloud, dismissing it. But I knew it wasn't. No one else had noticed the change but I know the tide times by heart. Something had gone wrong with the tide.

The churning sea matched my annoyance as I stumbled and slithered down the steep bank of shingle and trudged along the water's edge, climbing over each slippery weed-hung groyne. It was hard work.

"You got it wrong," I shouted to the waves. I often talk to the sea. It matches my moods. It is a satisfactory conversationalist, mirroring my thoughts, answering back with a myriad of reflected twinkles in its eye. No words, just a rush of water.

A dog came leaping out of the waves, plumed and eager, stepping high as a thoroughbred racehorse. It came bounding over and shook itself, the spray flying like crystal rain from its pale coat.

"Hello," I said, my ill-humour vanishing. "You're a nice dog. What's your name? Maybe I shall call you Flora, after Flora Macdonald."

The dog barked and bounded off, wanting to play. There was a lot of greyhound in her. I wished I had a ball. I don't throw stones for dogs. It wasn't fair when they could never find them. And I hated the thought of sharp flints carried in tender mouths.

"How did you know her name?"

• • •

Stella Whitelaw began writing seriously at the age of nine. She was ill with measles when her father gave her an Imperial Portable typewriter. Covered in spots, she sat up in bed and taught herself to type.

At sixteen, she became a cub reporter and worked her way up to Chief Reporter. She was the first woman Chief Reporter, the youngest, and the only one who was pregnant.

After producing a family, she became Secretary of the Parliamentary Press Gallery at the House of Commons. Secretary then meant the original meaning, Secretariat, the keeper of secrets. She was awarded an MBE in 2001 but is not sure why.

Like Trollope, she wrote books on the train and in the recesses. The Jordan Lacey PI series is her favourite and the cruise crime books. Her big romances, No Darker Heaven and Sweet Seduction, were a marathon adventure.

Stella has won a woman’s magazine national short story competition and the London Magazine’s Art of Writing competition judged by Sheridan Morley. The Elizabeth Goudge Cup was presented to her at Guildford University.

Homeless cats find their way to Stella’s lifelong hospitality and she has written eight books of cat stories for the 7 – 70 plus.

Find Stella online --

Website - http://stellawhitelaw.co.uk
Blog - http://stellawhitelaw.co.uk/category/e-log
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Whitelaw_Stella

Buy your copy here: http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Whitelaw_Stella/hauntings-once-more.htm

Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of this book!

Friday, 17 October 2014

Lorna Peel: Only You

It's my pleasure to introduce the reading world to another lovely debut author. Today, it's Lorna Peel.

Born in England, she grew up in Wales, and now calls the west of Ireland her home. She lives on a small farm where she raises chickens, grows some fruit and veg, and in her spare time, writes novels as well as shorter pieces for Irish periodicals like Ireland's Own. Never a dull moment in Lorna's day!

Her debut novel is called Only You and is out today from Tirgearr Publishing.

What do you do when you're suddenly divorced, left with a mortgage to pay, and when dating for a thirty-something woman is hit or miss? For Jane Hollinger, you get on with life. What else is there do to? Part of that is using her qualification as a genealogist to teach night courses in family research. It's a popular subject and she enjoys the teaching aspect. But when a newcomer enrolls in class, she's not quite sure how to take him. Something is off about him. Then she realizes who he is -- Robert Armstrong. Her favorite actor. What's a woman to do when her crush starts crushing on her?

This is a lovely contemporary romance that's full of heart. Lorna's author voice expertly pulls us into Jane's plight as a single 30-something woman trying to get her life back on track and entering the dating scene. This is not your typical mature single woman finding love with a close friend she never thought about before, or a long lost school boyfriend. The twist of bringing in a celebrity is clever and offers a much more interesting read, and a deeper play of emotions throughout the story. How many of us have crushed on a celebrity, allowing our imaginations to run wild. But what would happen if that person suddenly showed up in our life? And how would we react if our attraction was reciprocated? For Jane, you'll have to read the book to find out! Lovely story, Lorna! Can't wait to see what you have up next.

As always, there's a free book on offer today. All you need to do is comment with your email address to put your name into the draw for an ebook copy of this book. If you can't wait, just click here to grab your copy.

• • •

Jane Hollinger is the wrong side of thirty, divorced and struggling to pay the mortgage her cheating ex left her with. As a qualified genealogist, teaching family history evening classes is a way for her to make ends meet. But she begins to wonder if it’s such a good idea when a late enroller for the class is a little... odd. “Badly-blond Bloke” both scares and intrigues Jane, and when she discovers he is her all-time favourite actor and huge crush, Robert Armstrong, she’s stunned. Even more stunning to Jane is the fact that Robert is interested in her romantically. He’s everything she ever dreamed of, and more, but can she overcome her fear of living in the public eye to be with the man she loves?


And reflected in the bathroom mirror, in the late evening twilight, didn’t she know it. She was now officially in her thirties. Jane padded down the stairs, the doorbell ringing just as she reached the bottom. She pulled open the front door.

“Wow, makeup!” Jane’s sister, Mags, gave her a kiss on each cheek on her way inside.

Carol, best friend to both Jane and Mags, did the same. “Wow, a skirt!”

“Okay, what’s going on?” Jane followed them down the hall and into the long, narrow kitchen diner. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“The traffic was awful.” Carol spread her hands in an apologetic gesture and gave her a little smile.

Mags pounced on a birthday card, lying on the table. “I don’t believe it!” She opened it and read aloud, “Happy Birthday. Must meet for a drink and a chinwag sometime. Best wishes, Tom.” She let the card drop back onto the table. “That waste of space sent you a card.”

“He always sends me a card.” The cards just weren’t signed ‘All my love’ anymore, since their divorce.

“A drink and a chinwag?” Carol scoffed. “Yeah right! As if the ice maiden he ran off with would allow that.”

“Thanks for your cards, by the way.” Jane went to a cupboard, opened it, and took down a jar of instant coffee. “Would you like a coffee?”

Mags shook her head. “No thanks, we’re going to the pub. I’m gasping for a drink.”

“All right.” Jane put the jar of coffee back in the cupboard. “But if you’ve hired a male stripper, or something...”

“A stripper?” Mags feigned outrage. “What do you take me for? No, what I’ve got is even better!”

Jane eyed her sceptically, slipping her feet into her shoes, before going for her bag and coat.

Fifteen minutes later, they were seated at a corner table in the King’s Head raising glasses of champagne.

“Happy birthday!” Mags produced an envelope with a flourish.

Jane opened it, half expecting a voucher for a beauty salon or a health spa or something subtle like that. Instead, she saw a confirmation e-mail.

Dear Ms Hollinger

Thank you for becoming a member of LookingForLove.com…

Her heart plummeted. “A dating agency?” She just managed to keep the dismay out of her voice.

“An online dating agency!” Mags squealed. “There are thousands of men on there just waiting for you! I mean, look at this one here!” She fished a printout from her bag and thrust it at Jane.

It was the details of a man named Bryan, aged 34, six feet tall, brown eyes. Jane’s eyes were drawn to the photograph. She had to admit he wasn’t bad looking in an I’ve-played-one-too-many-rugby-matches type of way. He had a wrinkly forehead and his nose needed a good bit of reconstructive surgery. “He’s probably used a photo of someone else and doesn’t look anything like this in real life,” Jane muttered.

“People who lie about themselves are thrown off the website.” Carol was solemn as she pulled out another sheet of paper. “This is what we’ve said about you.”

“What?” She grabbed the sheet of paper, almost tearing it.

There she was; Jane Hollinger, aged 31, divorced, five feet eight inches tall, blue eyes, brown hair. Likes history, cinema, reading and socializing. Looking for a man aged 30 to 40 for friendship and possibly more.

It could be worse, she supposed, putting it down and taking a sip of champagne. It didn’t make her sound like a complete charity case.

“And you’ve already had some interest,” Mags told her.

“Why didn’t you just auction me off on eBay?”

“Jane, there hasn’t been anyone since Tom!” Carol argued.

“I’ve been busy,” Jane was defensive. “I have to pay a full mortgage now.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll cancel the membership.” Carol began to fold the sheet of paper.

“No, Carol, wait.” She held up her hands apologetically. “It’s just that I thought I was going to be married to Tom forever.” She found a smile from somewhere. “And I’m now in my thirties and single, whether I like it or not. I didn’t mean to sound like such an ungrateful cow. I’m sorry. ”Inwardly she cringed when both women smiled sympathetically.

“I know what we’ll do, ” Mags announced. She sprang out of her chair, startling the woman at the neighbouring table. “We’ll buy a couple of bottles of wine and we’ll go and surf the net, try and find you the man of your dreams.”

“You’re on!” Jane picked up her glass and drained it.

• • •

Lorna Peel is an author of contemporary and historical romantic fiction. She has had work published in three Irish magazines – historical articles on The Stone of Scone in ‘Ireland’s Own’, on The Irish Potato Famine in the ‘Leitrim Guardian’, and Lucy’s Lesson, a contemporary short story in ‘Woman’s Way’.

Lorna was born in England and lived in North Wales until her family moved to Ireland to become farmers, which is a book in itself! She lives in rural Ireland, where she write, researches her family history, and grows fruit and vegetables. She also keeps chickens (and a Guinea Hen who now thinks she’s a chicken!).

Find Lorna online:

Website - http://www.lornapeel.com
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/LornaPeelAuthor
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/PeelLorna
Blog - http://lornapeel.com/blog
Pinterest - http://www.pinterest.com/lornapeel
Tumblr - http://lornapeel.tumblr.com
Google Plus - https://plus.google.com/+LornaPeel
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/LornaPeel
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Peel_Lorna

Buy your copy here: http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Peel_Lorna/only-you.htm

Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of this book!

Friday, 10 October 2014

Brendan Gerad O'Brien: Dark September

Brendan Gerad O'Brien, welcome to Heart of Fiction!

Brendan comes to us today from South Wales, UK. Born in Tralee, Ireland, Brendan spent his summer holidays as a youth romping around the literary town of Listowel, where his uncle had a harness making shop. Colorful local characters, such as the now infamous John B. Keane and Bryan MacMahon, frequented the shop, giving Brendan his first taste of storytelling.

Years later, and now living in South Wales, Brendan's love of storytelling has given him a staggering twenty-three titles to his name. Today he adds the twenty-fourth!

Dark September is an alternate history as part of WWII. While Germany technically never invaded Britain, we do know of their horrific air raids, but Brendan has spun an interesting element into known history to create a truly engaging story of an Irishman's desire to get his son home to Ireland, a neutral country.

Dark September is a riveting tale with lots of adventure. Danny O'Shea's plight is palpable and one can't help but keep reading to see what happens next, especially as he's suddenly pursued by the Germans and insurgents who think he's in possession of secret blueprints to a new weapon. This is awesome stuff. A must read.

Before we get to the blurb and excerpt, Brendan has had a chat with us about his life on the other side of his monitor.

Welcome, Brendan!

Thank you for taking time from your busy day to chat with us. Let's get right to it. With 24 books out, how do organize your day? What is your daily writing routine like?
I prefer to write in the evening, usually beginning around five o’clock with a cup of extra strong coffee. I break for the six o’clock news, though I don’t know why lately. There’s nothing but doom and gloom all over the world, which isn’t conducive to writing a humorous short story. 
I usually write the first draft in long-hand – scribble, according to my family, which is good because they can’t understand it to criticise it before I’ve ironed out all of the kinks. 
Sometimes, when I’m in full flow, I’ll take my iPad to bed and carry on writing there. Jennifer isn’t always pleased about that as the tapping on the key pad can be a bit irritating when she’s trying to get to sleep, but mostly she supports my need to finish a piece before I forget what I was trying to say. 
Some writers swear they carry a note book so they can jot down ideas as they appear, but I could never get into the habit of doing that. But I see stories everywhere and I let them bounce around in my head until I’m sure I can actually make something of them. That way, when I sit down to write, I more or less know what I want to say. Unfortunately they don’t always work out as I imagined them and they get filed under B for bin – but I don’t throw anything away. There must be a thousand discarded bits and pieces in my attic. 
Right now I’m on the last two or three chapters of my latest full novel. A murder mystery set in Ireland in 1941, it features Garda Sergeant Eamon Criddle investigating a shooting in a crowded pub. A man dies, but no one noticed a thing. The next day the sergeant’s step-daughter is found dead in the town park. Is there a link?
I totally understand the tapping of the keys from writing in bed. Drives the hubs mental. I've heard about the notebook thing too. When I have one, I never use it, and when I don't have it, that's when I need it! I've solved the problem with a notepad app on my mobile phone. ;-)

When you're not writing in bed, where do you write. Please describe your writing space.
I’ve got a nice cosy corner in the sitting room where I do my serious typing and thinking in peaceful isolation. If I’m writing in long-hand I usually sit in the conservatory, and if I’m just typing up stuff I’ve already written by hand then I’m happy to sit in the kitchen where I feel less isolated and more included in the normal activity of the house. Also it’s nearer to the kettle and biscuits. 
 Oh, yes! Tea and biscuits are a must for the best storytelling!

What do you enjoy doing when you're not writing?
Walking is probably our favourite pastime. We try to go for at least a mile walk every day. We’re lucky to have some wonderful places here in Wales within easy distance – Tredegar House, Roath Park, miles of the Monmouth - Brecon Canal. We go to Bristol, Hereford, Abergavenny and Bath regularly too, and we love to wander the old streets and alleyways that are soaked in some wonderful history. 
Reading would be my next choice. I love thrillers. Tom Clancy writes some great stuff. I like Andy McNab – I’ve got all his books – and I’m particularly impressed by the writing style of Ann Cleeves (of Vera and Shetland fame) and Val McDermid (Wire in the Blood). I’m working my way through the Tirgearr authors list and I love Mary T Bradford’s book My Husband’s Sin. 
DIY has to be my next love, though the house has been pulled about so much over the years it’s as near to our ideal home as we can get it. So any work now is just tarting up the paintwork and minor adjustments.
You're preaching to the choir when you talk about Wales and places to go walking. I've spent my share of time in Brecon, Abergavenny, Hay-on-Wye, and most of North Wales, and other locations. Also Hereford. You and I could chat hours about Wales, and Ireland, I'm sure!

Thank you for taking time from your writing schedule to chat with us.

As always, there's a free book on offer today. All you need to do is comment with your email address to put your name into the draw for an ebook copy of this book. If you can't wait, just click here to grab your copy.

• • •

Germany invades mainland Britain. Irishman Danny O’Shea’s house is bombed and his wife killed. His young son Adam has learning difficulties. Terrified of what the Nazis will do to him, O’Shea decides to take him to neutral Ireland.

Penniless and desperate, they head for Fishguard. But on an isolated Welsh road they witness an attack on a German convoy carrying the blueprints for an awesome new weapon that was discovered in a secret laboratory near Brecon.

German Captain Eric Weiss, responsible for the blueprint’s safe transfer to Berlin, knows his job, even his life, depends on getting it back.

But, following a major disagreement amongst the insurgents, the blueprint disappears. Then O’Shea goes to the aid of a dying woman - and both the Germans and the insurgents believe she’s told him where the blueprints are.

Suddenly O’Shea is separated from his son and catapulted into a world of betrayal and brutal double-cross. Pursued by both the Germans and the insurgents, his only concern is to find Adam and get him to safety.

‘Did you hear the latest rumour, Danny?’ he asked. His eyes were disturbed, wide and anxious, as they darted from O’Shea to the newspaper and back to O’Shea again.

‘Do you mean about …’ O’Shea felt his throat tighten as he struggled to find the words. He really didn’t want to think about it, but at the same time he desperately wanted to know what was really going on. Leaning over, he rubbed a hole in the condensation on the steamed up window. Outside, the lights from the tram flickered on the curtain of rain that came in waves along the pavement. ‘I heard something on the wireless before I came out about him being …you know?’ he eventually managed to say. ‘But I’m not sure what I believe on the radio anymore.’

‘Well, there’s nothing in the paper about it.’ Elwyn rattled the wet pages as he tried to separate them but they only stuck together more and started to tear. ‘They’d have to put in the papers, wouldn’t they? What d’you think, Danny? Wouldn’t they have to put it in the papers if there was any truth in it? Or do you think it’s just another pack of lies from that lunatic Lord what’s-his-name? D’you think it’s just another one of his tricks to upset us, like? Make us panic?’

O’Shea gave a furtive look around at the other passengers. The tram was full as usual and the steam from their wet clothes misted up the windows.

He recognised most of the men. Practically all of them worked down in the dockyards. The few women on board were heading for the nice warm tax office. It was obvious from the way they held their hands tightly across their bodies that they’d heard the rumour too. So they’d be only too aware of the dreadful consequences if it turned out to be true. But nobody spoke. Today there was no idle chatter, no swapping gossip behind gloved hands. Everyone felt the tension that hung like a fine mist in the air, so they just sat there in silence and looked out of the windows, their faces blank and their mouths drawn into thin, anxious lines.

A deep, desperate sigh rippled up from O’Shea’s chest and he couldn’t swallow it in time so he tried to block it with his hand. What in God’s name was he doing, going to work at a time like this? If the omens were so obviously terrifying, why wasn’t he at home with his wife and child? They’d still be lying in bed, sound asleep and unaware of the drama unfolding around them.

• • •

Brendan Gerad O’Brien was born in Tralee, on the west coast of Ireland and now lives in Wales with his wife Jennifer and daughters Shelly and Sarah.

As a child he spent his summer holidays in Listowel, Co Kerry, where his uncle Moss Scanlon had a harness maker’s shop, which, sadly, is long gone now. The shop was a magnet for all sorts of colourful characters. It was there that Brendan’s love of words was kindled by the stories of John B. Keane and Bryan MacMahon, who often wandered in for a chat and bit of jovial banter. Most of the ideas for the stories in the collection Dreamin’ Dreams originated there, and some are based on actual real character - though Brendan would never admit it, simply because he couldn’t afford the ensuing litigation.

Find Brendan online:

Website - http://www.bgobrien.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/brendangerad.obrien
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/obgowan
LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=62841458
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/OBrien_BrendanG

Buy your copy here: http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/OBrien_BrendanG/dark-september.htm

Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of this book!

Tuesday, 7 October 2014

Betsy J Bennett: A Wizard's Spell

It's always a pleasure welcoming back Betsy J Bennett to Heart of Fiction.

Betsy was with us recently promoting the second book in the Dragon's Roost series, A Gargoyle's Vow. Today she returns to tell us about the third installment -- A Wizard's Spell.

When Pierce finds himself unconscious in an emergency room, he experiences and out of body experience. While wandering, he encounters a woman called CeeDee who's just been told she's pregnant by her boyfriend. When she tells him, he immediately suggests termination and walks away, leaving her distraught. Pierce vows that if he pulls through his ordeal, he'll seek out CeeDee and find a way to help her.

CeeDee falls instantly for Pierce's charms. She knows this is not the right time to think about getting involved, especially with her new future as a single mother. But his charms are persuasive. Something is off, though, and when she discovers he's been lying to her, she decides to leave.

In the background is a group of wizards who believe CeeDee's baby is Pierce's, and they set out strip Pierce of all his powers. Things worsen with CeeDee's life is put in danger. Pierce has no choice but to take her into his world to protect her.

A Wizard's Spell is another splendid addition to the Dragon's Roost series. Betsy's characters are well-developed and easily liked. The storyline is engaging and easy to read, which means this book will keep readers focused and reading 'just one more chapter' before lights out at night. While this story touches on some sensitive subjects, Betsy's gentle hand navigates through all the emotions, providing a wonderfully full and satisfying story. Fabulous story, and a must read.

As always, there's a free book on offer today. All you need to do is comment with your email address to put your name into the draw for an ebook copy of A Wizard's Spell. If you can't wait, just click on the link to grab your copy.

And on special offer from Tirgearr Publishing, Betsy's previous book, A Gargoyle's Vow, is available through October for just 99c at Kindle!

• • •

He met her the day he died
After separating from his bloody body in the emergency room, Pierce goes for a walkabout and discovers a woman announcing her pregnancy to a man who proposes she get an abortion. After getting reunited with his body and surviving an involved surgery, Pierce decides he needs to find this woman, and help her, since he believes concentrating on her helped him survive.

CeeDee becomes enchanted with Pierce until she realizes all he has done is lie to her
She believes just discovering she was pregnant is not the best time to start a new romance, but Pierce is charming and captures her heart, until she realizes everything he has told her is a lie.

They are chased by assassin
The wizards want to strip Pierce from all his powers since they believe CeeDee’s child is his. Andrew, an evil wer-wizard wants her dead because she can identify him.

He takes her to magical worlds where everything is unbelievable
For what can be more unbelievable than finding true love?

Magic crackled in the air around him. Iridescent powerstrands swirled around his ankles, sinuous and snake-like energy which he and other wizards like him could manipulate into anything animate or inanimate. But not here. He was too exposed and vulnerable.

Lethargic thunder rumbled overhead in a long, drawn out moan, a precursor of the cold front arriving from the west. Feeling the pressure to hurry, Pierce Billova climbed the back stairs two at a time toward his attic lair.

No visitor to his exclusive Boston home had ever come upon the staircase unexpectedly. It was hidden by more than the door in the kitchen which blended so carefully into the wall as to be considered invisible.

Both were concealed by magic.

The sun had set less than an hour before, and the moon, a powerful force for magicians, waxed full. Outside, black nimbus clouds hung heavy, throbbing, as if desperate to release their revenge on the city. The storm, when it came, wouldn’t be anything for the history books. Not a hurricane or enough to raise flood waters, just a good, soaking October shower, the kind his Midwestern grandfather had called a frog-drowner.

With his trained inner eye, Pierce could visualize the extent of the front. It wasn’t only the people of Massachusetts who would be grabbing their umbrellas in a few minutes. There would be windshield wipers working furiously as far away as Tallahassee. When he was in the mood, or when the need was great, he could control the weather with a wave of his hand and a firmly spoken command.

Weather sense was one of his stronger abilities. Yet he had not originated this storm. Someone else was dabbling where he or she shouldn’t, creating a massive imbalance and this storm was a consequence. If it wasn’t controlled or contained, the external manifestations would only grow worse.

Pierce felt the small hairs on his arms rise and his blood surged in response to the violence outside. Lightning flashed. A spare two seconds later, thunder rattled the windows, strong enough he could feel it in the soles of his feet. His anticipation grew. The storm’s arrival only heightened his urgency to practice his arcane art.

There was an ugly, festering imbalance in the forces he studied. Energy could not be created or destroyed, that much physicists got right, but it could be manipulated. Huge chunks of powerstrands, magical energy, were disappearing, a void far too massive to be the result of anything but evil corruption.

His path was almost pitch black, except for the glow of powerstrands that lapped at his feet. They shimmered in brilliant colors, as if in another lifetime, they had been neon lights advertising a wide selection of beer brands. It had taken five years of apprenticeship before he was able to see his first. Now, as much as they were tools, they were also companions.

When he reached the door to his attic lair, he held his right hand out, fingers splayed over the knob, feeling with his heightened senses the warding spells he had set. They were undisturbed. Still the hint of something insidious, something evil that shouldn’t be there invaded his consciousness. Lightning flashed again, as if telling him to heed this disruption. There was nothing sedate about the thunder now. It cracked in a loud explosion directly above.

The powerstrands at his feet were unconcerned; a few, the yellow ones, frolicked like puppies. A sharp stench of evil reached his nose, a scent of something burning, or a conglomeration of things rotting. The trace vanished quickly, leaving him to think he had imagined it, or it came from the storm, or more likely he brought the disturbance with him. As much as he looked forward to plying his art, this was no pleasant task he set for himself.

His palm tingled in anticipation and his pulse raced. When overcome by rare fits of whimsy, Pierce could easily imagine the wards on the doorknob welcomed his return to his secret base. He could almost believe the energy itself was sentient, recognized in him a master, one of the very few on this planet they could communicate with.

Silently and with a minimum of movement—broad, crass actions were indicative of amateurs—he twisted his hand near the knob without actually touching it. The powerstrands sidled, one over another, releasing their knot. On well-oiled hinges, the door slid open.

He stood on the threshold, breathing deeply. If he were ever asked, he might say this was his favorite part of his career, the anticipatory moment before he curled his first powerstrand, before he changed matter and energy. His lungs filled slowly. He held the air, savoring the trace hints of herbs and magic, and since he was an indifferent housekeeper, more than a little dust.

Then, feeding the rush of desperation which brought him here in the first place, Pierce methodically stripped off his clothing, leaving shirt, pants, socks and jockeys in a heap on the floor, and slipped, naked, into the silky, long black robe he wore as a master wizard.

• • •

Betsy J. Bennett lives in Michigan with her husband, two adult daughters, three obnoxious cats and an English bulldog. She has five grandchildren. She collects dragons, creche's and Santas. She has always believed in Christmas and in Santa, and although she has yet to meet the real Santa, she has hope that with the publication of this book he'll seek her out. She is currently at work on her next novel.

Find Betsy online --

Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/betsy.bennett.58
Blog - http://www.betsyjbennett.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Bennett_BetsyJ

Buy your copy here: http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Bennett_BetsyJ/a-gargoyles-vow.htm

Don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of this book!

A Wizard's Spell, book 3 - Grab it here

A Gargoyle's Vow, book 2 - Grab it here

A Dragon's Tea, book 1 - Grab it here

Friday, 3 October 2014

Brid Wade: Wild Justice

Tirgearr Publishing's Brid Wade publishes the 3rd book in her Matt Costello Mystery series -- Wild Justice.

In book one, we're introduced to Matt Costello in Watchers. He's a retired police detective with the Irish Gardai who's been asked to look into the discovery of the remains of a woman in Drohola Woods. Matt discovers she's one of ten women who disappeared ten years earlier.

In book two, Sleeping Dogs, Matt is back on the case, investigating the murder of a judge. The murder weapon belonging to a young man who disappeared three years earlier. Matt finds himself embroiled in deep deceit but leaves no stone unturned in the search for missing man, Billy Hannan.

And today, we're introduced to Wild Justice. A chance meeting with a ten year old girl who seems in need of help sets Matt on the hunt for her father, David Toner, and ultimately his killer.

This is another wonderful edition to the Matt Costello Mystery series. Brid sets the tone with a side of Ireland the tourism board steers away from. Matt's character is easy to fall for, and it's easy to see the author has a great fondness for him, as he's written with good depth of character. We see him as a person rather than an automaton on a mission. Description of setting is well balanced in the plot, and Brid draws from past true crime examples to bolster her story. Another fine, well-rounded edition from this author.

Tirgearr Publishing is giving away a copy of Sleeping Dogs to one lucky commenter. So get your skates on and be sure to leave your contact email address so we can get a hold of you if you win.

• • •

After a chance encounter with an unhappy young girl, Matt is moved by her sadness and offers to help, giving her his card. When his phone rings that night, he finds the girl sobbing on the other end, begging for help. Matt finds himself thrown into the hunt for her father and his murderer.

“Sorry, Matt. I’ve just got one other thing to do. Would you mind hanging around for a few minutes?” a flustered Dennis asked in the lobby of the Four Courts mid-morning on Friday.
“Relax,” Matt returned. “I’m not in any hurry.”

“Thanks. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going,” Dennis groaned, moving quickly away.

He disappeared through a crowd emptying from Court No. 4 into the cavernous domed hall, where the hum grew loud as debate gathered momentum among the emerging horde. In splintered groups throughout the hallway, they paused briefly to discuss the judge’s ruling, before committing the case to memory and the annals of the law.

Matt reached into the pocket of his jacket for the pack of cigarettes. Dennis’s few minutes could turn into half an hour, but if he was truly under pressure and anxious to get back to his office, he might return just as Matt lit up. So he dismissed the idea and cast a casual glance around the area where, already, the crowd had dispersed. Barristers and clerks headed back to the inner chambers, while members of the public moved towards the exit to the street.

Soon, the only one remaining with him in the bleak, echoing hallway was a pretty blond girl of around ten, who sat on one of the bench seats by the wall with her head lowered and her gaze fixed on the floor. A child alone was an unusual sight in the Four Courts and, as he walked in her direction, Matt wondered where within the halls of justice she had become misplaced.

“Hello,” he said cheerily, sitting down on the seat beside her; his eyes rested upon the many shades of blond in long, shining hair that fell forward and almost hid her face. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Almost in slow motion, she turned her head to look up at him, and in that brief moment her large blue eyes penetrated his soul. A sense of despair hovered around her, creating an uneasiness that left him struggling to sustain his smile. Inside the crystal clear orbs there was deep anguish.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She didn’t answer or show any response. Instead, she continued to stare at him before dropping her head once more.

“What’s wrong?” he asked tenderly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Again there was no response and, with the sound of approaching footsteps, Matt looked up to see Dennis hurrying towards him. On impulse, he drew out one of his business cards and pushed it into the pocket of the girl’s cotton jacket before standing up. She didn’t move.

“That’s it. I’m done.” Dennis glanced down at the girl. “Who’s your friend?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said with an uneasy frown. “She doesn’t want to talk.”

Dennis opened his briefcase and drew out a file while, from a corridor facing them, a barrister in silks appeared, accompanied by a dark, good-looking man dressed in an expensive business suit. Following a brief handshake, they separated and the man came towards the girl.

“Come on, Nicky. It’s time to go,” he ordered sharply.

Curiously, Matt observed the instruction that fell just short of clicking his fingers, and he watched for the girl’s response. Without meeting the man’s gaze, she stood up. He led the way to the door and she followed with her hands in her pockets and her shoulders hunched. But, before exiting, she paused and looked across to Matt.

“Lovely kid,” Dennis said, following Matt’s gaze.

“Do you know the guy she’s with?” he asked, as he watched her go.

“No, but his counsel is Rory Sheridan so, whoever he is, he’s got money.”

• • •

Born in Dublin, Ireland, Brid’s family hails from the inner city, making her a true blue ‘Dub’. One of four sisters, she was educated by the Holy Faith Nuns in Larkhill. Always drawn to the arts, Brid studied piano at the Municipal School of Music. Later she joined a band where she played the electronic organ and sang harmony with her sister. They were known as The Honeybees.

At nineteen, she met her future husband and travelled to Manchester for a year before returning to Ireland where they married and she settled down to become a stay-at-home mum to their three children. At that time she learned to paint, which led to her joining The North Dublin Craftworkers’ Association, on whose behalf she ran the annual Christmas Craft Gift Fair in the city centre. This led to a new career within the exhibition industry.

In 2001, seeking a change of environment, Brid moved to Kilkenny City and began to write. An avid armchair detective, she chose her favourite genre; crime fiction. Her aim was to create a character in a series of mystery stories based in modern Ireland. Matt Costello is that character. In 2006, she relocated to Inistioge, a picturesque village outside Kilkenny City, where she continues to write and paint.

Find Brid Online --

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/BridWadeAuthor
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Wade_Brid

Tirgearr Publishing is giving away a copy of Wild Justice to one lucky commenter. Leave her a question or comment here with your email address to be automatically in the draw.

Or you can grab a copy of Wild Justice now for just $3.99 through Tirgearr Publishing.

Wild Justice, book three -- grab a copy here
Watchers, book one -- Grab a copy here
Sleeping Dogs, book two -- Grab a copy here