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I’m a total weenie and normally steer clear of stories including things that go bump in the night, but I simply couldn’t help myself with this one.

I love Kelly Moran’s voice, so I gave this story a shot and I wasn’t disappointed. I was still scared. Actually, it scared the bejeezus out of me, but the romance swept me away as my hands shook on my Kindle and I came away a fan.

I give you, Ghost of a Promise. Book 1 of the Phantoms series. Enjoy.

The ghosts of her family’s estate on the coast of Maine never troubled Ava Trumble. When she finally inherits the historic mansion, however, there’s a small string attached: Ava has exactly one year to solve a 200-year-old mystery of a missing girl, or lose her family’s home…

The lead investigator for paranormal TV show Phantoms, Jackson Granger, is prepared for any metaphysical encounter—until now. It’s not just the uncanny sense of “coming home” or even his reaction to the fiery redhead who seems to consume his every waking thought. No, it’s that the ghosts are using Jackson and Ava’s attraction to play out a centuries-old tragedy. Heartbreak. Loss. Overwhelming passion. Now Jackson and Ava must determine if they’re sharing something real…or if they’ve been possessed by a love that never died.

A CATHERINE AWARD-WINNING BOOK! “The first book I’ve read in a very long time that I didn’t want to put down, and didn’t want it to end. Kelly Moran is a gem of a writer and I can’t wait to see what she writes for us next.” ~SHARON SALA, New York Times Bestselling Author


BUY LINKS: Amazon U.S.: Amazon CAN: Amazon UK: B&N: iTunes: Kobo:

WHERE TO FIND KELLY MORAN: Website: Facebook: Twitter: Pinterest: Google+: Tsu: Street Team:


It’s my pleasure to announce this rocking new romance is now available.  If you like a fast paced story with blood pumping suspense, steamy romance and in-your-face funny dialog that makes you pee your pants laughing, Rules of Protection is your ticket to a raucous good time.

Some rules are meant to be broken…

 It’s rule breaker Emily Foster’s birthday, and like everyone at The Jungle Room, she just wants to get some action. Unfortunately, she stumbles on the wrong kind, witnessing a mob hit. To protect her, she’s entered into the Witness Protection Program with by-the-book Special Agent Jake Ward as her chaperone.

 When the location of their safe house is compromised, Jake stashes Emily deep in the Texas backwoods. The city-girl might be safe from the Mafia, but she has to contend with a psychotic rooster, a narcoleptic dog, crazy cowboys, and the danger of losing her heart to the one man she can’t have.

Jake’s as hot as he is infuriating, and she can’t help but push all his buttons to loosen him up. Their mutual, sizzling sexual attraction poses a dilemma: Jake’s determined to keep her safe and out of the wrong hands; she’s determined to get into the right ones—his.


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About the author:

Alison Bliss grew up in Small Town, Texas, but currently resides in the Midwest with her husband and two sons. With so much testosterone in her home, it’s no wonder she writes “girl books.” She believes the best way to know if someone is your soul mate is by canoeing with them because if you both make it back alive, it’s obviously meant to be. Alison pens the type of books she loves to read most: fun, steamy love stories with heart, heat, laughter, and usually a cowboy or two. As she calls it, “Romance…with a sense of humor.”


To learn more about Alison Bliss, visit her website at, where you can sign up for her newsletter to keep up with her latest book news.  You can also email her at or connect with her on social media.


Hey Hey romance junkies. One of my favorite people is here. Whoot Whoot! Her name is Vonnie Davis, V to those of us who love not just her, but the fantastic romantic adventures she tells. She’s got a smoking deal for you today. Oh, hell, I’ll let her tell you all about it! Take it away, V…

Happy Spring, everyone. The leaves are popping out on trees here in southern Virginia. My magnolias are blooming as are my cherry trees. I love seeing the earth come alive after a long winter, don’t you?

Mac, I’m always happy to visit your blog and bring along my own touch of mania. I’m a trouble-maker. Truly. I love pitting my heroine and hero together in such a way they drive each other nuts. I love the push and pull of it. The yin and yang of newly acknowledged sexual awareness. The fear of the attraction. The denial. And the way it simply drives them up the wall.

Take two control freaks, for example. What happens when two hard-headed, opinionated and micro-managing people come together? Imagine the sparks, the clashes, the passion. That’s what happens in book two of The Red Hand Conspiracy series: RAIN IS A LOVE SONG.

Jean-Luc is a member of the French counterterrorism unit, an ex-Marine Commando (the French version of our SEALS) and a man who sees women as something to be enjoyed. This attractive American, though, pulls at him. What’s worse her aggressive nature gives him a twitch in his eye.

Gwen is an American widow who has to be in charge of everything about her life since her husband’s death in Iraq spirals her organized existence out of her control.

Her life revolves around her daughter just as ours did when our children were small. But imagine her heartbeat of horror when little Rhiannon is abducted right in front of her eyes—another freakishly out-of-control moment. Thankfully Jean-Luc was nearby to rescue Rhiannon. And while she’s grateful for his help, hours later she’s still grappling to regain control. Her safety net has been ripped to shreds.

While Rhiannon is in the care of Gwen’s father, she and Jean-Luc are on their way for take-out food when he gets a call to report to a murder scene in the sex-district of Paris. And before I share the scene with you, I want to tell you RAIN IS A LOVE SONG is currently a FREE download at Amazon. Free, ladies!!!

“I’m trusting you for now, because I have no choice. Has the crime scene been managed?”
“What?” His head swiveled in her direction. That’s right she worked for the police back in the States. Crime scene investigator or photographer or something. “Yes.”
Gwen started rummaging in her cavernous bag again. “Did the first respondents do the initial assessment?” She pulled out a camera and a roll of film. With quick, efficient movements, she opened the camera’s back to remove an exposed roll and insert a new one.
“I didn’t think anyone used film anymore.”
“I do. It’s been my experience as a crime scene photographer that sometimes an older camera and film take better images than the newer digital ones. I love my trusty old thirty-five millimeter. Dad gave it to me when I graduated from college. I majored in chemistry, but minored in photography.” Her hands expertly made several adjustments. “Just need to set the shutter speed dial to the flash synchronization speed and I’m all set.” She extracted a newer camera from her bag, too, and hung the strap around her neck. “That doesn’t mean I avoid new technology. Although, some courts won’t allow digital pictures into evidence because they can be so easily altered. What’s the rule here in France?”
“Tell me you’re not planning to take pictures of my crime scene. I won’t allow it.” He wanted her to stay in the car while he did his job. She was still rummaging in her bag, grumbling. “I’m not hearing what I want to hear, Gwen.” A motorcycle zipped in front of him, and he slammed on the brakes.
“Ah, here it is.” The woman had a habit of muttering under her breath. She was just loud enough for him to hear, yet low enough he knew she wasn’t talking directly to him. She pulled out a small black device with a wire and microphone attached and began unbuttoning the top few buttons on her blouse.
He couldn’t believe it; what all did she have stuffed into that bag? “You brought a tape recorder along on your trip?” She was biting off a piece of tape, for God’s sake, and taping the recorder above her breast. After which she clipped the microphone onto the neckline of her top.
“Rhiannon wants a recording of her new cousin crying.”
“Of course.” The whole batch of Americans were half-loopy.
“I find this works better. The recorder is voice activated so it’ll only record when I speak. It’s my way of verbally recording what I see as I photograph it. Comes in very handy in trials. It also keeps my hands free to photograph.”
He shook his head at the incredulity of all she had crammed in that shoulder bag. What else had she brought? A crime scene investigation kit? Fingerprinting kit?
She tugged a child’s notepad and pen from her bottomless shoulder bag. “Wish I had my tripod.”
“You’re not authorized to photograph my crime scene.”
“Do you have a ruler? I’ll need one to place next to any evidence I find.”
Was the woman deaf or just hell-bent on having her own way? “You are not photographing my crime scene.” He checked his side mirror before making a turn. She had his temper sparked and primed. One more remark and she’d suffer his wrath.
“Do you have any of those disposable shoe coverings so I don’t leave any non-site traces at the scene while I photograph?” (insert shoe-covers photo)
He yanked his car onto an empty stretch of sidewalk and jammed the gearshift into Park. “Did you not hear me? You’re not authorized to photograph my crime scene.”
“I won’t get in the way of your unit’s photographer.”
She was the most damnable woman. Thick-headed. Dogged. “Don’t you understand?”
Her turquoise eyes flashed. “Don’t you understand? If the same group who killed this informant also snatched Rhiannon, you can bet this mother will do whatever she can to gather evidence to find them. No one touches my child. From now on, I will be in pursuit of their deranged behinds. Believe me, the police, Interpol, counterterrorism units are nothing compared to one pissed-off Momma. Now, do you or do you not have a ruler?”
That damn tick plagued his eye again. Every time he was around this woman with her annoying ways, she affected his right eye—and his libido. “I don’t want you to get out of my car. Is that clear?”
“Yes, it’s clear.” She fiddled with a lens on her camera.
“Good.” For some reason he didn’t believe her. She was going to be trouble.
Gwen tossed her hair over her shoulder. “It’s clear you’re afraid a mere woman would see something you or your staff might miss.” She hiked her chin in that pugnacious way she had. “I thought you were smart enough to see a fresh set of eyes might help. Maybe if I were a man…”
His hand fisted in her hair, and he dragged her to him. Their faces were a mere inch apart. “I wish to hell you were a man. I’d slug you.”
She rolled her eyes and started muttering under her breath again. Something about how she wished he’d try and how great he’d look with his foot broken off and shoved up his ass.


Hey hey, romance junkies,

Welcome to What A Character, a weekly chat with a new and diverse romance character.  This week’s victim comes to us courtesy of the fabulous and fun, Denise Moncrief. She’s loaned us Tess Copeland from her new release, Crisis of Identity. I have to say, I’m stoked to have Tess here today.  Why, you ask? Because Tess sounds like the kind of character I’d like to share a few drinks with. So, help me welcome Tess, and Denise of course. 

Hiya ladies! So, Tess. In twitter fashion, tell us about your story in 140 characters or less.

Tess: Necessity is the mother of a good con, right? But Shelby’s was the wrong identity to steal. Crisis of Identity #romantic #suspense

Mac: LOL I love a sharp tag line. What do you consider your biggest strength? Biggest weakness?

Tess: My biggest strength? I can handle just about anything. I am NO damsel in distress. I don’t need a hero. I am perfectly capable of handling myself, thank you very much.

My biggest weakness? That I think I can handle just about anything. That I don’t recognize when I’m a damsel in distress until it’s too late. That I won’t admit that I wouldn’t mind some hunky guy stepping up and being my hero. And that sometimes I handle things all wrong, thank you very much.

Mac: I like how you roll, Tess. Don’t we all have those weaknesses? I know I do. So, the romance genre is often heavy with heartbreaking conflict, but what makes you laugh?

Tess: When Trevor tells me stories about his wild and crazy adventures as a private detective/bounty hunter, it makes me laugh my butt off. He tells this story about this guy he trailed all the way to Alaska, and the way he caught him… The guy tripped and sat down in some water and his butt froze to the seat so fast he couldn’t get up before Trevor slapped the cuffs on him. The way Trevor tells the story, I crack up every time he says the word Alaska.

Mac: See, that’s exactly the reason you’ll never find me in Alaska. I can’t abide a frozen butt. 🙂 What was the toughest aspect of your story for you and Denise to work through?

Tess: Oh yeah. That was when I went to see my drugged out sister and found out she had a baby. I didn’t know she had a baby. Apparently, that surprised Denise, too, because she wasn’t sure how to write that scene for days. I wanted to turn around and walk away (but you know, I was kinda stuck in mid-scene with a knife in my hand). How was the rug rat my problem? But I couldn’t leave the kid behind and Denise wouldn’t have let me anyway. Kidnapping my own niece was the best thing that happened to me because it made me want to fix all the things in my life that I had broken so I could be free to take care of my sister’s kid.

Mac: Yeah, I can see where being stuck mid scene with a knife in your hand would be a problem. I’m glad Denise made you stick it out. Now, give us a short excerpt from your favorite scene in the story? And tell us why it’s your favorite.

Tess: I love this scene because it shows the reader my creative skills in problem solving. After all, necessity is the mother of a good con. The authorities had asked everyone who intended to ride out Hurricane Irving to write their social security number on their arm in permanent marker. I survived the storm—without writing my number on my arm—and was “volunteered” by a local cop to help with the makeshift morgue. That’s when I spotted Shelby whose social security number was written on her arm… and she didn’t survive the storm.

Her Social Security number was so nearly like mine. I scanned the gym. Jake, the one man who might care if she became me or I became her, was absent. With a few strokes of the pen, I could die and live again.
My heart pounded with the possibility I might get a chance to start over without the baggage of my past dragging me down. I changed her identity with a few swipes of a permanent marker. The number went onto my log with an unshaken hand, and I was free to escape the woman I used to be…the woman I didn’t want to be any longer.

Mac: Holy shit! LOL Okay, you’ve snagged me good. Before we get to the visitors, do you have a question you’d like to ask them?

Tess: Have you ever wanted to be someone else, even for just a little while? And if you could be anyone else for even a little while, who would you be?

Mac: Great question, Tess. I’ll give my answer later. I’m interested to hear other people’s answers first. Where can we find Crisis of Identity, Tess. And Denise, where can we find you?
Buy Links

Amazon | Smashwords | 5princebooks | Itunes | BarnesandNoble | Createspace

Denise’s Social Media Links
Twitter @dmoncrief0131

Mona Lisa’s Room by Vonnie Davis

Four stars

I don’t read very many romantic suspense titles since they normally aren’t my thing. I’m a weenie at heart and prefer my heart thumping to come from a steamy love scene or laugh out loud, witty dialog than from that danger right around the corner. But alas, I’m a fan of Ms Davis’ writing so what else could I do but take the plunge? I’m happy to say I wasn’t disappointed. Like all good romantic suspense, Mona Lisa’s Room delivered the steam and laughs, as well as a nail-biting, suspenseful adventure right out of today’s headlines.

I’m stoked to have Vonnie Davis, an incredible author and friend (and editor) embrace the mania today. If you haven’t checked out any of her work, you’re missing out. She writes heartwarming stories of love and romance, full of characters that stay in your heart and mind long after the last page is turned. Can you tell I’m a fan? Well, I am, and you will be too.

She’s here today to give us a taste of her latest release, MONA LISA’S ROOM. It hits the shelves today, and I can attest to the fact that she’s done it again. By the way, that is one kick ass cover, Vonnie. Crap, there I go again, yadda yadda yadda. I’ll shut up now. Take it away my friend. 😉

I am so thrilled Mac invited me to guest on her blog for my release day of MONA LISA’S ROOM.  This is my first romantic suspense, so I’m more than apprehensive regarding everyone’s response to the story. This is also book one of a trilogy, another first for me.

Calvin took me to Paris five years ago for a couple weeks. We had a grand time walking the streets and seeing the sights. Many years ago, long before we met, Calvin took a sabbatical from teaching and lived in the City of Light for a year, absorbing French culture and writing at sidewalk cafés. He wanted to show me all of his old haunts on the Left Bank. That the picture below is where he lived in ’68-69. His studio apartment was on the second floor.

We walked narrow, cobblestoned streets, or rues, late at night. I was a little nervous. Calvin, on the other hand, was right at home. There were narrow, dimly-lit cafés, doors hanging open with sweet smelling smoke wafting out onto the sidewalks. Jazz clubs were in basements, once catacombs under the city. All the women, it seemed, wore high heels, their feet tattooing a staccato beat on the sidewalk as they hurried by. All these sights, smells and sounds I catalogued, never thinking I’d write about them eventually. I was still existing in my “wanna-be-a-writer-someday” mode. Writing was still a far-off dream.

We were having lunch one day at a café along the Champs Elysées, or the “shanz” as the French call it. Calvin—ever the teacher—was telling me how this wide street was once “the” place to promenade, dressed in one’s finery to make a grand impression. Women were wrapped in furs and dripped with pearls and gems. He talked, too, of how the French cried as the Nazis goose-stepped up the Champs Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe.

Out of the corner of my eye, the suited waiter brought the man, seated at the tiny table next to us, a shrimp salad. The elegant gentleman asked for an additional plate for his chien, or dog, lying at his Italian-loafered feet. I should interject here that the French love their dogs and take them everywhere, including stores and restaurants. Once the patron had a white china plate for his dog, he forked several shrimp onto it and set it on the sidewalk for his pet’s enjoyment. My gaze slid to the white china plate I was eating off of, and I wondered how many dogs had used it before I.

Paris, there’s no place like it.

As we made our nightly treks through the narrow streets, some still bearing grooves from chariot wheels, we listened to ghosts whisper off ancient buildings of times and peoples gone by. Yet, even my romantic mind sometimes snagged on the dangers of the present—terrorists. What if…

What if an American came to Paris and somehow became entangled in a terrorist attack of some kind? Slowly my mind started churning and Mona Lisa’s Room took shape. As I’ve mentioned, this is book one of a trilogy. Each book has its own romantic couple, yet the same band of terrorists create havoc in all three books. Mona takes place in Paris and a seaside community along the Normandy coast. Book two, Rain is a Love Song, is set in Paris and Budapest. The final book, the one I’m still writing, takes place in Paris, Syria and Berlin and is titled Jazzbeat of Surrender.

Here’s the blurb written as an email from my heroine to her sister:


You won’t believe this email. I’m sitting in a French safe house, eating caviar and drinking champagne with a handsome government agent, Niko Reynard. He’s wearing nothing but silk pajama bottoms and mega doses of sex appeal. I’m in big trouble, little sister. He’s kissed me several times and given me a foot massage that nearly caused spontaneous combustion. I’m feeling strangely virginal compared to the sexual prowess this thirty-year-old man exudes.

When I came to Paris for a bit of adventure, I never imagined I’d foil a bombing attempt, karate-kick two men, and run from terrorists while wearing a new pair of stilettos. I’ve met a German musician, a gay poet from Australia, and the most delightful older French woman.

Don’t worry. I’m safe–the jury’s still out on yummy Niko, though. The more champagne I drink, the less reserved I feel. What an unforgettable fortieth birthday!


This excerpt takes place in the famed Shakespeare and Company, a narrow bookstore along the Siene, across the river from the Notre Dame Cathedral:

“Where are you from?” Niko detected an Aussie accent.

“Australia. Brisbane. I’m here to experience Paris, study art and do a bit of poetry writin’.” Eddie’s eyes were scanning the shelves. “Ah, here we go, mate.” He climbed a stepstool to reach what he was after. Turning, he leaned down to hand the two books to Niko.

Thanks. Sketches of Parisian Rooftops and Sketches of Gardens of Paris.” He quickly scanned through the pages. Aly would love these.

Eddie hailed a greeting at two men, dressed in suits, when they entered and ambled through the narrow store, quietly talking as they climbed the few wooden steps to the next section.

Niko briefly glanced at them before flipping the books over to check the prices. “I’ll take all three.” He waited for the total and paid his bill. “Wrap them please so my lady friend can’t see them. They’re a surprise.”

“Oh, lucky her. I just love…”

Suddenly, screams followed by loud thumping and books falling filled the bookstore. Niko sprinted in the direction of the high-pitched shrieking, gun in hand. He bounded up the steps and rounded the corner. “Aly! Aly! What the hell.”

He skidded to a halt. One of the well-dressed men he saw entering the store earlier was on the floor, books covering most of his body. His companion was staggering, holding his hands over his eye and screaming like a banshee as blood ran down his face.

In the corner stood a pale and trembling Aly, her frightened blue eyes dominated her face. “They…they grabbed me! Said they’d kill me if I resisted. I…I karate kicked them.” She swallowed, obviously trying to gain control. “Kung…kung-fooed the hell out of them, too. And…and…”—she pointed to the screaming man still on his feet—“I think I poked his eye out with one of my stilettos.”

Niko ran a hand down his face, keeping it over his mouth to hide the smile. What a piece of work. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to hug her. And damned if he didn’t want to shake the daylights out of her for stepping out of his sight. Hadn’t he told her to stay with him?

“You okay?” Niko’s gaze swept over her, looking for injuries. He fought the urge to pull her to him and embrace her until her trembling stopped. Frankly, if he were honest, his nerves weren’t the greatest right this moment, either. When he heard her scream earlier, cold fear did a free-fall straight through his system.

Some professional he was. While buying books, Aly had to defend herself. His gaze took in the shambles. By the looks of things, hell if she hadn’t done a damn fine job. “Answer me! Did one of these bastards hurt you? Are you okay?”

“I…I gotta pee.” She was shaking violently. No doubt going into shock. Today’s events finally took their toll.

“I’ll show her to the dunny,” came the Aussie accent behind him. “Ain’t no wonder she’s gotta use the loo. The woman beat the bullocks out of the blokes, she did. Gobsmacked ’em, I’ll wager. Shall I call the police or will you?”

“I am the police. Counterterrorism unit.”

Oh, I love that Nico, Vonnie. *shiver* So, where can we find him, I mean, where can people find Mona Lisa’s Room and you? 



THE WILD ROSE PRESS (paperback) —

AMAZON (paperback) —