#PublicationDay #BlogTour No One Cancels Christmas by Zara Stoneley

It’s Publication Day for No One Cancels Christmas by Zara Stoneley. A funny and loving story about a young woman who rediscovers her love of Christmas and finds someone to share this love with.

About the Author

Born in a small village in Staffordshire, I wanted to be a female James Herriot, a spy, or an author when I grew up. After many years, and many different jobs, my dream of writing a bestseller came true.

I write about friendship, dreams, love, and happy ever afters, and hope that my tales make you cry a little, laugh a lot, and occasionally say ‘ahhh’.

I now live in a Cheshire village with my family, a lively cockapoo called Harry, and a very bossy (and slightly evil) cat called Saffron.

Follow @ZaraStoneley @HarperImpulse on Twitter, on Facebook on Instagram

Visit zarastoneley.com

Buy No One Cancels Christmas

About the book

It’s the most magical time of the year, and for travel agent Sarah it’s also the busiest! But this year one man threatens to ruin Christmas for Sarah’s customers – Mr Grinch, Will Armstrong.

The Shooting Star Mountain resort is a magical place, and Sarah has fond memories of Christmas here as a little girl – visits to Father Christmas, husky rides in the snow and hot chocolate by a roaring fire. But as the resorts new owner, Will refuses to play snowball or to deck the halls with anything remotely resembling tinsel!

With customers complaining their Christmas is ruined, Sarah decides it’s up to her to convince Scroogey Will just how magical Christmas can be….

But getting Will into the Christmas spirit is hopeless – he is Bah Humbug personified! But as Sarah gets to know him better, she realises that underneath all the gloom is a man struggling with a pain of his own.

With the big day approaching, Sarah realises that the magic and sparkle can wait. This year, she’s going to spend Christmas day with someone special her very own Mr Scrooge…


Sarah runs a travel agency with her aunt and has to deal with dissatisfied customers and holiday resorts who refuse to uphold their end of the bargain. The owner of The Shooting Star is snarky, unhelpful and completely unwilling to tow the line or Sarah’s line.

Returning to The Shooting Star Mountain resort isn’t an easy feat for Sarah. It’s where she lost her parents or rather the place she remembers being the end of one life and the beginning of another. It isn’t the warm, cosy place she has in her head. Instead she finds the resort lacking a caring hand and a loving touch.

The owners are two handsome brothers, one of them a carefree playboy and the other is competing to win the title of Scrooge of the century. Bah Humbug doesn’t even come close to Will’s attitude towards Christmas.

It’s a funny and loving story about a young woman who rediscovers her love of Christmas and finds someone to share this love with. It’s about moving on from a traumatic past and finding comfort and peace in the future.

Stoneley reminds me of Sarah Morgan. She has a great sense of humour, which she combines with emotional scenarios and memorable characters. The result is the kind of romcom everyone talks about and recommends to their friends. Sassy chat and impulsive passionate encounters is what makes this an addictive read. Add a little joy to the world and Xmas cheer and you have the perfect Christmas read.

Buy No One Cancels Christmas at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer.

Buy No One Cancels Christmas at Amazon com


#BlogTour Perfect Liars by Rebecca Reid

This is week three of the BlogTour Perfect Liars by Rebecca Reid. I was due to post at the end of the second week, but couldn’t due to personal circumstances. So… I am just going to sneak my blog post into the third week instead.

About the Author

Rebecca is a freelance journalist. She is a columnist for the Telegraph Women’s section, works for Metro Online and has written for Marie Claire, the Guardian, the Saturday Telegraph, the Independent, Stylist, Glamour, the iPaper, the Guardian, Indy100, LOOK and the New Statesmen amongst others.

Rebecca is a regular contributor to Sky News and ITV’s This Morning as well as appearing on Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour, LBC, BBC News 24 and the BBC World Service to discuss her work.

She graduated from Royal Holloway’s Creative Writing MA in 2015 and Perfect Liars is her debut novel. Rebecca Lives in North London with her husband.

Follow @RebeccaCNReid @TransworldBooks on Twitter

Buy Perfect Liars

About the book

Sixteen years ago, best friends Nancy, Georgia and Lila did something unspeakable whilst attending an exclusive British boarding school. Their crime forged an unbreakable bond between them, a bond a bond of silence. But now, one of them wants to talk.

One wrong word and everything could be ruined; their covetable lives, careers and relationships. It’s up to Georgia to call a crisis dinner. But things do not go as planned.

Three women walk in to the dinner, but only two will leave. Murder isn’t so difficult the second time around…


Georgia, Lila and Nancy share memories, experiences at boarding school, friendship and they also share a very tragic secret. The kind of secret that changes and influences lives. The kind of secret that may make you question whether your friends stay in touch because they care about you or keep in touch to make sure their secret stays hidden.

The relationships between the three of them are driven by their upbringing, their new socio-economic statuses and their dominant personalities. Their interactions are often hesitant and only take place after plenty of thought and self-doubt, which makes the reader wonder why they meet up at all. The answer – to make sure each one of them keeps stumm about what they did when they were young girls.

Reid has a knack of presenting the kind of plot you need to follow as a reader just so you can find out where she is taking the story, and believe you me, it isn’t where you expect it to go. Not only does she make it a necessity when it comes to finding out their secret, but also how the three of them are going to keep sitting on said secret.

I especially enjoyed the fact the author didn’t feel the need to tie all the ends together and present the perfect package or solution at the end. Crime is dirty, impulsive and muddied by emotions, and so is this plot.

It’s gripping, intense and ruthless. Possibly because it is based on a situation that could happen to anyone. Making a self-serving and selfish decision to protect yourself might be cruel and thoughtless, but it doesn’t necessarily make you a sociopath. Even accidental killers will try and save themselves., right?

Buy Perfect Liars at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer.

#BlogTour Under My Skin by Lisa Unger

Today It’s my turn on the BlogTour Under My Skin by Lisa Unger. I have an extract of this fantastic book and a Giveaway to win a copy of Under My Skin.

Leave a comment under this post between the 18th – 25th October to enter the Giveaway to win a copy of Under My Skin!

About the Author

Lisa Unger is the New York Times and internationally bestselling, award-winning author of 15 novels, including the latest psychological thriller The Red Hunter.

Her books are published in 26 languages and have sold millions of copies worldwide. Lisa Unger lives in the Tampa Bay area of Florida with her husband, daughter and labradoodle.

Follow @lisaunger @HQStories on Twitter, Visit lisaunger.com

Buy Under My Skin

About the book

Her husband’s killer may she closer than she thinks…

It’s been a year since Poppy’s husband, Jack, was brutally murdered during his morning run. She’s trying to move on but what happened that morning is still haunting her. And now she’s sure she is being followed…

Sleep deprived and secretly self-medicating, Poppy is unable to separate her dreams from reality. She feels like she’s losing her mind. But what if she’s not? What if she’s actually remembering what really happened? What if her husband wasn’t who he said he was? And what if his killer is still watching her…


Poppy is still suffering from the loss of her husband, the loss of her time and the ability to separate reality from dream. There is something in the back of her mind, some element of suspicion that is trying to wriggle its way to the front of her consciousness. A secret perhaps or a wisp of a conversation, possibly even a clue she has been looking for.

In her own convoluted way she starts investigating the mysterious death with little regard to the home truths she may encounter. She discovers a less than comfortable image of herself in the course of her investigation. A woman who thinks little of her own safety and constantly puts her own life on the line. Is she playing with fire because of the grief or is this the real Poppy?

Unger keeps her readers in the dark until the very end, which is a feat in itself, because keeping a certain amount of tension throughout the entire book is no easy task. Readers are never quite sure whether Poppy has a secret to hide or whether she is just a victim of grief and shock after the murder of her husband.

The author sits on the secrets like a mother hen warming her chick and lets the story wind around a woman filled with grief, doubt and intuition. It becomes an interesting one woman show, a dialogue of self-doubt, fragmented memories and fear.

It is a tension filled riveting read, a slow-burning psychological thriller with a surprising end. The plot really does try to get under your skin like a worm of doubt.

Buy Under My Skin at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer.

Read an extract of Under My Skin:
I like him. I do.
There’s always a but, isn’t there?
He’s talking and I should be listening. I’m not. Does he see it, that I’m scattered, distracted? Doubtful. He doesn’t seem especially observant, has that way about him that people do now. As if they are putting on a show of themselves, as if the moment is being watched rather than lived. He glances about as he talks. Up at the television screens over the bar, all on mute, all tuned
it, that I’m scattered, distracted? Doubtful. He doesn’t seem especially observant, has that way about him that people do now. As if in to different sporting events. Down at the phone that sits dark beside him. Back to me, off again to the rowdy table across from us – a postwork gathering I’m guessing from the rumpled suits and tired eyes. I soak in the details of him: his shock of ink black hair, thick – any girl would kill for it; dark stubble on his jaw, just enough – sexy, not unkempt, style, not neglect; his gym-toned body. Beneath the folds of his lavender oxford, the dip of cut abs, the round of a well-worked shoulder. If I had a camera in my hand – not a smartphone but a real camera – say a mirrorless Hasselblad X1D ergonomic, light – old-school style with high tech innards – I’d watch him through the lens and try to find the moment when he revealed himself, when the muscles in the face relaxed and the mask dropped, even for just a millisecond. Then I’d see him. The man he really is when he steps off the stage he imagines himself on.
To read more click this link…

Extract – Under My Skin by Lisa Unger

I already knew he was handsome, stylish, in shape, before we agreed to meet. His profile told me as much. He works in finance. (Of course he does.) His favorite book is the Steve Jobs autobiography. (What else?) But what’s under his skin, that carefully manicured outer layer? Beneath the mask he puts on in the morning—what’s there? The camera always sees it.
He runs his fingertips along the varnished edge of the table between us, then steeples them. I read somewhere that this is the gesture of someone very sure of himself and his opinions. It tracks. He seems very sure of himself, as people who know very little often are.
He laughs, faux self-deprecating, at something he’s just said about himself. His words still hang in the air, something about his being a workaholic. What a relief that it’s just drinks, not dinner. No point in wasting time, if it’s not there, he wrote. Who could disagree? So adult. So reasonable.
I never thought it would be. It can’t be. Because it has nothing to do with the way he looks. It isn’t about his eyes, black, heavily lashed and half-lidded. Or the bow of his mouth, full, kissable. (Though I might kiss him anyway. Maybe more. Depends.) Attraction, desire is nothing to do with the physical; it’s chemical, a head trip. And my head—well, let’s just say it’s not on straight.
A woman laughs too loud—a cackle really, harsh and jarring. It startles me, sends a pulse of adrenaline through me. I scan the crowd. I really shouldn’t be here.
“Time for another?” he asks. His teeth. They’re so white. Perfectly aligned. Nothing in nature is so flawless. Braces. Whitening.
The rim of the glass is ice-cold beneath my fingertip. The
drink went down fast, too fast. I promised myself I wouldn’t drink, not with everything that’s been going on. It’s been a long day, a long week. A long year. The weight of it all is tugging at me, pulling me under.
I take too long to answer and he frowns, just slightly, looks at his phone. I should just leave. This is crazy.
“Sure,” I say instead. “One more.”
He smiles again, thinks it’s a good sign.
Really, I just want to go home, pull up my hair, put on my sweats, get into bed. Even that’s not an option. Once we walk out of here, it’s back to the jigsaw puzzle of my life.
“Grey Goose and soda,” he tells the waitress when he’s flagged her down. He remembers what I’m drinking. A small thing, but so few people pay attention to the details these days. “And Blanton’s on the rocks.”
Straight bourbon, very manly.
“Am I talking too much?” he says. He looks sweetly sheepish. Is it put on? “I’ve heard that before. My last girlfriend, Kim—she said I ramble when I get nervous.”
It’s the second time he’s mentioned her, his “last girlfriend, Kim.” Why, I wonder? Carrying a torch? Or just trying to market himself as someone who’s been in a relationship? Also, “last girlfriend.” It begs the question: How many others? Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I do that.
“Not at all.”
I am a seeker. I want to explore the world. Don’t you? I love to learn, to cook, to travel. I get lost in a good book.
That’s what his profile said. In his picture, he smiled, nearly laughing, hair wind-tossed. It was a good photo, could have come from a magazine—which is always suspicious. Photographers know all the tricks to capturing beauty, the right angles, the proper lighting, the magic of filters. The truth is that most people aren’t that hot in person. Even beautiful people, real ones, are flawed in some way—not airbrushed, or prettily
windblown, eyes glittering. Lines around the eyes and mouth, an almost imperceptibly crooked nose, a faint scar—chicken pox or a childhood fall from a bike. People, real people, have a little stain from lunch on their tie, maybe something hanging from their nose or in their teeth, patches of dry skin, shoes that need replacing. These imperfections make us who we are, tell the truth of our lives.
But to his credit, he is close to as good-looking as his profile picture. But something’s off. What is it?
There’s nothing special about my profile picture, nothing misleading, just a photo snapped by my friend Layla, who set the whole thing up. Of course, she’s a talented photographer, my oldest friend and knows how to shoot me. No filter, though, no Photoshop tricks. What you see is what you get. Sort of.
“What about you?” he says.
The waitress delivers the drinks to our high-top. Her ears are lined with silver hoops; another in her lip. She is fleshy but pretty with startling green eyes that give her an otherworldly look. I bet she reads a lot of teen fantasy novels. Twilight. Harry Potter. Hunger Games.
“Thank you, darlin’,” he says to her. He drops the g and inflects the word with a twang, though I know he was born and raised in New Jersey. She beams at him, flushes a little. He’s a charmer in a sea of snakes.
I notice that he has a way of looking at women, a warm gaze, a wide smile. It seems like a choice. A technique. He knows that women like to be gazed upon, attended to with male eyes. It makes them feel pretty, special in a world where we too rarely feel like either of those things. She smiles at him, does this quick bat of her eyelashes. She likes him. I can tell; she glances at him from time to time as she shuttles back and forth along the bar, between the other high-tops she’s also serving. Even if I walk out of here, I’m sure someone will go home with him.
Good-looking, charming guys emanating the scent of money rarely go lonely.
“What do you want to know?” I ask when he turns back to me.
He takes a sip of his bourbon, gazes over his glass, mischievous. “In your profile, you said you were a runner.”
Did Layla put that in my profile? Layla—this dating thing? All her idea. Time to get back out there, girlfriend. I honestly don’t remember what we put in the profile.
“I run,” I say. The truth is that I used to run. “I don’t know if I’d call myself a runner.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I run—for exercise, because I like it, because it calms me. But it doesn’t define me. I don’t have a group, or register for races, travel to do marathons or whatever.”
Am I rambling?
Finally, “I run. I am not a runner. Anyway, I’m more indoors lately, at the gym.”
He nods slowly, a pantomime of the careful listener, looks down at his glass.
I almost tell him about Jack then; it’s always right on the tip of my tongue.
My husband was killed last year, I want to say. He was attacked while he was running in Riverside Park at 5:00 a.m. Whoever it was—they beat him to death. His murder is still unsolved. I should have been with him. Maybe if I had been… Anyway. I don’t find running as enjoyable as I used to.
But then he’s talking about how he started running in high school, ran in college, still runs, travels for marathons, is thinking about a triathlon in New Mexico next year, but his work in finance—the hours are so crazy.
Kim’s right, I think. He talks too much. And not just when he’s nervous. Because he’s not nervous, not at all.
It’s his nails. They’re perfect. They are, in fact, professionally manicured.
Expertly shaped and buffed squares at the ends of thick fingers. He steeples them again on the table between us. That’s the but. Vanity. He’s vain, spends a lot of time on himself. The gym, his clothes, his skin, hair, nails. Which is fine for tonight. But in the long game, when it’s time to stop worrying about yourself and start thinking about someone else, he’s not going to be able to do it. The lens would have seen it right away.
Should I mention my nervous breakdown, the one I had after Jack died, how days of my life just—disappeared? Probably not, right?
The space grows more crowded, louder. It’s one of those Upper East Side sports bars with big screens mounted at every angle, games from all over the country, all over the world playing. It’s filling up with the after-work crowd, men who are really still babies with their first jobs, fresh out of school, girls—tight-bodied, hair dyed, waxed and threaded, tits high—who have no idea what the next ten years will hold, how many disappointments small and large.
It’s Thursday, tomorrow the end of the workweek, so the energy is high, exuberant voices booming. Our waitress drifts back and forth, deftly balancing trays of clinking highballs, frothy pilsners of beer, shot glasses of amber liquid. Shots? Really? Do people still do that?
There’s a buzz of anxiety in the back of my head as I scan the crowd, turn to look through the big windows to the street. Someone’s been following me, I almost say, but don’t. I’ve been suffering from some sleep disturbances, some unsettling dreams that might be memories, and to be truthful my life is a bit of a mess. But I don’t say those things. He’s still talking, this time about work, a boss he doesn’t like.

It’s closing in, all the laughter, cheering, bodies starting to press, ties loosening, hair coming down. I let him pick the meeting place. I’d have chosen a quiet spot downtown—in the West
Village or Tribeca, someplace soothing and serene, dark, where you speak in low tones, lean in, get to know someone.
Note to self: don’t let them choose—even though the choice speaks volumes. In fact, this dating thing, maybe it’s not for me at all.
“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” I say, in the next lull between things he’s saying about himself. He’s been practically yelling, to be heard above the din. I should get out of here. Huge mistake.
I see it then. A flinty look of angry disappointment. It’s gone in a millisecond, replaced by a practiced smile.
“Oh,” he says. He looks at his watch—a Fitbit, wouldn’t you know it. “Yeah, me, too.”
“This has been great,” I say. He picks up the check, which the bartender must have laid in front of him at some point.
I take my wallet out.
“Let’s split it,” I say. I prefer to pay or split in these circumstances; I like the feel of equal ground beneath my feet.
“No,” he says. His tone has gone a little flat. “I’ve got it.”
It’s not just the nails. There’s a sniff of arrogance, something cold beneath the flirting. I can see the glint of it, now that he knows he’s not going to get what he came for. Or maybe it’s not any of those things. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with him at all. Very likely it’s that something is wrong with me.
Or most likely of all, it’s just that he’s not Jack.
Until you let your husband go, no one else will measure up. That’s what my shrink said.
I’m trying. I’m dating.
Setting them up to knock them down isn’t dating.
Is that what I’m doing? Just killing time with men who can’t help but to ultimately reveal themselves as not-Jack. They won’t be as funny as he was, or know just where to rub my shoulders. They won’t run out at any hour for anything I need, without being asked. I’ll go grab it for you. They won’t have his laugh, orthat serious set to his face when he’s concentrating. They won’t bite on the inside of their cheeks when annoyed. They won’t feel like him, or smell like him. Not-Jack.
Until one day, says Dr. Nash, there’s someone else who you love for all new reasons. You’ll build a new life. I don’t bother telling her that it’s not going to happen. In fact, there are a lot of things I don’t bother telling Dr. Nash.
On the street, though I reach out for his hand, he tries for a kiss. I let his lips touch mine, but then I pull back a little, something repelling me. He jerks back, too. It’s awkward. No heat. Nothing. I shouldn’t be disappointed, should have long ago lost the capacity for disappointment. I suspected (knew) that it wouldn’t be there. But I thought maybe if there was heat, some physical spark, I wouldn’t need the sleeping pills tonight. Maybe we’d go back to his place and I’d have a reprieve from putting back the pieces of my fractured life.

Now I must decide where I will go tonight—back to an apartment I was supposed to share with my husband but where I now live alone and no longer feel safe, back to Layla’s penthouse, maybe to a hotel.
A police car whips up Lexington. Whoop. Whoop.
“Maybe we could run this weekend?” He’s still working it, though I can’t imagine why. “Ever try the trails up in Van Cortlandt Park? Short but pretty—you feel miles away from the city.”
“Nice,” I say.
Unless there’s someone lurking in the shadows, and no one can hear you call for help.
“Should I text you?”
He’ll never text me, of course.
“That sounds great.”
Even if he does text me, I won’t answer him. Or I’ll put him off until he gets the hint. It’s easy like that, this dating thing in the age of technology. You can dangle someone off the edge of
your life until they just float away, confused. Ghosting, I think the millennials call it.
“Can I see you home?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
I feel wobbly, suddenly. It’s after nine, and those two vodka sodas are sloshing around in an empty stomach, not to mention the other chemicals floating in my bloodstream. I haven’t eaten anything since—when?
“You okay?” he asks. His concern seems exaggerated, his tone almost mocking. There are other people on the street, a couple laughing, intimate, close, a kid with his headphones on, a homeless guy sitting on the stoop.
“I’m fine,” I say again, feeling defensive. I didn’t have that much to drink.

But then he has his arm looped through mine, too tight, and I find myself tipping into him. I try to pull away from him. But he doesn’t allow it. He’s strong and I can’t free my arm.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, a nasty little mimic. “You’re okay.”
Of course I’m okay, I want to snap. But the words won’t come. There’s just this bone-crushing fatigue, this wobbly, foggy, vague feeling. Something’s not right. The world starts to brown around the edges. Oh, no. Not now.
“She’s okay,” he says, laughing. His voice sounds distant and strange. “Just one too many I guess.”
Who’s he talking to?
“Let go of me,” I manage, my voice an angry hiss.
He laughs; it’s echoing and strange. “Take it easy, sweetie.”
He’s moving me too fast up the street, his grip too tight. I stumble and he roughly keeps me from falling.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
Fear claws at the back of my throat. I can’t wait to get away from this guy. He pulls me onto a side street; there’s no one around.
“Hey.” A voice behind us. He spins, taking me with him. There’s someone standing there. He looks distantly familiar as the world tips. Somewhere inside me there’s a jangle of alarm. He has a dark hood on, his face not visible.
It’s him.
He’s big, bigger than—what’s his name? Reg, or something. Rex? The big man blocks our path up the sidewalk.
“Hey, seriously, dude,” says Rick. Yes, Rick, that was it. “Step aside. I’ve got this.”
But the world is fading fast, going soft and blurry, tilting. There’s a flash, quick-fire movement. Then a girlish scream, a river of blood. Black red on lavender.
Then arms on me.

#BlogTour The River Runs Red by Ally Rose

Today it’s my pleasure to take part in the BlogTour The River Runs Red by Ally Rose. It is certainly more than just a crime story, because it incorporates a complicated time in history and politics to create a captivating read.

About the Author

Ally Rose writes –

“I’ve always been interested in writing crime stories and with the Cold War era, there is such a rich tapestry to draw from; especially the notorious and quelling Stasi reign in East Germany. The fall of the Berlin Wall and the Iron Curtain, gives a contrast between the different worlds and any past crimes are held to account in a unified Germany.

Berlin is one of my favourite cities, and I’ve spent time living and discovering this diverse city and its surrounding areas. Seeing my characters in familiar places, they seem to come to life.

Hope you enjoy my Hanne Drais books.”

Follow @AllyRoseAuthor @fahrenheitpress on Twitter

Buy The River Runs Red

About the book

Berlin is in the midst of its worst winter in decades. Against the backdrop of freezing temperatures, blizzards and snowstorms, the city refuses to grind to a halt. Lurking within the shadows is a Stasi victim, out for revenge against the former East German informants known as ‘The Ears’. Their dark secrets are about to be exposed.

A mix of ice and water and a single gunshot, provides the ultimate payback.

With the Millennium approaching, Hanne Drais, the criminal psychologist working within the Berlin Mitte Police team led by the irascible Oskar Kruger and his laid-back sidekick, Stefan Glockner, are seeking the perpetrator of these violent crimes.

Who is the man they’ve nicknamed Snowflake? Who is turning the river red?


Like many periods in history the Cold War era and the time before the Berlin Wall fell, has fallen into the bracket of ‘happened and forgotten.’ The true nature and manner of the atrocities committed behind the Wall has only really come to light since Germany became reunited again.

The Stasi and the DDR regime were and are guilty of many horrors, many of which still aren’t common knowledge to the public and the world in general. This includes state ordered steroid use for athletes, which caused a multitude of medical problems in said athletes and their offspring. East Germany was built on betrayal, lies and the premise of every man and woman for themselves. Many people who were reported, spied on and betrayed still travel to Berlin to look up the Stasi documents to discover the person who sold them up the river.

The story follows the investigation into a killer who leaves a very specific mark on his victims, and Rudy the Olympic rower who manages to escape the dangers of East Germany. He appears to be a shoe-in for the role of vengeful killer until the author adds another element of suspicion to the tale.

This is the third book in the Hanne Drais series, and the author purposely adds an element of right or wrong. moral or immoral to the story. Do some people deserve less sympathy or justice depending on their past actions? Would you view a killer differently if they were eliminating people guilty of torture and murder?

It’s hard to understand the rift caused not only by the Berlin Wall, but also the trauma of living under an oppressive regime, whilst the other half of the country was a democracy. Even now, so many years after the reunification the Germans still make distinctions between people from the West and East. I think the strength of the story is definitely Rose shining a light on how methodically cruel the regime was in the East and that the people were expected to just forgive and forget the crimes committed against them when the Wall came down.

This story may hold a few surprises for some readers. It is certainly more than just a crime story, because it incorporates a complicated time in history and politics to create a captivating read.

Buy The River Runs Red at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer.

Buy at Fahrenheit Press Buy at Amazon com

Published by Fahrenheit Press on 24th July 2018.

#BlogTour Trap by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

Today it is an absolute pleasure to take part in the BlogTour for Trap by Lilja Sigurdardóttir. It’s the sequel to Snare, and as in the first book, the action doesn’t let up for a second. It’s Nordic Noir with a hefty pinch of reality.About the Author

Icelandic crime-writer Lilja Sigurdardóttir was born in the town of Akranes in 1972 and raised in Mexico, Sweden, Spain and Iceland. An award-winning playwright, Lilja has written four crime novels, with Snare, the first in a new series, hitting bestseller lists worldwide. The film rights have been bought by Palomar Pictures in California. She lives in Reykjavík with her partner.

Follow @lilja1972  @OrendaBooks on Twitter, Visit liljawriter.com

Buy Trap

About the book

Happily settled in Florida, Sonja believes she’s finally escaped the trap set by unscrupulous drug lords. But when her son Tomas is taken, she’s back to square one … and Iceland.

Her lover, Agla, is awaiting sentencing for financial misconduct after the banking crash, and Sonja refuses to see her. And that’s not all … Agla owes money to some extremely powerful men, and they’ll stop at nothing to get it back.

With her former nemesis, customs officer Bragi on her side, Sonja puts her own plan into motion, to bring down the drug barons and her scheming ex-husband, and get Tomas back safely. But things aren’t as straightforward as they seem, and Sonja finds herself caught in the centre of a trap that will put all of their lives at risk…

Set in a Reykjavík still covered in the dust of the Eyjafjallajökull volcanic eruption, and with a dark, fast-paced and chilling plot and intriguing characters, Trap is an outstandingly original and sexy Nordic crime thriller, from one of the most exciting new names in crime fiction.


Trap is the sequel to Snare, which is the story of a mother caught up in drug smuggling ring and desperately trying to save herself and her son. Trap begins with Sonja being brought back to her harsh reality, when she and Tomas are returned to Iceland against her will.

Sonja finds herself back in the same cycle of emotional blackmail and in the middle of a hive of criminals. Her focus however remains the same, to get her son away from his father. The only reason he wants Tomas is to keep Sonja in line and making a profit for him as a very good drug mule.

You can almost feel the change in Sonja in this book, as her feelings of helplessness turn into rage, which she channels to try and outsmart her ex and the hardcore criminals she is dealing with. Hopefully she hasn’t bitten off more than she can chew?

When I say good drug mule I have to mention how efficient Sonja is at transporting the drugs and evading detection at the airports and border control points. The author seems to have researched this smuggling malarkey intricately and has it down to a fine art. Just to clarify – I mean describing it in the story and not actually physically smuggling anything herself.

The stories by Sigurdardóttir are going from strength to strength, which is perhaps not discernible at a first glance, because the pace is fast and the noir is darker than a sooty cat. It’s easy to overlook the meticulous detail and research that has gone into the creation of the storyline, in regards to the drug smuggling and the fraudulent financial dealings by the bankers or banksters, as the author calls them.

It’s an action packed, fast-paced read filled with the brutal reality of the drug world, an abusive controlling ex and the dirty world of finance. It’s Nordic Noir with a hefty pinch of reality.

Buy Trap (Reykjavik Noir #2) at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer.

Buy Snare (Reykjavik Noir #1) at Amazon Uk

Read my review of Snare by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

#BlogTour Costa Del Churros by Isabella May

Today it’s my turn on the BlogTour Costa del Churros by Isabella May. It’s an eye-opening view of ex-pats and a tongue-in-cheek parody of a variety of women, who connect and help each other in the strangest of ways. Don’t forget to enter the Giveaway to win a signed copy of The Cocktail Bar (Open Internationally)

About the Author

Isabella May lives in (mostly) sunny Andalucia, Spain with her husband, daughter and son, creatively inspired by the sea and the mountains. When she isn’t having her cake and eating it, sampling a new cocktail on the beach, or ferrying her children to and from after school activities, she can usually be found writing. As a co-founder and a former contributing writer for the popular online women’s magazine, The Glass House Girls – www.theglasshousegirls.com – she has also been lucky enough to subject the digital world to her other favourite pastimes, travel, the Law of Attraction, and Prince (The Purple One). She has recently become a Book Fairy, and is having lots of fun with her imaginative ‘drops’! Costa del Churros is her third novel with Crooked Cat Books, following on from the hit sensations, Oh! What a Pavlova and The Cocktail Bar.

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Buy Costa del Churros

About the book

The rain in Spain doesn’t mainly fall on the plain…

Brits abroad Belinda, Julia, Laura and Georgina need more than the sweetness of churros with chocolate dipping sauce to save them from their unsavoury states of affairs.

Cue Carmen Maria Abril de la Fuente Ferrera, the town’s flamboyant flamenco teacher! But can she really be the answer to their prayers?

One thing’s for sure: the Costa del Sol will never be the same again.


Leaving aside the often blinkered view and colonial attitude of ex-pats for a moment, there is also a strange phenomenon which occurs when they come in contact with each other. Regardless of background, education, socio-economic status or type of character they are, as ex-pats they have one thing in common and that is the thing they grasp onto for dear life.

The sense and feeling of having something in common, the element that binds them and makes them different from the locals. Not that a lot of them don’t bond with the natives or try to integrate into their new country of choice, although I am not sure it can be called integration when they create small home countries away from home.

It is this essence of a geographical link, which first brings the women together. Then as the unusual friendships blossom it is the similarity of their problems and sorrows as women which brings them closer. It also allows each one of them to move on instead of treading water on the same spot, as they have been doing for many years.

The reason they suddenly find themselves in a position to take back their lives to enjoy hidden desires and discover a world beyond the framework laid out for them by others, is quite simply Carmen. The flamenco dancer, who might possibly be a mixture of an exotic genie and a vague predictor of truths and fortunes.

May reminds us that, despite our differences women all share similarities on a basic level, and perhaps we should remember that sometimes. Instead of judgement there should be support, and it is never too late for new beginnings.

It’s an eye-opening view of ex-pats and a tongue-in-cheek parody of a variety of women, who connect and help each other in the strangest of ways. It’s empowering in the quirkiest of ways. In fact let’s all take up Flamenco dancing.

Buy Costa del Churros at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer. Publisher: Crooked Cat Books

Enter the Giveaway below – to Win a signed copy of The Cocktail Bar (Open Internationally) 

Giveaway Prize:

Click on this link for the Rafflecopter giveaway

*Terms and ConditionsWorldwide entries welcome.  Please enter using the Rafflecopter link above. The winner will be selected at random via Rafflecopter from all valid entries and will be notified by Twitter and/or email. If no response is received within 7 days then I reserve the right to select an alternative winner. Open to all entrants aged 18 or over.  Any personal data given as part of the competition entry is used for this purpose only and will not be shared with third parties, with the exception of the winners’ information. This will passed to the giveaway organiser and used only for fulfilment of the prize, after which time I will delete the data.  I am not responsible for despatch or delivery of the prize.*