Wednesday, December 31, 2014

31/12 RELEASE BLITZ ~~ His Angel (The Angel Trilogy, #1) By Kimberly Blalock







TITLE: His Angel (The Angel Trilogy, #1) 

AUTHOR: Kimberly Blalock 

GENRE: Contemporary Romance, Erotica

RELEASE DATE: December 31st 











SYNOPSIS: 

When Evan Young walks into Abigale Hayes’s life she falls; mind, body, and soul for the man she thinks he is, having no idea that the secrets he holds in his hands will destroy the girl she is.  Abby must decide how the truth will affect the relationship that has her craving more with every breath she takes and how she will take revenge into her own hands. Evan will die to protect Abby and will kill for her too. The events that unfold will change who Abigale Hayes is forever.



Buy Links: 





His Angel is $0.99 cents only through December.  






TEASERS: 














AUTHOR BIO:



Kimberly has been writing since she was a young girl growing up in Kansas City, Mo. Reading and writing has always been a big part of her life. She enjoys a world she can get lost in while reading a good book. A wife and mother to four beautiful children she decided she wasn’t busy enough. She spent some time chasing down fugitives as a bounty hunter then laid down her hand cuffs and finished her college degree in nursing.

Kimberly loves discovering new music to jam out to and loves anything that’s different. Her many interests include Google, you heard it! Google. If you need to know any unusual or interesting fact she has searched it and can recite it. Her motto is: Why be the same as everyone else when you can stand out?

When Kimberly isn’t writing or playing superhero for her children, she takes care of her patients as a Registered nurse in the field of hospice.


Author links



Website-  http://urls.ht/4gf


Twitter- @kimblalockAngel

Goodreads- http://urls.ht/4gi

Amazon author page





















https://www.facebook.com/fmrpromotions




31st ~ FATED DESTINY RELEASE DAY BLITZ BY CAISSY BOUDREAU







Title:
Fated Destiny
By: Caissy Boudreau
Release Day December 31st, 2014
Hosted By: Author Sandra Love













One night Rowan, the oldest of four children,
has a clandestine affair with a beautiful mystery woman that haunts his
thoughts and captivates his body. Unbeknownst to him, his secret love is the
granddaughter of the Queen of the Gods, Hera. As if that was not enough,
Rowan’s sister, Briahanna, is rumored to the Chosen one. Now he is faced with
the decision of following his heart or honoring his
family. 
Briahanna has always been ‘the good child’. Never
venturing from her village on the coast of Ireland, she has always known she
was destined for greatness. As children of Apollo, all the Mercier children
have immense potential, unfortunately, they can’t seem to stay out of trouble
long enough for their good fortune to find them. Briahanna may just be the one
that completes the prophecy and saves the family name but she is too busy
cleaning up her siblings’ messes to fulfill her destiny. And life has just
dealt her another blow…she must marry a man she does not love. 
Hera, Queen of the Gods, wants Briahanna, Rowan and
all the Mercier children dead. She will do everything in power to see them and
their bloodline stricken from existence. But she must be careful for her first
attempt left them part vampire.

Can Briahanna rise up to the challenge fate has
posed to realize her destiny of greatness? Or will she crumble under pressure?
What would you do if the Queen of the Gods were hell bent on destroying all you
held dear? Hold on to your seats, this is one story you don’t want to miss.












(Enter the links here)















Caissy was born and raised in South
Louisiana.  She now lives in Pennsylvania
with her husband and 2 kids.  She has 2
dogs and 5 cats.  She is an avid reader
and she is a lover of all things paranormal. 
Her favorite is vampires.  Since
she was a teenager she has been obsessed with vampires.  She enjoys spending time with her family and
friends.  She enjoys watching hockey and
football.  Her children are both
diagnosed with Autism.  They are now 14
and 13.  She has been married to the love
of her life for 15 years.


Her debut novel Skylar's Dream is
based on her dad.  She lost her dad 15
years ago to suicide.  She has dedicated
this book in memory of him.  He was a
strong influence in her life.  Her
grandmother's continue to guide her and give her encouragement everyday.







She has always wanted to write since
she first read “The Vampire Lestat” by Anne Rice.  She has never had the courage until
recently.  Her husband encouraged and
guided her to accomplish her dreams.   
Her children are true inspirations to her.  She does not take anything for granted.  Everyday is a blessing.










Social
Links


Facebook:










Other
Books by the Author


Skylar’s
Dream
Lucy’s Journey











Available
On Amazon Today for a $1









Tuesday, December 30, 2014

MARIE HARTE~ RELEASE DAY BLITZ, SERVED HOT.









Served Hot 


Series: Best Revenge #2


by: Marie Harte


Publisher: Samhain 


Cover Designer: Angelique Anderson


Genre: Contemporary/Erotica






Synopsis

One little lie, one huge grudge, and one picture-perfect plan for revenge…

Best Revenge, Book 2


Blackmailed into a prom date by the cute but geeky Dexter Black twelve years ago, Maya Werner shocked herself by having a good time. For a strong-willed, hot-tempered artist who’s used to having the upper hand, that’s never sat well with her.

At weekly wine night with her friends, Maya finds herself pledging to get revenge on the men who’ve done her wrong—starting with Dex. Except the Marine Corps transformed the nerd into a hot, sexy guy with the audacity to blackmail her again. This time into a few dates.

Dex is back in town with one goal in mind: to win the girl of his dreams. But he knows how she operates. His strategy? Keep her off balance by running hot and cold until she melts into the passion between them.

When a misunderstanding stokes old hurts, Maya backs away when she should stand her ground. But Dex has a contingency plan: pour on the charm with both barrels, until he has his own form of revenge—loving Maya, forever.

Warning: Blackmailing a stubborn, hot-tempered artist into bed, and an ex-Marine who has a penchant for taking pictures. Yeah, those kinds of pictures.


Purchase Links


Served Cold (Best Revenge #1) - Amazon http://tiny.cc/pbknrx


About the Author




Caffeine addict, boy referee, and romance aficionado, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Marie Harte has over 100 books published with more constantly on the way. She’s a confessed bibliophile and devotee of action movies. 




Whether hiking in Central Oregon, biking around town, or hanging at the local tea shop, she’s constantly plotting to give everyone a happily ever after. 




Visit http://marieharte.com and fall in love.





Social Media Links










Giveaway






The Angel of Death, A Thriller, by Blair Babylon for Dec 24


BRAND NEW THRILLER


FROM BLAIR BABYLON!


The Angel of Death


(Police Snipers and Hostage Negotiators #1)


An Angel Day Novel


ON SALE NOW FOR JUST 99c!





To protect and to serve, or to save her own brother?







Angel Day, the lead sniper for the Phoenix Police Department, got her nickname “The Angel of Death” the old-fashioned way: she earned it for her ruthless efficiency at stopping crimes with one well-placed bullet. When a massive call-out down by the Mexican Border reveals a terrorist cell and turns into a standoff, Angel’s youngest brother, the lost soul of her family, texts her that he is inside that barricaded house, and her orders are to shoot anything that moves.





See The Angel of Death at:

























CHAPTER ONE: THE STASH HOUSE





Angel Day focused the black tunnel of her gun sight and crosshairs on the man holding the shotgun, ready to shoot him.


In the magnified circle of the telescopic sight, under the thin black cross, spring sunlight poured as if from a hot bucket down on the suspect’s head, shining in a white circle on the top of his black hair, which hung loose and past his shoulders. His hair obscured the small sweet-spot where his skull met the rolls of fat on his neck, but she knew right where it was.


Angel pressed the stock of her sniper rifle against her shoulder, raising the crosshairs to touch the suspect’s neck. She was coiled around her gun and ready for the shot, dead calm.


A bullet to the brainstem, where the spinal cord connects to the brain, will drop a man without a twitch or a whimper, which was imperative because that blubbery walrus of a suspect had wrapped a bulbous wad of duct tape around his hand and the stock and trigger of the shotgun, and he had duct-taped the barrel of the gun to the back of a small woman’s neck.


Angel had wedged herself into an improvised sniper hide under a jacked-up pick-up truck. Her thick muscles cushioned her bones from the hot, pebbled asphalt. She felt like a hunting snake down there, perfectly still and ready to stab and kill the suspect.


The suspect yelled something to the police negotiators, who were taking cover behind their cars and trying to negotiate through bullhorns.


Angel could hear the hostage crying and begging, the slow beat of her own heart, and the grating growl of the police vehicles’ diesel engines in the street ringing the target, waiting for the suspect’s next move.


Her field of fire was across three large suburban lawns and a neighborhood street, over two hundred yards. She was lying prone behind a monster-truck tire, aiming around the hot rubber. Her body—her arms, her chest, her shoulder—interlocked around the rifle. The desert sun beat all around her, reflecting off the cement to bake even the undersides of her arms that held the gun. Her helmet was getting hot, and her sweaty hair stuck to her scalp. At least there was shade under the truck, even though the smell of dirty oil stung her nose.


If this were a long shot, like a mile or more, the sun warming the ammunition might make a difference in how fast the propellant in the rounds burned, and she would have to adjust her point of aim accordingly.


Angel waited, just as methodically she had waited during the last four hours of this stand-off. She had been aiming at the affluent house for most of that time, rotating her gun sight over the closed windows and doors until eight minutes ago,when this suspect had exited the McMansion with his hostage. She was always ready to squeeze the trigger and was always relaxed as she didn’t.


Even though the suspect was 209 yards away, through her scope, Angel saw the target as close as if the end of her rifle was resting on his fat neck.


The suspect yanked his shotgun and wheeled his hostage around in front of him like a spaniel on a choke chain. Angel followed him with her gun. The woman’s hands were duct-taped behind her, so she couldn’t catch herself when she tumbled to the sidewalk. Her knees bled through her ripped, pink pants.


Angel inhaled smoothly, then held her breath, and then exhaled smoothly, and held it again, always ready to take the shot. Her finger was taut on the trigger, but not jittery. Her body was trained to not squirt hot adrenaline into her blood.


This standoff was at a stash house, a domicile where human traffickers change the rules of the game. Most illegal immigrants cross the Mexican border into the US with the help of traffickers, called coyotes, who know the better routes. A few, like this woman, end up in the hands of truly evil men, who kidnap them and hold them for ransom, often sending small body parts to their families in Mexico or raping the women and children while their parents listen on the phone to hurry payment.


The evacuated neighbors had been shocked to discover such a travesty in their own neighborhood in North Scottsdale. Sure, this type of atrocity occurred in the Alhambra district, but North Scottsdale was a nice part of town.


Angel hadn’t been surprised. The best neighborhoods harbored the worst crime. There was more money to be made, and the police had to be more circumspect about busts and careful about bystanders. Criminals love that.


The gunman roared something to the encircling police cars and crouching officers. The wind corrupted his voice over the two hundred yards of lawns and asphalt, and Angel could only hear a harsh bellow as his whole body bowed back like he was belting out a high note. The woman cowered, bending forward as far as the shotgun attached to her neck would let her.


Above Angel, flags snapped on another house’s flagpole. The wind had freshened, so she turned the calibration wheel on the turret of her sniper scope. At two hundred yards, a ten mile per hour wind will cause a bullet to drift six and a half inches.


The sniper rifle’s stock was hot against her cheek. “Bravo One to command post,” Angel muttered into her microphone. “I have a bead on the suspect. I can take the shot, cold zero.”


“Hold your fire. Repeat, hold your fire.” Tony’s voice was calm on the radio in her ear. Tony was her cousin and the Phoenix Police Chief. “The rules of engagement are still at compromised authority. The risk is too great for the hostage outside and the hostages still in the house. Let the negotiators do their job.”


Compromised authority rules mean that, if an authority team member is compromised, which means injured, grabbed, or shot at, then everyone—the snipers, the entry team, and the inner perimeter officers—has the authority to take any immediately necessary action to protect the team member, including sniping the bastard.


Angel had to wait until the gunman down there killed the hostage or shot at a police officer.


The hostage negotiators had been doing their job for four hours. When the suspect had been inside the house, he had been allowed to talk to his girlfriend on the negotiator’s phone, and he had told her that he was going to kill a hostage out front where the television cameras would record the splatter. A conservative radio station had interviewed him via another hostage’s cell phone because authorities cannot use cell phone jammers in any situation. Federal laws protect the nationally controlled airwaves. The hostage-taker had told the radio station that he was going to kill a hostage in plain sight and to keep the cameras rolling, evidently not understanding the video limitations of radio.


Since then, the television cameras had arrived and, despite the police’s best efforts, had set up their cameras at the end of the block where their telephoto lenses could capture every shot.


Now, that bastard was going to do it.


Angel’s calloused finger tightened on the trigger to two pounds of pull. At four pounds, the sniper rifle would fire. Angel had fired a thousand rounds a week through her rifle for six years, over three hundred thousand rounds. She knew the feel of her Remington .308 Police DM rifle far better than most people know the feel of their car’s accelerator.


She whispered into her mic, “I can make this shot.”


Through her earpiece, her boss Tony said, “Hold your fire. Rules of engagement are not, repeat not, at shot of opportunity.”


Shot of opportunity rules of engagement are a license to kill the suspect at the first chance, any chance.


“Come on, Tony. I can make this shot with a handgun,” she muttered into her mic.


“Hold your fire.”


The hot wind blew the target’s voice to Angel’s hide under the truck. His voice was tinny and too high. Through her scope, Angel watched the target roar, “Ten!”


Over the radio in her ear, Angel heard police near the scene confirm that the suspect was counting, beginning at ten.


The suspect was counting down. At one, the gunman would fire that shotgun and tear that terrified woman’s head off her neck. He was not negotiating his way out of a bad situation; he was a psychopath performing terror theater.


Angel said, “This is not a hostage situation. This suspect is an active shooter. He will kill her.”


Tony whispered into her ear, “Keep your position. Rules of engagement remain at compromised authority. Hold your fire.”


Angel settled herself and watched the target through her scope.


She breathed in, held it, and out, and held it. Her finger was tensed and strong on the trigger, ready to move it a fraction of an inch more and release the shot.


People think that sniping is sanitary, that the sniper doesn’t feel like a murderer because they’re hundreds of yards away.


Through the scope, Angel could see black hairs waving over the suspect’s neck, as close as if she were sitting on his shoulder with a revolver plugged into his ear, so close that he should be able to feel her breath whispering down his neck like the robe of the Angel of Death was blowing around him.


The gunman grinned, enjoying the spectacle he was making. All those cops were scampering around at his nutcase bidding.


Her own lack of authority to stop this evil act disgusted her. They should shoot him now and end this crime. She could do it. She wanted to.


The target threw back his head and hollered, “Nine!”


From her other radio channel, Jack Jordan’s deep bass voice whispered, “Bravo Three has an unobstructed shot with a stucco wall backstop behind the target. Do we have authorization to take the shot?” Jordan was her side two sniper, meaning he was the third-ranking sniper on her team. As the primary sniper, Angel covered the front of the building. Her number two sniper, Luke Johnson, covered the back.


“Negative,” Angel whispered to Jordan over the radio. “We do not have authorization. Rules of engagement remain at compromised authority. Maintain position.” Jack Jordan was a good sniper who probably wanted to tag this asshole as much as Angel did.


To Tony on her other channel, Angel said, “Bravo three has an unobstructed shot with a stucco wall backstop. If I shoot and have a through-and-through wound, the round will strike the house’s front wall. Other hostages are not in danger. We can take a sync’d shot that will stop him.”


Snipers don’t shoot to kill. Snipers shoot to stop, an important distinction. Police snipers aren’t killers, just highly effective at stopping a crime in progress.


“Negative,” Tony said. “No authorization. Remain at compromised authority.”


Down at street level, the police negotiators squatted behind their cars and held their bullhorns, talking, demanding, and pleading in English and Spanish for the suspect to respond. The long cable of a throw-phone snaked from their van to where the suspect had kicked it away from him.


“Eight!” the target yelled. He jerked the shotgun, and the hostage stumbled aside.


This was the kind of situation Angel had trained for: to save an innocent life by stopping the crime in progress. She thought of herself as a guardian angel for hostages.


She coiled tighter around her rifle, ready to strike. “Bravo One to command post. Bravo Three and One will drop him flat.”


“We can’t risk it,” Tony said.


“Request to elevate the level of engagement to shot of opportunity.” Her sight was dialed in so tight that she squeezed her stock to raise and lower her aim in rhythm with the suspect’s breathing.


“Negative,” Tony said.


Across the clean, green yards, the gunman yelled, “Seven!”


Through her scope, Angel could see the target sweating greasy streaks in the heat. His meaty hands were probably slippery, but the duct-taped one couldn’t slip off the shotgun. No chance of him dropping it.


“Six!”


“Let me put him down, Cuz,” she said to Tony.


Tony whispered through their radio, “There are more people behind him, watching from inside the house. The round might ricochet and hit one of them.”


Angel knew that. She knew it better than her cousin Tony because she was far better trained, but she didn’t wave that red flag in his face.


She also knew she could kill this target and save that woman.


Through her earpiece, another of her snipers, Hunter, said, “This is Bravo Eight, I have an unobstructed line of fire. I can take the shot.”


“Negative,” Angel said. “We are at compromised authority.”


“Goddamn,” Hunter said, and Angel wanted to agree with him but held her aim.


Through the radio, she heard, “Bravo Two, no clear line of fire.” Luke Johnson didn’t have a clear shot from the back of the house.


Angel and Jack could pick this guy off. Four snipers surrounded the house, but only one needed a clear line to stop this guy. They had three with clear lines. That was an heir and two spares.


In the heat of battle, her body didn’t respond with hyped-up adrenaline. She watched the suspect sweat. She might have been meditating, but for her steady stare down the telescopic sight on the rifle.


“Five!” the gunman screamed.


She whispered into the microphone, “Bravo Three has a bead with a stucco wall behind the target. I can make a brainstem shot from here. He won’t twitch. Give us the reins.”


Tony said, “Let the negotiators do their jobs. If you shoot him and that shotgun goes off and she dies, we’re liable.”


“The negotiators aren’t doing shit.”


The suspect screamed, “Four!”


They had been at the siege for over four hours. Angel’s head ached from the sun glaring on the cement and asphalt around her, and her eyes throbbed from peering through the scope. She whispered into her mic, “When are we going to shoot him?”


“We’re not,” Tony said. “Unless he fires at authority personnel, we can’t shoot.”


“Three!”


The bedlam of the negotiators’ voices hollering at the criminal from all sides escalated. Angel kept the crosshairs on the gunman’s neck and steady pressure on the trigger because, after he shot that poor woman, he would doubtlessly open fire on the police officers and then, finally, she could shoot him.


Light glinted off the sidewalk from the overhead sun. “Two!”


The woman hostage wrenched her head to the side, black hair flying in the wind.


The duct tape around her neck tore.


The shotgun blasted, spraying lead shot at the police cars, shattering glass and slamming on steel.


Angel squeezed her trigger the last fraction of an inch, sending the bullet through the rifle and into the gunman’s brainstem.


He dropped straight down as if through a trapdoor and lay in a glutinous heap on the sidewalk in front of the Desert Victorian house.


The woman hostage’s scream wailed high and tinny off the stucco houses and ascended into the clear, blue sky as she ran away. Her hair was a mess of blood, but Angel could see that the shotgun blast had only lightly scalped her. She would be fine.


Other captives, around fifty women and children, ran out of the house and grabbed the woman, crying over her. A small boy clung to her neck and sobbed.


Angel worked the action on the rifle to chamber another round and kept her sights on the gunman, in case the mound of blood and blubber moved.


Angel murmured into her radio, “That counted as firing at authorities, right?”





See The Angel of Death at:























Praise for Blair C. Babylon’s other books:





“This is why [Blair C. Babylon] is an author to watch!” ~ Booklist (starred review)





"I stumbled upon this series a few months ago while searching through e-books for the kindle. Out of all of the books I've read, this is by far the best. I have never been the type to read things in installments, but this is the first time I've faithfully awaited each new episode release. The story … is great, the characters are believable, and I can never really guess what is going to happen next. What more could you want in a series?" ~Amazon Review





“This series just takes my breath away. Breathless!!!! That's how this book made me feel from beginning to end. It was one of those books I just couldn't put down until some of my questions were answered. I was constantly on the edge of my seat anxiously hoping it would turn out the way I hoped. I had this same sense of anxious excitement from the very first book of this series and it has not left me yet. This is not your typical cliched novel, where you can tell practically from the first page what is going to happen. Oh no! This book has you waiting with bated breath to see what happens next. I cannot wait for the next book. Ms. Babylon is a genius, who proves every skeptic who says all novels are alike, wrong!” ~Amazon Review





USA Today Bestselling Author Blair C. Babylon is the nom de plume of an award-winning author who used to publish literary fiction under another name. Because professional reviews of her literary fiction usually included the caveat that there was too much plot, too many interesting twists, and too much sex, she decided to abandon all literary pretensions, let her freak flag fly, and write intense thrillers and naughty romantic suspense.