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Monday, March 11, 2019

Book Blitz for West Begg

~ Book Blitz ~
WEST BEGG by Mari.Reiza
Humour / Satire

About the Book:

A hilarious yet dark novel on how power, and the lack of it, shapes people. 

Luca’s job is being a punch bag, a tea towel, a toilet bowl, to the undeniable and unbreakable king of egg power proud of averaging two hundred flights a year to visit chicken markets around the world. 
Anna moved to Catania to work for caper queen Madame Sicily, fulfilling varied tasks from picking up Céline swimwear before it hits the runways to recovering badly parked Lamborghinis. 
La Revolução dreams through buildings but builds parking spaces, when she’s not helping launder money for her boss’s dad’s dodgy charities. 
And finally, Carolina is out to conspire with Paquita who met their boss the German in a red lit booth, to understand why the man has to drain the passion out of everything. Their fates will inevitably collide. The question is, will their bosses get what they deserve? 

Book Links:
Goodreads * Amazon


Quotes:
At the office, Macco One’s sickened secretary barely acknowledges me. She firmly maintains that it is sickening to work in our place, Macco One’s place, says that it is not about the chickens but the cocks, ‘Too many big cocks flying around.’ I have never known her on a high. I leave the box of Indian sweets I bought her by the pot plant on her desk and hope that they poison her, ending her ordeal. (Luca)

The thought of my boss’s iron calves ungoverned scares me. Is it panic or an absolute type of anger? Does he know what he is angry about?’ Ignorance about one’s anger can be harder to deal with than deliberate devil. Sometimes I have nightmares where he chops my arm with the drama of a man picking cherries. (Carolina)

I cannot leave the swimwear on the bike. It is a church, Saint Agatha. No one should steal it by the virgin’s gate. But even so. These people cannot help themselves. They all want to look good at Mondello this summer. (Anna)

Irajá, which means beehive, is stunning, very pale with dark hair, so pale you can see millions of small blue veins through the skin of her face and neck, giving her a magical tinge. This is not the kind of woman you can imagine doing ordinary things like shitting or clipping her toenails. (La Revolução)

I’m crying on Paquita’s shoulders yet again. Her jumper is cheap cashmere. She is small and delicate and perfectly proportionate like a kid’s mannequin. And I am totally aware that this is the strangest of arrangements. (Carolina)

She is not Fuksas. Even if Irajá is convinced that in her heart she is a great architect with a social vision. I guess it keeps her away from pretending to be something more dangerous. When she purses her lips, the natives show fright on their faces and for a moment I expect a long viper tongue to come out pushing against her lips. I think they do too… This pale bundle of nerves is so thin and young, must be less than fifty kilos, below twenty five years of age. Any of those native hands could easily crush her to the ground, but they are afraid. (La Revolução)

Read a Snippet:

I stick out like a sore thumb on my bike in this town, my red curls to the wind, racing through the streets in the old centre, between the ruins of the Greco-Roman theatre in Piazza Stesicoro, up Via Etnea to Piazza Università. That is my first scheduled stop today, at a friend of Madame Sicily. This friend has had the latest Céline swimwear delivered three weeks before it hits the runways.
Madame Sicily had a preview of the collection sent last week in high resolution on her iPhone 6. I printed it for her two days ago on high quality glossy paper, as instructed. She glanced at it in the car whilst travelling to an important meeting in an upmarket country club outside Catania. I waited in the car with Rodolfo, her driver, whilst she went into the meeting, and when Madame Sicily came out she said the meeting had gone well. She gave me back the glossy papers, she had ticked five models. She was happy.
As a result, today I am carrying a 1,500 euro cheque in my right hand pocket. It’s heavy against the light fabric of my ten euro H&M pantacourt that fit me well last summer. I am wearing it today despite it being only April; April is already hot in Catania. The cheque will cover the purchase of an immaculate white bandeau one-piece with a large rose at the right hand breast, a red playboy in Lycra with plunge halter neck to the belly button around which there is an embroidered daisy motif, a Bond girl bombshell two piece in neon orange, and two other plunging necklines, one white and another black, both with the traditional Céline chains design in gold. Madame Sicily has said to her friend Maria Luisa that she needs to get these pieces today, to try them on and decide before her May break on the Agnellini boat in Sardinia. She says if she does not have them today, she will not go. They and the smuggled collagen suppositories from some doctor in Miami are her two requirements ahead of this trip.
Madame Sicily is constantly threatening people in this way and it works for her. So much so that I would go and get these costumes collected today even if I were run over by a maniac en route. I would still get to Maria Luisa, down on my bloodied knees. She would have the package ready, for her own sake, and I would pick the stuff and get to deliver it to the office on time, stain free. I would delicately hand it over to Madame Sicily, and only then I would be allowed to die.
(Anna)


About the Author:

Mari.Reiza was born in Madrid in 1973. She studied at Oxford University and worked as an investment research writer and management consultant for twenty years in London, before becoming an indie fiction writer. Also by her, Inconceivable Tales, Death in Pisa, Sour Pricks, A Pack of Wolves, STUP, Mum, Watch Me Have Fun!, Marmotte’s Journey, West bEgg, PHYSICAL, Room 11, Triple Bagger, Opera and the Retreat, all available on Amazon.



Author Links:
Twitter * Instagram





Monday, March 4, 2019

Caro M new book

~ Book Blitz ~
Caro M, by Mari.Reiza
Psychological / Romance / Contemporary

About the Book:





Portraits of unyielding love. A woman, mostly alone in her world but for her dog, shares memories through letters to her old 'tesoro'; a wife trusts her sweetheart psychiatrist blindly through her divorce; a young girl lands a fairy tale wedding soon to turn into a nightmare her cousin yearns to fix. Immersive, witty, tender,

Caro M, explores the hurricane-like devastation love is capable of.







Book Links:
Goodreads * Amazon

Read a Snippet:

A week or two passed.
A sustained flow of insubstantial words continued to arrive at a steady pace, written or spoken, with plenty of accompanying emojis as if you had been forcefully commissioned to use your whole emoji library by our one-month anniversary.
Day and night.
And those early weeks I was only brave enough for my replies to mirror yours, until all our assurances blended into each other, becoming almost meaningless. We were confining ourselves to too narrow and stupid a dictionary. We were cautious, out of practice, or perhaps scared there were serious matters at stake and our weightless words helped us pretend otherwise. We should have been more frightened by the strength of the words we were purposefully leaving out. We both claimed feeling so free, so entitled, because we felt so lonely. Instead we were enslaved by terror that certain words could become too serious or too binding. I can see that now, that I should have read into things as early as then, that our relationship was one to run lighter than words. That should have told me something, something about its future, from the start.
It surprised me how soon the game wasn’t enough though.
Would it have been different had we been younger? Would we have been more patient? If we felt tormented to give free rein to our language, how else could we grow our story?
It took barely a month to move from words to pictures. A nice table set with beautiful candles as I was cooking some pasta and coq au vin for Charlotte; she loves it. You were buying wine and boiling spaghetti, alle vongole; you wished you could be having it with me. Another day a scene from my living room. You noticed my sofa. You told me the Boa was your favourite, from the same brand. You liked design. You told me all you would do to me on a Boa, as poetically as you possibly could, choosing from a new set of limited words. I felt as if I was granted a license to be rude, encouraged, as if you had opened a new door, even if it was still a door to an ulterior confined space. It felt like progress.
I responded, things I had only heard in songs, not my songs. And I sent you handcuffs, a nice set, or perhaps you did; I do not remember. We could have been two fifteen-year-olds, up a notch from our primary-school-like earlier exchanges. Although maybe adolescents do things differently nowadays; perhaps we were only middle-aged losers who had finally hooked up on selfies following their late arrival to the Instagram generation. It was suddenly like every minute of our day had to be snapped and shared so we didn’t have to tell each other anything.
And I know they say a picture is worth a thousand words, but sometimes it is worth none.


Quotes:

Your hand was trembling and you passed the note to me quickly like in a Soviet spy movie. I crunched it in my hand and walked away. I could tell you were staring at the back of my golden dress.

‘Stay where you fit in,’ my uncle had rightly advised me before the wedding, but I hadn’t taken his advice. Where exactly did I fit in, other than in the psych ward?

All his money seemed to light Laura up like a beauty pageant; not that she wasn’t beauty-pageant material even without it.

Was I a commodity for you at an acquisitive time? Were you a collector? Should I fret about the value placed on me perhaps as an exotic object? Because I was French? I didn’t think of French as exotic but then I was it, and you cannot be foreign to yourself, although perhaps I was exactly that.

We had known so little about this man yet had let Laura wed him. And at her own wedding she was crying.

‘My husband fucked the woman who delivered our baby!’ I clamour again, full of honesty. It’s good to peak twice, to extend the peak for as long as possible.

I will never forget the sweetness with which you dried their hair. It made me think the world of you; it made me think how life is to be based purely on emotion. After that, I was lost.

Was I guilty of puffing up a dream which could grow expectations larger than Albatross wings? Yes. But then I remembered how I was in violation mode, and that the only purpose of a dream was perhaps not to come true but to break all cages, breach all rules and run around fiercely free.

About the Author:


Mari.Reiza was born in Madrid in 1973. She studied at Oxford University and worked as an investment research writer and management consultant for twenty years in London, before becoming an indie fiction writer. Also by her, Inconceivable Tales, Death in Pisa, Sour Pricks, A Pack of Wolves, STUP, Mum, Watch Me Have Fun!, Marmotte’s Journey, West bEgg, PHYSICAL, Room 11, Triple Bagger, Opera and the Retreat, all available on Amazon.


Author Links:
Twitter * Instagram



Monday, February 11, 2019

Book Release for The Retreat

~ Book Blitz ~
The Retreat by Mari.Reiza
 Coming of Age / Psychological Thriller 

About the Book:


An uncomfortable but fascinating ripening journey.
Ahmed has abandoned her. Nadia is gone the way Isabelle did before, her two fallen warriors. But Marie can still hear His voice clearly.
A deep call for justice takes hold in an impressionable teenage girl from a recently broken family during a religious retreat; what happens next will mark her life for years to come.
the Retreat is a story of men playing God, of hurt that doesn’t find its way out.







Find it on Amazon

Read an Extract:

‘So, mass girl,’ Hélène is calling Marie. ‘We’re planning a night escape from this hell in a couple of days, are you in?’
‘Won’t we get into trouble?’
‘Rules are there to be broken,’ Hélène smiles, ‘at least by me!’ And how she bets other people are breaking them too right then, convinced as Hélène is that Berger employs himself, as they speak, probably more playing (with his willy) than praying.
‘I’m in enough trouble as things are.’ Marie is thinking about her skiing, her skirt and Prudence’s unwelcome mulishness to mend her, as if she had much wrong in her.
‘What do you mean?’ Martine can’t wait to know what trouble Marie is in.
‘Nothing.’
‘We need to get out of here, into the real world,’ Hélène has a dream to sell, ‘down the bar. Buy some drinks. Dance to some music. Meet some boys...’ Martine makes a screaming face.
‘Things any normal girl is expected to do,’ she says reassuringly. ‘It’s not like we will be killing souls.’
Marie knows Hélène is right, but it’s also Marie’s belief, based on her little experience, that Hélène, her sister, Martine, are all there for a reason, that this retreat is full of girls who are either troubled or need attention because they are trouble. Can she trust them?
‘So, what happened at the caravan last year?’ she finally asks. ‘Could it happen again?’
Marie’s friends freeze.
‘The caravan was different.’ Hélène’s face turns sombre. She hadn’t expected the question. ‘We should have never been there.’
‘Fucking bastard,’ adds Martine.
‘What happened?’
‘We were a bit drunk,’ Hélène hesitates, ‘we were silly, but we should never have been put in that situation in the first place.’
‘The men were nice at first but then they were terrifying.’ Martine’s side of the story.
‘Isabelle had only acted in good faith, you know how she is,’ Hélène’s voice is down to a pensive whisper, ‘she’s such a do-
gooder at heart, nothing like them,’ she points to the door, ‘but a good-meaning person.’
‘And she’s stupid!’
‘Shut up, Martine.’
‘I mean, what world does she live in!’ Martine doesn’t shut up.
‘One where she only sees good in people.’
‘What did she do?’ Marie doesn’t understand. She didn’t expect Isabelle to be the culprit in this story.
‘She insisted on leaving the caravan,’ says Hélène, finally spilling the beans. ‘She had been talking to one of the young immigrants through a window, for over an hour, in Spanish, and claimed he had opened his soul to her and he needed her love, that we could not treat them like animals because they had gone through enough already.’
‘And then?’
‘These men had not seen women in months.’ Hélène sighs. ‘We were young, drunk. Probably looked like sluts to them.’
‘When Isabelle opened the door, it had been a trick,’ says Martine. ‘They all tried to push in and we managed to close it again but they took Isabelle.’
‘And you did not call anybody?’
‘How? By the Holy Spirit? We had been abandoned there. All we had been given was a shitty walkie-talkie the nuns never answered. And Isabelle on the other side of the door was not alarmed,’ insists Hélène, ‘not in the slightest, she insisted she would talk to them and disappeared down the camp, into another caravan.’
‘And you didn’t call anyone?’ Marie can’t believe they deserted their friend.



If the book interests you, you can request for a REVIEW COPY in exchange for an honest review.

About the Author:
Mari.Reiza was born in Madrid in 1973. She has worked as an investment research writer and management consultant for twenty years in London. She studied at Oxford University and lives off Portobello Road with her husband and child.

Find Mari at:
Twitter * Instagram






Monday, February 4, 2019

Book Blitz for Opera

~ Book Blitz ~
Opera by Mari.Reiza
 Literary / Romance 

About the Book:





A wealthy arts patron receives a wrongly delivered letter at her secret address in Kensington. Her therapist recognises the intended recipient immediately, leading her into the hands of a defeated composer she will, together with her sweetest accomplice, help back into music. A passionate rendition of human resilience.










Find it on Amazon

About the Setting
There are three main settings. First, Ivanka's secret Kensington flat where she weekly receives her massage therapist Fer. She has instructed her doctor to send any correspondence to this address, helping her channel misery away from her everyday life. Second, a ruinous local mansion where Maria has caged himself, confined to the largest of its rooms, a boundless nest with a floor of sand and a central shiny black grand piano. Finally, a sophisticated high-class London Mexican restaurant resembling a theatre set where guests can pick a character and live only the fun parts. Here Ivanka regularly meets and plots with playfellow and long-life confidant Igor.

Meet Ivanka
Ivanka is a beautiful young woman born in Saint Petersburg, wedded to rich banker Alexey. But their marriage has only given birth to a story of misuse of wealth and human limitation. He doesn’t like losers. Neither does she. She couldn’t stomach grievers orbiting around them if her sorry news became public. It’s impossible to be naturally kind or forgiving with her pain, but in Maria she has seen something precious. She wants to bring it out in him though not the way Alexey did in her...  After all, was she not once the most wonderful music promoter, a genius in seeking talent? 

Meet Fer
Fer is slim as a river reed, looks so innocent-pretty despite his cut-rate-dental teeth and wobbly eyes always alert to never miss anything, so gay in his hideous rainbow shirt. He has been hired by Ivanka for his osteopathy services alone, yet  has from day one committed himself to deliver much more, channeling a constant flow of psychic vigour to every corner of her system in peril. He's drawn to her talk of Igor even if he doesn't understand who he is. He's full of childish excitement about Maria he recognizes as a musician in a popular band when he was growing up in Italy. Very few people seem to afford Fer a chance other than for what they want for themselves, but he knows Ivanka is his chance, that something in her will make things happen for him.

Meet Maria
A blue-eyed Viking. He looks like a haunted criminal under a witness protection program, a man who would slaughter, skin and bake your family dog, a man you don’t want to be telling you what he has down on his life tally... and what’s with all his leather neck chains and charms unable to hide his prominent Adam’s apple? The sight of him almost immediately wins Ivanka over. His mind has remained full of an old flame, of the grief of living with someone who’s not there, who had once sworn she didn’t mind him not being like other people and had him dream of fathering mermaids, of living under a waterfall. How could he ever get over that?

Meet Igor
Ivanka's prince. She finds him irresistible in a motherly way. She always did, since she was fourteen and he was a little boy and they were constantly bonding over one activity or another she set out for him in Moscow, when she first arrived from Saint Petersburg. Igor's a son of a famous actress and director, has tried and failed to follow in his father's steps. And he's wanted back in Moscow by his hysterically resentful, erotically hyper-charged Cuban ex-lover (married to an old Russian princess he has duped) who has offered Igor his last opportunity to rehabilitate their shared history or else...Igor can’t go back to Moscow. He can't ‘holiday’ around sad corners of the continent indefinitely either, like a fugitive. He’s stuck in a bad situation, one that would easily call for him to open a bottle of port every night and weep over his life, which he indeed does, repeatedly. He needs to secure work in London just to be safe. He needs Ivanka. And he would do anything to have her happy; he owes her for old times’ sake...   

If the book interests you, you can request for a REVIEW COPY in exchange for an honest review.

About the Author:
Mari.Reiza was born in Madrid in 1973. She has worked as an investment research writer and management consultant for twenty years in London. She studied at Oxford University and lives off Portobello Road with her husband and child.

Find Mari at:
Twitter * Instagram






Sunday, December 23, 2018

Cover reveal Guardian Angel

~ Cover Reveal ~
Guardian Angel by Ruchi Singh


The Man
Security expert Nikhil Mahajan is in mortal danger. Gravely injured and unable to see, he is in the midst of hostile strangers in an unknown place. Any hope of survival is fast fading away. 

The Angel
Should an innocent man be allowed to die just because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Someone has to intervene.

About the Author:
Winner of TOI WriteIndia Season 1, Ruchi Singh is a novelist, and writes in two genres; romance and romantic thriller. A voracious reader, she loves everything—from classics to memoirs to editorials to chick-lit, but her favourite genre is ‘romantic thriller’. Besides writing and reading, her other interests include dabbling with Indian classical dance forms.




Thursday, May 17, 2018

Welcome to Books, Books, and more Books.


Frozen (Cassie Scot Book Seven)
Apparently, life doesn’t end when you get married.
When a couple freezes to death on a fifty degree day, Cassie is called in to investigate. The couple ran a daycare out of their home, making preschoolers the key witnesses and even the prime suspects.
Two of those preschoolers are Cassie’s youngest siblings, suggesting conditions at home are worse than she feared. As Cassie struggles to care for her family, she must face the truth about her mother’s slide into depression, which seems to be taking the entire town with it.
Then Cassie, too, is attacked by the supernatural cold. She has to think fast to survive, and her actions cause a rift between her and her husband.
No, life doesn’t end after marriage. All hell can break loose at any time.
Buy Links
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Print Release: July 15, 2018
Audiobook Release: TBA
The Cassie Scot Series
Cassie Scot: ParaNormal Detective (Cassie Scot Book One)
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Audible.com
Secrets and Lies (Cassie Scot Book Two)
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Audible
Mind Games (Cassie Scot Book 3)
Amazon
Barnes and Noblet
Audible
Stolen Dreams (Cassie Scot Book 4)
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Audible
Madison's Song (Cassie Scot Book 5)
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Audible
Kaitlin’s Tale (Cassie Scot Book 6)
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Audible
About the Author

Christine Amsden has been writing fantasy and science fiction for as long as she can remember. She loves to write and it is her dream that others will be inspired by this love and by her stories. Speculative fiction is fun, magical, and imaginative but great speculative fiction is about real people defining themselves through extraordinary situations. Christine writes primarily about people and relationships, and it is in this way that she strives to make science fiction and fantasy meaningful for everyone.
At the age of 16, Christine was diagnosed with Stargardt’s Disease, which scars the retina and causes a loss of central vision. She is now legally blind, but has not let this slow her down or get in the way of her dreams.
Christine currently lives in the Kansas City area with her husband, Austin, who has been her biggest fan and the key to her success. In addition to being a writer, she's a mom and freelance editor.

Social Media Links:
Website
Newsletter
Blog
Facebook
Twitter
Goodreads

Google+

Writing a Series
Cassie Scot was supposed to be a four-book series. Each book centered on a self-contained mystery, while the series dealt with some character growth and struggles. I wrote those four books together, even though they were released a few months apart, so that I had at least a solid rough draft of Stolen Dreams (book four) done before the original Cassie Scot went public.
It was an ideal way to write a series. I had a plan, changed the plan a dozen times, and rewrote to accommodate my new plans.
Then Cassie’s two best friends, Kaitlin and Madison, decided they needed stories of their own. I accommodated them, but it wasn’t as easy. The first four books were now set in stone, the rules of the world fixed, meaning that I had a silent partner in my new books: Younger me!
These days, I’m working on other projects, but Cassie still won’t stay quiet. Before I sat down tow rite Frozen, she kept saying, “Hello? Are you there? I’m not dead. I just got married. Not the same thing.”
It’s great that my character is still talking to me. This makes writing new books in her series easy. The hard part, once again, is that silent writing partner of mine. I no longer have the freedom to go back to book one and make little changes to pave the way for new elements I’d like to introduce. For better or for worse, my world is my world. I now find myself taking something of a leap of faith with each new volume I write, armed with only a few vague ideas of what might happen next.
Frozen is once again self-contained, but it definitely sets up the promise of new adventures to come. Maybe even new, deeper explorations of the world around Cassie. I knew some of this all along, but I’m making up a lot as I go along. I trust my future self can handle it. I also trust she’s going to read this and have some choice words for me when she does. :)
Honestly, writing a series is fun. It gives me the chance to go deeper into characters and world than any single book can. It also gives me the chance to revisit favorite characters, and it keeps me from having to reinvent a world from the ground up with each new volume. I like reading series too, and for the same reason. I get invested. I can’t wait to read more about Harry Dresden, Charlie Davidson, Mackayla Lane, Katherine “Kitty” Kat Martini, and others. I hope readers feel the same way about Cassie Scot.