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Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Book Review of Symphony of Light and Winter



Book Review of Symphony of Light and Winter
Sponsored by Coffee Talk Writers



Welcome to Books, Books, and More Books.  I am pleased to share this book with you.  Thank you for visiting and please come again.

Symphony of Light and Winter

Etopia Press
Symphony of Light and Winter
Symphony of Light Book One
Renea Mason
Genre: Paranormal Erotic Romance
Length: Novel
Word Count: 88,375
Page Count: 389
Price: 5.99
ISBN: 978-1-940223-10-0
Heat Level: 4
Release Date: 06/21/2013

One woman. Seven men. All bound by one man’s undying devotion.

Fundraiser Linden Hill has a knack for reading people. She always knows which conversations will put a prospect at ease, which drink will loosen a patron’s lips—or his wallet, and how cleavage will make a donor sweeten the deal. She’s even foreseen her dateless weekends four hundred and sixty-four times in a row.

But ten years after watching life drain from her former mentor’s and first love’s eyes, her skills for divining the predictable are lost. When Cyril returns, he’s still gorgeous, but this time he’s beyond human, far less dead, and pissed. His lack of memory drives him to desperate acts, and his turbulent re-acquaintance with Linden pulls her into his war with a creature hell-bent on his destruction. His group of six supernatural men share a tantalizing secret, but despite the hunger, it’s love that leads her to sacrifice everything to save him…       

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Coming soon to Apple iBooks. 
Print edition available January 2014.
Impostors’ Kiss

Etopia Press
Impostors’ Kiss
Symphony of Light Book 0.5
Renea Mason
Genre: Paranormal Erotic Romance
Length: Short
Word Count: 7601
Page Count: 42
Price: 0.99
ISBN: 978-1-940223-62-9
Release Date: 11-15-2013

One night of sexual pleasure could teach a lesson in love.

Cyril is weary from weeks of traveling the Scottish moors, but his luck takes a turn when he rescues a battered and broken child. To express his gratitude, the boy’s father offers Cyril a night of carnal indulgence with his eldest daughter. Cyril graciously accepts, looking forward to a night of sexual release to ease the loneliness of his travels.

But what the supernatural sex god and deliverer of souls doesn’t expect is to be taught a lesson in love from the young and beautiful Celestine.

In a night of passion, two lost spirits find solace in an impostor’s kiss: one longing for a love that doesn’t yet exist, the other drowning in pain and guilt over love lost. Neither is what they seem…but what they learn will change them forever…

Buy the book
Amazon.com (available at other international Amazon sites – Canada, UK etc.)

BarnesandNoble.com
All Romance eBooks
Coming soon to Apple iBooks, Kobo and other international retailers.


Renea Mason

Renea Mason writes steamy romances to help even out the estrogen to testosterone imbalance caused by living in a house full of men.

When she isn’t putting pen to paper crafting sensual stories filled with supernatural lovers, she spends time with her beyond-supportive husband, two wonderful sons and three loving but needy cats.


She is also a founding member of the Coffee Talk Writers.  http://coffeetalkwriters.com/

Follow Renea Mason




A short excerpt to whet your appetite.

Symphony of Light and Winter - PG Excerpt
“Your eyes are so lovely; please don’t hide them from me. Don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.”

His sincerity must have been contagious because the words slipped through my lips without permission. “I know you’d never hurt me intentionally. It’s the unintentional consequences I fear.”

He brought his other hand up to cup my other cheek and, with my face firmly held he said, “Linden, I’m not fool enough to think that the gods don’t intentionally f**k with us.”

His use of that word was unexpected. Always a gentleman, but always something more carnal beneath the surface too. The inconsistency seemed natural.

“But if that ever happens, I will spend forever trying to atone. Don’t turn away from me.” He stared at me for a moment and when his face started to move toward mine, I thought for sure he would kiss my lips, but instead he placed a lingering kiss to my forehead and pulled me into a hug. If he felt anything for me other than friendship, that was his moment to prove it. I had my answer. I gave a forced smile and pulled away.

“Please, play,” he said while trailing his hand over my back.

Facing the piano, with my fingers lingering above the keys, I tried not to allow disappointment to lace my words. “How did you know about the song?” My racing heart slowed as I realized the kiss wouldn’t happen.

His response was casual. “I have very keen hearing and you start to hum it every time you walk away from me to return home. Where is the song from?”

Strange. Maybe I was louder than I thought.

“I don’t know where I learned it. I think I made it up, but it’s hard to know for sure.”

“It’s beautiful, please...” He motioned to the piano.

He stood and I pressed one key to test to see if it was in tune. Pitch-perfect, of course. I should have expected no less. I stretched to measure the distance to the pedals. After my assessment, I began to play. As I pressed the keys, I tried to forget he was even in the room, but that became impossible as he provided subtle hints as to how I should adjust my posture. He pushed back on my shoulders and lifted my elbows with a light touch. The adjustment made a difference, and in time my composition transitioned to something more graceful.

He placed his hands on my shoulders as he stood behind me and whispered, “Now relax, the music is in control. Give in to it. Let it take you, command you, while you find freedom in its control.”

His finger made small massaging circles on my neck and shoulders, and the more he touched me, the more at ease I became. I played better than I ever had.

He ran his hands up and down my forearms, coaxing the notes from my fingers as he whispered in my ear, “That’s it. You are much more relaxed. Music is energy, Linden. With energy, you must first make yourself an attractive conduit. Energy does not like resistance. The less resistant you are, the more it can take hold, become stronger—make you stronger. Allow it to embody you, become one with you, and embrace its possession.” His breath teased as his words sent waves of electricity through me.

I added improvisational parts to the song I had never imagined. I played sequences far beyond my skill level without effort. As I neared the end of the song, the magical feeling broke down, and with it went my newfound ability. It was as if I took a drug to make me a better musician and it had begun to wear off, but I knew it wasn’t a drug. It was Cyril.

As the last notes breathed their final whisper to the air, I heard him say, “Well done! I bet you even surprised yourself.”

“How did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything. I simply taught you to sit up and concentrate. Other than that, it was all you. Music can’t possess the unwilling.”

I shot him a suspicious glare. “All right...your turn.” I went to get up.

“No, please stay. Let me see...I’ll play something you know. How about Beethoven’s Sonata quasi una fantasia? You may know it as the Moonlight Sonata.”

I nodded. He could have played Chopsticks and I would have been happy.

He began with the solemn phrasing of the piece. Every languid note held so much emotion. My fingers mindlessly stroked the side of his leg in the slow melodic tempo of the first movement. The mournful timbre accented the sadness I felt knowing that every minute I stayed with him, it was going to be much harder to accept I could never have him.

I had only heard the first movement of the piece but as the somber melody transitioned into a more energetic strain, I knew it would be an experience I would never forget.

His enthusiastic gestures, the bounce of his hair as he pounded out the rapid notes, all added to the look of determination on his face. The notes were saturated in passion, and violence defined him. I watched him with intense concentration and wondered if he brought that same passion to his kisses, his bed, and his love. It would be a miracle if one person could harness him.

When he played the last note, his breathing was heavy and a thin film of perspiration coated the skin of his brow and neck. He looked down at the floor and then slowly into my eyes. That instant, the connection formed again. He reached up and brushed the hair from my face and I did the same to him, draping his thick, dark, sweat-moistened locks behind his ear.

“That was magnificent. I’ve never...”

His hand reached up to cup my face. His thumb caressed my lower lip as I spoke.

“Heard...or seen...anything like you. I mean that.”

He smiled and continued to outline my lip.

“Linden...” he said with a breathy whisper, “there are so many things I want to show you, teach you. I want you to make me a promise.”

I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

“The way you are looking at me right now... Please, always look at me this way. Stare into my eyes and see me for who I am and know that there is nothing more than this. When the world calls things into question, you need not question me because I will always be here for you. The comfort I find in your eyes is new and frightening.”

I found it difficult to believe anything frightened this man. He cupped my cheek and with tenderness that mirrored his words, he caressed my face and trailed his hand to rest on my chest just below my neck. I wrapped my hand around his wrist, holding him to me.

He leaned in, pinning our arms between us, and breathed, “Promise me.”

I closed my eyes, reveling in his closeness, his scent, his heat. “OK.”

“Good.”

He inhaled. “I will make you a promise in return. I cannot bring you into my world as I would like, so I will not ask you to indulge me further. I should let you go, but I’m sorry, I am far too selfish to break all ties. I do promise to always be your friend, your mentor.”

Deep down, hopeful he might love me and see me as a woman, I opened my eyes and managed a smile filled with sadness and disappointment.

Protégé was the title bestowed upon me, not girlfriend, lover, or wife. I looked away from him to try to pull back the tears that escaped my eyes.

“Already breaking your promise?”

I looked up and he brushed my tears away with his thumb.

“I’m not immune, Linden. I feel it too. I just need to be stronger than this, for you.” He pulled me into his embrace.

His arms were tight around me. He smiled but something sad lingered behind it. “It’s getting late. I should get you home.”

Impostors’ Kiss – PG Excerpt

“Who is she?” 

This was not a question I expected. Even though I was comfortable being nude, most humans were not. I saw in her mind what horrors men had bestowed upon her. The massive erection I sported should have frightened her, but with each quick glance I made in her direction, I saw she stood firm and resolute, while twirling the blindfold between her fingers. 

“Who?” Not the time to speak riddles. 

“The woman for whom that kiss was intended.”

 “Oh.” I brushed my hands through my hair. The long, black strands fell one by one back into place. I sighed. “She’s my love. My light. But she is out of reach.” 

“I have a confession.”

Review: 

Wow!  I thought that I gotten past being surprised by stories, but this one surprised me in a good way.  It was well written, each line crafted to bring the reader further into the world the author created, to see the story unfold in pictures.  It was passionate without being vulgar.  The love making scenes were not gratuitous, as so many are, but rather the natural progression of a loving and caring relationship and a great deal of frustration.

The story also told a new mythology about where the lore of vampires comes from, not from Transylvania but rather from another dimension where ...  I could tell you more, but then I would ruin the story.  The unfolding story is part of what moves the story along.  Needless to say the mythology is worth the read.

I cannot wait to read book 0.5, which I will review soon and eagerly wait for book 2 to continue where this story leaves off.

I give this story 5 out of 5 clouds and a chili pepper rating of 4.


This product or book may have been distributed for review; this in no way affects my opinions or reviews.

Book Review of Timeless



Book Review of Timeless
Sponsored by Paranormal Cravings



Welcome to Books, Books, and More Books.  I am pleased to share this book with you.  Thank you for visiting and please come again.

 Timeless by Jan Scarbrough

Genre: MagicalParanormal; Gothic romance
ISBN: Digital ISBN 978-1-62237-192-1
Book Length: 168 pages
Publisher: Turquoise Morning Press

 

DESCRIPTION

A contemporary Gothic romance, Timeless a resident ghost, evil entities, tragic lovers, and ultimate redemption. Set in Old Louisville, now and in the past, Timeless brings together the elements of history and contemporary New Age belief.

When Beth Abbott receives a surprise inheritance from her birth mother, she travels to the family’s nineteenth century mansion in Old Louisville, now a bed and breakfast. There she meets the resident ghost, a little girl whose crying scares, but intrigues guests. Beth sets out to discover the identity of the ghost and why she appears happy to Beth, not sad.

Jeff Halstead, a man with several secrets, runs the bed and breakfast. But he’s more than that to Beth, and she feels their connection immediately. A psychic medium who doubts his skills, Jeff slowly uncovers the truth of their past lives. Will he be in time to reveal the identity of Beth’s enemy? Will the love they shared in the past follow them into the future?

 

Excerpt

Chapter Three

The Derby Room was more than a room: it was a suite with a parlor and a separate bedroom and bath. Just as in the rooms downstairs, the sitting room was crammed with antiquesa vintage empire sofa, Victorian wing-back chairs and a writing desk. I wandered into the second room, flipping the light switch that turned on ornate wall sconces. A king-size canopy bed dominated the room. The private tile and marble bath contained a deep Victorian claw-foot bathtub that had been fitted with a shower.

I pulled my luggage into the bedroom. It was only seven-thirty and although I was tired from the day, I wasn’t sleepy. Opening the doors to an antique armoire, I discovered a flat screen TV. I turned it on and taking the remote, sat on the edge of the big bed under the canopy and flipped channels.

These antique rooms creeped me out. They seemed cold and uninviting, sort of like the much too good-looking innkeeper who had ushered me into them. If this was my family history, I really wanted no part of it. Mom was right. I wasn’t a risk-taker. The reality of the adventure was too much for me at the moment. I was suddenly lonesome and homesick. Was it really worth it?

I didn’t really belong here, did I?

Leaving the TV on ESPN for company, I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. After soaking ten minutes in the hot water of the claw-foot bathtub, I put on my flannel pajamas and a pair of socks. I climbed into bed, bringing my laptop with me. Connecting to the Internet, I checked Facebook and Twitter while the TV glowed in the background. Then I surfed, looking for more information on the Chadwick Bed and Breakfast, something more than just their website. I didn’t have much luck and at nine-thirty decided to go to sleep.

I went back into the parlor to make sure the door to the hall was locked and turned off the overhead chandelier. On a whim I pulled my Madame Alexander baby doll from the suitcase and propped her on the far side of the bed on the pillow. A doll named Victoria seemed to go perfectly in this old-fashioned setting. Besides, she brought a little reminder of home with her, and as my mom had asked, I thought about her, hoping she was enjoying her visit with her sister.

I turned out the lights and crawled into bed, snuggling down under the elaborate brocade bedspread. Thank goodness there was a fuzzy blanket beneath it that was warm and cozy. I settled in, on my back, and gazed up at the canopy over my head. The bed was so large I felt lost in it. Maybe that’s why sleep eluded me. Or maybe it was because I felt I shouldn’t be in this room.

I sighed and turned on my side to stare at the window illuminated by streetlights below.

It wasn’t long before a strange feeling stole over me. Someone was watching. I trembled slightly and turned over on my back. I’d never felt so alone in my life. But then again, it seemed as if I wasn’t alone. Turning on the bedside lamp, I jumped out of bed and patrolled the room, even opening the door and looking into the parlor. Nothing. No one.

So I clicked off the light, scrambled into bed and pulled the fuzzy blanket up over my head, letting only my nose stick out from under the covers. This was just a new experience. I was away from home. I was nervous anyway. I told myself all these things trying to convince myself that the sensation of being watched was simply my imagination.

I tried to go to sleep. My new life would be better in daylight. I could at least get a better look at my surroundings. Falling asleep would make the day come sooner.

But it didn’t work. Even though my eyes were shut tight, I couldn’t relax. Time went by. I don’t know how much time. And then I heard a faint noise.

It was the giggling of a child.

Could it be television from someone’s room?

But it didn’t sound like television. It sounded real, as if a child was playing in the hall maybe. It was a high-pitched laugh, like a little girl’s. My skin prickled, and my stomach tightened. Another chilly sensation swept over me. I was being watched. But there was no one in my room with me.

Tossing back the covers, I jumped out of bed and ran to the nearby window. Could the sound be coming from outside? A streetlamp pooled light on the sidewalk. Gray fog swirled in the air making the deserted street below seem spooky as if from a B-rated horror movie. I shivered at the thought and turned to hop back into bed.

At that moment, a flash of white raced past me, and I caught it out of the corner of my eye. I heard the giggling again, louder now. Looking back at my bed, I spotted a little girl standing on the other side of it. She was dressed in white and her slender hand reached toward my doll as if she wanted to touch it and play with it.

“Hey!”

She looked up, startled, and smiled at me as if she knew me. And then she ran from the bed toward the door to the parlor which was shut. My heart raced. I followed her, flinging open the door to stare out into the empty parlor with the gray streetlights creating a defused, half-light glow in the room.

How had the little girl gone through the door? It had been shut! How could she have disappeared so quickly? Was I dreaming? Hallucinating? I pinched myself to see if I was awake.

I was. The floor was cold even through my socks. I crossed the parlor and unlocked and opened the outer door to the hall. All was quiet except for the deep tick-tock of a grandfather clock at one end. I bit my lower lip and retreated to the parlor, making sure the door to the hall was locked.

Standing silently for a moment, listening for laughter, I let my heart settle into a normal rhythm. What was the matter with me?

Thinking back at the vision of the little girl, I realized something was wrong about it. The child’s clothes were more fitting for the nineteenth century, not the twenty-first. In fact, her clothes reminded me of the lacy frills of my doll. And the girl’s hair was long, curled in dark blond ringlets down her back, and she wore a white ribbon in her hair. Her body didn’t seem solid. It was transparent, almost ghost-like.

Ah, shit!

I charged back into the bedroom and leaped into the bed, pulling the covers over my head. As if hiding under covers could save me. I was behaving like a child myself, but I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know a phone number to call unless I punched 911. Then what would I say to the firemen or police? I saw a ghost standing by my bed. Right. That made as much sense as me inheriting a million dollars from a woman I’d never known or seen.

But I had inherited a million dollars . . . two million to be exact.

That realization didn’t thrill me. So I tried to think of another explanation, something besides the paranormal.

Try as I might, I couldn’t make sense of my experience. My mind whirled and twirled but I couldn’t come up with a clear explanation. Later I heard the grandfather clock bong once in the distance, ghost-like itself. This place was too darn spooky for me, I remember thinking. Soon after that I must have relaxed enough to fall asleep.

 

About the Author

Jan Scarbrough is the author of the popular Bluegrass Reunion series, writing heartwarming contemporary romances about home and family, single moms and children, and if the plot allows, about another passion--horses. Living in the horse country of Kentucky makes it easy for Jan to add small town, Southern charm to her books, and the excitement of a horse race or a big-time, competitive horse show.

Leaving her contemporary voice behind, Jan has written MY LORD RAVEN, a medieval romance. Her paranormal Gothic romance, TANGLED MEMORIES, was a RWA Golden Heart finalist.

A member of Novelist, Inc. and the Romance Writers of America, Jan has published with Kensington, Five Star, ImaJinn Books, Resplendence Publishing and Turquoise Morning Press.

Buy Links


Contact Links

Website: http://www.janscarbrough.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Jan-Scarbrough-Reader-Page/204815941631
Twitter @romancerider

Publisher: http://www.turquoisemorningpressbookstore.com/
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Jan-Scarbrough/e/B001K8768A
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/Jan_Scarbrough


This product or book may have been distributed for review; this in no way affects my opinions or reviews.