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Not a ‘Green’ Gage: Author speaks

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Gage runs the L’Griffe, AKA the dragon shifter mafia on Earth. Since the human realm has no supernatural police, the L’Griffe do more than loan money or sell contraband. When it comes to dragon shifters, the L’Griffe are the law. And Gage isn’t the only sheriff in town, either. Other secret groups have their own gangs, including ghouls, demons, and everything in between. It’s an awkward balance, but it works. Until the demons consolidate into…
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“An action-packed series full of adventures, romance and fun! If you want a fantasy world with sexy times, this series is for you.” -Rosee Reads

Don’t miss the exciting conclusion to the Angelbound Offspring Series!

1. Maxon
2. Portia
3. Zinnia
4. Rhodes
5. Kaps
6. Mack
7. Huntress
8. Gage
* This is a completed series.

Perfect for teen and young adult readers who want their book series to deliver: badass world building, angels, demons, paranormal romance, fresh themes from contemporary fiction, LOL romantic comedy, gods and goddesses, dark fantasy, strong girls and women as heroines, themes about loners and outcasts, the best laughs in humorous literature, general coming of age whackery, and (most importantly) truly unusual epic fantasy.

Christine Speaks:

  • What’s your latest book?
    >>>I am currently on the launch tour for
    GAGE, Book 8 in my Angelbound Offspring series. Paranormal fun with dragons. Woot!
  • What about ‘snark’? is it good or bad?
    >>> Snark is a sign of a higher life form. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
  • Is it easy to write humour?
    >>>I love writing humor. Although, I recently learned that girls aren’t supposed to be funny. The things you miss by going to an all-girl’s school!
  •   if you could be an animal which animal would you be?
    >>>My spirit animal is Winston Churchill. First of all, the man is brilliant in his use of language. Second, he has grit. The guy waited for years until the world caught up with him about Hitler. Third, Churchill wore the kind of onesies that were popular with gas station attendants in the 1950’s… and made it work for him.
  • How many ‘packs’ should a hero have? Are 8 too many and what might a character lick off them? Why?
    >>>Damn, I am way behind on the packs thing. I’m more of a ‘v muscle going under the waistband of your jeans’ type of girl. Something to work toward!
  • What music inspires you? And which instrument is best for which scenes?
    >>>Lately, I’ve been listening to movie scores. If you want to write a kick-ass scene, play Gladiator!
  • Some academics etc claim that there are only 7 archetypal stories in all writing. Do you agree? If not, please explain and give examples of other story archetypes that you have used.
    >>>For me, it’s not about the archetypal story, it’s about the journey your character takes. In this sense, I love the awesome journeys couples take AFTER falling in love. There’s a lot to mine here and few pay attention!
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Christina Bauer thinks that fantasy books are like bacon: they just make life better. All of which is why she writes romance novels that feature demons, dragons, wizards, witches, elves, elementals, and a bunch of random stuff that she brainstorms while riding the Boston T. Oh, and she includes lots of humor and kick-ass chicks, too. 

Christina graduated from Syracuse University’s Newhouse School with BA’s in English along with Television, Radio, and Film Production. She lives in Newton, MA with her husband, son, and semi-insane golden retriever, Ruby.

Be the first to know about new releases from Christina by signing up for her newsletter: http://tinyurl.com/CBupdates

Stalk Christina On Social Media – She Loves It!
Blog: http://monsterhousebooks.com/blog/category/christina
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorBauer/
Twitter: @CB_Bauer
TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@christinacbbauer?lang=en
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LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/christina-bauer-481b12139/
Web site: http://monsterhousebooks.com/authors/cbauer

Yeah Kilts! Book Blitz

Yeah Kilts! Book Blitz

Hunk alert!” screams a female, accompanied by the clanging of a large, obnoxious cowbell. She’s swaying dangerously on a stool next to the bar, holding the bell high above her head in one hand while egging her companions on with the other. She rings it again, the sound piercing the air like a scream. I can’t figure out where the damn bell came from, but the sound is splitting my skull.
I’m in the doorway watching about thirty fit young women, some huddled in clusters, while others are standing on black leather couches and chairs, giving a cheering response to the bell ringer.
Their raucous behavior is disturbing in this newly designed space of tarnished metal and aged wood. We use this place for private parties because it’s well away from the main MacTavish Cellars tasting room, which is packed to the rafters at the moment. I came back here to check on this group on my way to look over a shipment we received this morning in the barrel room. I realized something was wrong when I heard muffled shouting coming from the room.
The cowbell clangs again and I resist the urge to rush in and yank that thing away from her before I sustain permanent damage. The cowbell-wielding blonde sings out, “What do we want, sisters?” while motioning to the crowd to respond to her maniacal question. The women chant, “Hunk, hunk, hunk,” demanding a mob’s satisfaction.
Shaun, my server, is wild-eyed and backed against the front of the bar, two stools away from the blonde, fearing for the safety of his manhood. I will kill him for letting this hen party get out of hand. I do a quick search of these brash women. Where the hell is Preston? They both should be working this party, and Preston should be showing Shaun the ropes. Why did he leave a newbie alone with a room full of women?
I slip behind the bar, unseen at the moment by the blonde, to restore order to this chaos. The chant is getting louder. Shaun’s pleading gaze swings to me. I grab a bottle and glasses and lean toward him. “Find Preston and tell him to get his arse back in here. Get Geordie and Calum in here as well,” I say, trying to prevent my voice from carrying. He bobs his head before bolting away from the bar and through the crowd of women, their chants following him as he disappears through the doors.

Darling Mafia: Book Blitz

Darling Mafia: Book Blitz

As I sit across from the four Kutsenko brothers, I press my lips together to keep from drooling. No four men should be so strikingly handsome. Not all from the same family, anyway. I fight a valiant battle against letting my gaze drift toward the eldest, Maksim, whose ice-blue eyes bore into me. After years of negotiating billion-dollar investment contracts while facing countless ruthless businessmen, I’ve learned to keep my expression studiously blank. But it’s a true struggle today. Instead, I focus my attention on the squirrelly lawyer sitting across the conference table. While he’s disingenuous with each comment, he’s a good negotiator. But I’m better. How cliché am I?
While I feel Maksim watching me, I focus on Dmitry Yakovitch as he continues to argue the merits of the venture capitalist company I represent, RK Capital Group, merging with Kutsenko Partners. What he means is the merits of Kutsenko Partners acquiring RK Capital Group, then stripping it and making it another money-laundering shell corporation. While most people in New York have little awareness of the Russian mafia, I do. The Kutsenko brothers’ names appear on no titles or deeds anywhere in New York City, but it wasn’t difficult to determine which shell companies likely belong to them. Their assumption that I’m unfamiliar with them is proving beneficial to me as they continue to whisper amongst themselves in Russian. I think they may even believe they’re convincing me that they don’t speak much English.
The senior partners of RK Capital Group know who I’m negotiating with, though they may not know I’m aware of these Russians’ more nefarious operations. They’ve given me the go-ahead to agree to a merger with an eventual acquisition, but only for the right price. A price to the tune of twenty billion dollars. Considering an investment firm like Goldman Sachs is worth nearly one-hundred-and-twenty billion dollars, my clients’ asking price appears reasonable.
“Mr. Yakovitch, I shall stop you now.” I raise my left hand, pen caught between my index and middle fingers. When I have his attention, I lean back in my chair and casually twirl the pen over my index finger and thumb. “Fifty billion is my clients’ asking price. You know that. Your clients know that. RK doesn’t oppose the merger. What they oppose is the insulting offer you’ve made. It’s nearly noon, and I’m hungry, Mr. Yakovitch. I have a delicious ham sandwich waiting for me. I even have three chocolate chip cookies waiting for me. If we aren’t going to make any progress, I shall let you go, so I can move onto my eagerly anticipated lunch.”

Hot Heroes! Book Blitz

Hot Heroes! Book Blitz

Fired Up by Desiree Holt

“Three-alarm fire at an apartment house,” he told her. “I hear it’s bad. Scully’s got it. I got him on his cell. Get going and meet him there. And don’t skimp on the shots.”
She’d had to park two blocks away because the police had all the streets blocked off. Not a problem. She’d long ago taken to wearing comfortable shoes on the job. Carrying her camera bag, she jogged to the scene of the fire. Her editor had been right. Bad barely began to describe it.
Flames engulfed the entire building. Residents in everything from nightclothes to jeans huddled and looked on as firefighters battled the blaze, mothers hugging their children, neighbors checking in with each other. A woman was sobbing hysterically in the arms of a friend, screaming something unintelligible. The neighbor tried to console the frantic woman, but Misa saw the look of despair on her face. The firemen were doing their best to contain the blaze, but their hoses didn’t seem to be making much headway.
“Where’s Braddock?” she heard a man shout.
Probably his captain, given the brass on his uniform.
“Still inside,” someone yelled back.
Misa’s insides clutched. Sam, her Sam, was still in that building? How on earth would he ever escape alive?

Brave Enough to Dare by EmKay Connor

“Did you know I trained with your dad?”
My head whipped around. My father was persona non grata within the JFRD. No one talked about Marco Rizzoli, but everyone knew the story of how he’d shown up for an overtime shift, drunk off his ass, and crashed the aerial truck he was driving into a school bus. There were no casualties, but the delay getting on scene resulted in the death of an eighty-year-old man.
Three months later, my dad offed himself with a combination of vodka and sleeping pills. The coroner ruled the manner of death undetermined, but it didn’t matter if it was intentional or accidental. The result was the same.
“We trained at the academy together. I was still living and working in Detroit when he—”
“Yeah?” I cut him off, not needing to hear the words.
“Your dad was a good man.” Whelan’s chair clicked hard as he sat forward, forearms resting against the edge of his desk. “He was a helluva firefighter…before your mom died.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat constricted.
“You have his instincts.” Whelan covered the catch in his words with a gruff cough. “I like your potential, Rizzoli, but you’re gonna ruin your chances of a career in firefighting if you don’t get rid of that chip on your shoulder and learn to obey orders. This is your first and last chance to get it together.”

Vortex to Dare by Carina Alyce

“They sent her?” one of the guys said, dressed in the same navy-blue uniform Bianca wore with the same black piece of tape over their badge from the funeral. Unlike Bianca, he was limping.
Someone shushed him. “At least she’s breathing.” That guy sported a shiner.
Now that she looked at it, these guys looked like they’d gone twelve rounds with Muhammad Ali.
“I’m Lieutenant Pasquale,” the man who let her in said. “We’re going to drop you off with the rest of the volunteers.”
That confused her. “I thought I was the only rookie coming here.”
According to the email she’d gotten, which had led her from firehouse to firehouse like a firefighting pied piper, less than half of the rookies had volunteered. And there were about sixty firehouses to cover.
“Other shifts volunteered to stay over. They’re smart enough to get paid overtime,” the lieutenant said.
Of course. It also implied that she wasn’t getting overtime.
Too bad. He wasn’t going to rain on her parade. This was her first day as an official firefighter. “I’m sure they deserve it for working a double.”
He twisted up his face as if he wasn’t sure what to make of her.
She got it. Curvy Black girls with braids didn’t become firefighters. According to TV, she was born to be a chatty hairdresser or a housekeeper with a snarky attitude.
It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last that someone would give her that look. Fortunately, in her graduating class there were two more women who looked just like her, three White chicks and two Latinas. Women were coming to the firehouses, whether the men were ready or not.

Broken Signal by LC Taylor

I park my truck on the curb, not caring if it gets towed, and head into the airport. After getting a ticket, I get through security and slump into a seat, waiting for the flight. My mind is on constant replay, and I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. I fish out my phone and take a deep breath before hitting send. When her voicemail picks up, I clench my jaw. “Kate… I’ve left. I’m going …” I pause, not sure what to say, because I don’t even know what I’m doing. “I’m sorry, you deserve better.”
Disconnecting the phone, I stand and shove the device into the receptacle as I board the plane.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but the stranger next to me elbows me. “Hey, buddy. Wake up. You need to get off the plane.”
I shove my hand into my pants and pull out the wadded paper I apparently shoved inside. Glancing at the information, I hail a cab and climb in back. “Can you take me here?” I hand him the paper, relieved when he says it’s only forty minutes away.
The call from earlier floods my mind. The paramedic saying the young kid was dead rocked my world. It was exactly the same way Brian took his life. He had been my best friend—the little brother I never had, and I couldn’t save him. My mind drifts to Kate and the person answering the phone, telling me she didn’t want me. Everyone leaves me—she’s right. No one really loved me. They always left. Either they died, leaving me heartbroken and alone, or they just didn’t want me. Like my own parents, who left me at the front door of the fire station.
The cab stops and I climb out. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I head inside to find a woman wearing a class A uniform. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the chief.”
“You found her. I’m Chief Chesney Phillips, and you are?”
“Danny Gamble. I’m here about the job posting for the Lieutenant’s position.”

Flying High: Book Blitz

Flying High: Book Blitz

Harry crossed the street. No one crossed after him, but whoever was after him was closer now.
He could feel it.
That cold stab of dread, sixth sense, gut feeling. Like icy fingers down his skin.
And if someone was after Harry, it wasn’t good. He was the hunter, never the hunted. If he was the mark . . .
Christ. He was the mark.
Harry ducked past two women, slipping through a narrow utility alley, and he ran. He was being chased now, silent and fast. At the end of the alley, he turned left and went through an open door, up a set of stairs to the roof, his heart hammering.
He ran along the roofline, exposed but faster than on the street. He heard footsteps chasing behind him but didn’t dare turn around, and as the muted whirr of a bullet pinged past his head, he jumped.
He knew the sound of that gun. It was a SIG Pro 9mm with a suppressor.
French special forces, standard issue.
He landed on a first-floor balcony, using his momentum to leap again, this time to the ground. Pain shot through his ankle but he kept moving, down another alley, and through an open door and into a darkened hall.
Hands grabbed him, spun him and pinned his back against the wall as the door closed behind him. In half a disorienting second, Harry pulled his gun to his assailant’s head at the same time he realised he had a pistol pressed against his.
Eyes flashed in the dark, familiar and close. A man’s body pressed him hard to the wall, their chests heaving. A hand covered his mouth.
Harry didn’t dare breathe, his finger on the trigger, still aimed at the man’s head. The cold press of metal against Harry’s temple told him to wait.
The sound of feet outside came running. The crackle of a radio, a French voice just outside the door. “I’ve lost him.” The footsteps faded, and only after a long moment did the man move his hand from Harry’s mouth.
Harry could see then who it was.
Asher Garin.
Asher fucking Garin.
Adrenaline exploded through Harry’s veins and he started, pushing his pistol harder into Asher’s temple. Asher gnashed his teeth. Anger and defiance flashed in his eyes. “Keep quiet or you’ll kill us both,” Asher hissed, barely a whisper.
His words didn’t make sense.
Asher had saved him?

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