Wednesday, March 15, 2017


"I'm so excited! And I just can't hide it!" I've been singing that song all day because BREAKING POINT IS OUT!  I'm so proud of the novella and I hope you'll all give it a shot.

To those who have already purchased the novella, THANK YOU SO MUCH! To those who haven't, I hope you'll check it out.

Langley and Trish have been the strong couple who've set an example for the rest of the guys, but they don't live in a rose colored vacuum. This novella shows how they struggle at times to hold things together, just like every other couple on the planet. The story is emotional and you'll cry and you'll laugh. I hope you'll go away feeling satisfied and love them both the way I do.

After fifteen years of marriage, Trish Marks has hit her breaking point. Her social work caseload has doubled, her son is acting out, and her SEAL husband is never home. Something has to give. When she's shot and nearly killed by an irate husband during a home check, it does.

Navy SEAL Senior Chief Petty Officer Langley Marks is five years away from retirement and his pension. He knows there’s trouble in his marriage when he returns home from a deployment to a wife who’s distant, overworked, stressed, and unhappy. He’s only seen her like this once before, when she nearly died after giving birth to their last child. When she’s shot, he re-lives that terrible experience, and feels just as helpless.

But he’s not about to fly away and leave her to fight her way back alone this time. He’s willing to sacrifice it all to prove to her she’s the most important thing in his life. He just has to find a way to make her believe it. 

A TEASER:(There are other excerpts in the blogs before this one)

“You know I didn’t want to leave you and the children, Trish. You have to know that it tears me apart every time I have to leave. It nearly killed me to go, knowing you needed me.”
She stared at him. “You never said anything. You just got your gear and left.”
His eyes burnt. “I’m telling you now. If I’d said it before…it would have made it harder for me to leave. To do what I had to do.”
She stared off into the distance, silent.
“This is who I am. This is what I do.”
He knew he’d said the wrong thing when she turned and walked back into their room.
Langley ran a hand over his face. She had a right to be upset.
She wouldn’t be on his ass if she didn’t still love him.
But she wasn’t on his ass.
She was cool, distant, not arguing with him. She’d held on to this for seven months. Seven months of stewing and pain. That scared the hell out of him.


Two more new releases I thought you might want to check out! 

One of my BFFs, Devon Matthews has released her second book. I just have to give it another plug here during my release. It's a Western Historical Romance. I'm so eclectic I read everything. You won't be disappointed if you give it a shot and it is in KU. 


When Rose Benton left Texas five years ago, she carried a secret that tore her family apart. Now she's back to confront her brother, whose disastrous debts have endangered the family ranch. Faced with losing everything, Rose turns to the one man who can help—handsome, headstrong Trey Delaney, her late father's former right-hand man.

With their adjoining ranches legally tied, Trey has only two choices: agree to Rose's plan, or lose his own birthright. Caught between hard luck and a desperate woman, Trey has a few tricks of his own in store for the neighbors who stole his land.

The 1880's cattle country heats up when Trey and Rose unite to thwart her brother's scheme and save their land. In tough, protective Trey, Rose at last finds a man deserving of her trust. In Rose, Trey discovers a spirited woman with a heart as big as Texas. Can they heal old wounds and give in to the love both need... or will desire turn to dust when past betrayals are destined to repeat with a vengeance?


And another friend Maggie Secara has just released her dark horror fantasy. It's really as creepy and scary as it looks. It's written in the same time period and vein as a Sherlock Holmes. 

Black Dog, Grey Lady


From his manor above the least haunted village in England, a mysteriously magical country gentleman Mr Random Corwyn leads a team of paranormal investigators – a genteel lady novelist, her clever maid, and an ex-army captain – to vanquish supernatural horrors haunting England’s green and pleasant lands.  Still reeling from a disastrous undertaking in Persia, the team has returned to face something Random knows is impossible: nightmarish deaths in the Village, ghosts in the Hall, and a vengeful goblin hound terrorizing them all.


After the dreadful business in Persia, I am sure no one will be surprised to learn that I have abandoned my studies of the mystic East in favor of our native magical lore. I have also concluded that even English magic is best explored not at the so-called witching hour but in the pleasant light of day with the library windows flung open to the air. This was proved a few weeks ago, when I looked up shivering from my work, and was relieved to find only a heavy mist from the river lurking at the windows—an honest English fog, and nothing more. Nothing with teeth.
Still, damp air is threat enough to old books, so I hurried to close and latch the casements myself rather than ring for a maid. Thus it was that as I returned to opening many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, as the poet says, I discovered a note folded around a long sable feather.
“Come to the choir at once,” it read, “where late the sweet birds sang.”
There was no signature, but the familiar, hasty hand was dear to me, and so at once I had Polly pack a bag or two, including my pistol; and we set out together for the manor of Corbisend, and its the pleasantly unhaunted village.
One might well ask why I should suppose that a note found by chance in a book seldom opened was meant for me and was not, like the book, simply a relic of antique scholarship. I may be no more than an amateur paraphysical observer, but I had no doubts. And when we arrived a few hours later, my instinct was quickly proved.
Random Corwyn flung back the door in rolled shirtsleeves and half-buttoned waistcoat, vibrating with excitement. His clear sapphire eyes fairly danced with delight when he saw me.
“Violet! Oh my dear girl, this is excellent! Come in, come in!”
Tall and slender, sharp-featured, stylish: Mr. Corwyn of London, San Francisco, and Corbisend is a worldly young gentleman, somewhat older than I—or so I believe. Whatever his age, he is a jumble of friendliness and reserve, astonishing hauteur and puckish mischief. In truth, I’ve never known quite how to describe him since we first met in my brother’s rooms at Cambridge, before Peter’s accident, and that was some years ago.
After hurriedly bestowing my coat, bonnet, and Polly on his grumbling but faithful butler, Random ushered me up the stairs and into the library. No, not the library you’ve seen but the one beyond the arched, apparently brass bound door that looks to have been made for children, or elves. Surely you’ve seen it and supposed, if you gave it any thought at all, that it was a sort of folly, a bit of whimsy, and in fact it is. However, this whimsical trompe l’oeil masks the true entrance to Mr. Corwyn’s fabulous cabinet of curiosities, a room—nay, a suite—filled with wonders gathered from the ends of the earth.
I expected to be delighted; in fact I was somewhat bemused, for the main room had taken on the nature of a workshop. Gas lamps ringed the walls above work benches crowded in among the orderly collections of toadstones, mermaid skeletons, and unicorn horns. Every surface was buried in books, scrolls, or half-opened packing boxes. A bronze Assyrian fish goddess leered at me across a new microscope; the marble copy of a Roman emperor’s sandaled foot did duty as a paperweight.
At least the wall of fan-topped French doors, usually curtained, had not changed: all stood open to admit across the balcony a golden moorland afternoon that would be hours in fading. Even so, a damp, slightly mildewed odor hung in the air. Someone, I thought, should look to his drains.
“Stand there,” he ordered. Unaided but willing, I stepped carefully up onto the low box indicated and waited, giving some thought as is my habit to my immediate surroundings while he bustled about.
Clearly experiments had been occupying his time of late. A number of curious instruments—or as Random sometimes calls them, toys—sat, stood, or squatted on a long table within easy reach of my left hand.
While I surveyed the mysteries, Random shoved papers aside, lifted the marble foot to let a parchment scroll snap shut, penciled a few lines into a notebook, and ignored me. It is no good trying to correct his rather bohemian manners, but the urge to do so is powerful.
“I’m very well, thank you, Mr. Corwyn,” I said reprovingly. “The journey was without incident and yes, tea would be lovely.”
“What? No. Yes. Tea? Daniel!” All at once, his frenetic energy found direction. “Now put your left hand on that— No, the other one. That’s it.”
It was a broad metal disk set into a wooden base that might once have been a collar box. Into my other hand he placed a tapered glass rod the size of a buttonhook. “Hold this, tightly please. Thank you. Now stand quite still, and do not move.”
“May I breathe?”
Finger to lips. “Pray do not speak.”
Then all was still.
From somewhere in the clutter a violin, his beautiful Stradivarius, came into his hands, and he began to play. Music has always been Random’s principal talent, and though he pursues many arts, his great gift is for the violin. But today, he had played no more than a few lilting measures when the room went suddenly dark, and the air was rent with the most pitiable moan. I thought at first it was simply the music but it was a terrible sound, fraught with despair out of the depths of nightmare.
Fortunately I am not easily startled, and rather than drop the glass rod, or remove my hand from the tingling metal disk, I froze, chilled by the horrible sound. I may have swayed on my feet a bit. Gradually some light returned, but not the light of a summer afternoon. Rather, it was as if all the color had drained out of the world, leaving only shadows and vague forms. The damp bitter smell I had noted earlier wrinkled my nose and, if I am honest, my stomach as well.
“Now, Violet.” Random’s firm voice came to me as across a distance, as if he were speaking in another room. In another country. “Tell me what you see.”
“Nothing,” I replied after a moment. My own voice fell flat and dull at my feet.
“No, no, no, Miss Delacourt. Your report, if you please. What do you see?”


Here's some info about Maggie:

Maggie Secara started out wanting to be an archaeologist. Then a reporter, then an international spy, a poet, an opera singer, a novelist, a historian. She ended up being a bit of each, earning a Masters in English and becoming involved with historical costume and improvisational theatre. When all those passions came together at once, she decided to be a novelist again, and so she did. Her short fiction has appeared in a variety of publications, including New Realm and Unsung Stories magazines, and she recently started work on a Victorian fantasy series. Maggie lives in Los Angeles, California, with one adoring husband, two goofy cats, four magical novels, and half a million English words to toy with.

Thanks for stopping by and celebrating these great new releases with me. 
Teresa Reasor