J.M. Bray's Blog

Life is a strange and wonderful journey, isn't it? Several years ago I connected with a small group of authors, all of us hoping to better our writing, get feedback and mutual support. One of them was Stacey Trombley, and I'm beyond excited to share the cover of her novel with you. Congradulations, Stacey!


Nakedby Stacey TrombleyRelease Date: 07/07/15Entangled Teen305 pages
Summary from Goodreads:
A teenage prostitute looking for redemption must face her secrets before they destroy her…
When tough teenager Anna ran away to New York, she never knew how bad things would get. After surviving as a prostitute, a terrifying incident leaves her damaged inside and out, and she returns home to the parents she was sure wouldn't want her anymore.
Now she has a chance to be normal again. Back in school, she meets a boy who seems too good to be true. Cute, kind, trusting. But what will he do when he finds out the truth about her past? And when a dark figure from New York comes looking for Anna, she realizes she must face her secrets…before they destroy her.



Pre-Order Links:Amazon│Barnes & Noble│Kobo Books


About the Author

Stacey Trombley lives in Ohio with her husband and the sweetest Rottweiler you’ll ever meet. She thinks people are fascinating and any chance she has, she’s off doing or learning something new. She went on her first mission trip to Haiti at age twelve and is still dying to go back. Her “places to travel” list is almost as long as her “books to read” list. 
She wants to bring something new to the world through her writing, but just giving a little piece of herself is more than enough.
Keep a look out for her debut novel NAKED, coming from Entangled Teen in 2015
Author Links:


Cover Reveal Organized by:

Shrouded is in the bag. I submitted it to my publisher in early December. It was a labor of love, but not for the reasons you might imagine. The story was there and I love it. Every critique partner that’s read it cried at least twice -- the good kind of cry -- I feel like it took the right direction. But here’s the hitch:
Part of me didn't want to finish it.
It’s the last book in the Shroud Trilogy and when it goes, I feel like I’ll lose something. Some writers love wrapping things up, they enjoy tying the bow. I thought I was one of them, until now. I have other stories, one of which I’m 35k into writing, but its not this story, it’s not my first, it’s not the one I’ve lived with for all these years. As a result, I found myself over analyzing, finding faults, mulling on minutia. As I worked on polishing it, I was also unable to write anything else, my mind refused to open to other ideas.
At first, I suspected that writer’s block had finally hit. Now, I’m not so sure. It felt more like cowardice. A fear that the next story wont work, or happen, that the magic which made words fall from my fingertips in a deluge, would be carried away on the winds of change. I suppose there’s really nothing I can do, except move forward and see. Readers have asked for stories set exclusively in the Realm, and while that may eventually happen, Shrouded will receive my first "The End." Even typing that is like a punch to the chest.
As a reader, or writer, what happens with you at the finish of a story, or series? Are you good with it or do you get twisted up as well?

Look for a special on the first novel via Kobo in December! 

FIX UP (Patch Up #2)by Stephanie WitterNew Adult Contemporary RomanceFix Up on Goodreads: Fix Up (Patch Up, #2)

Saying “I love you'' doesn’t erase the old scars and fears. 
"I love you to insanity. I'm not even sure if it's a good thing.'' — Duke 
Skye is trying to overcome what happened with Sean. Now that she’s slowly healing, both physically and mentally, she’s determined to do something she should have done sooner. 
She’s meeting twice a week with a new, very young therapist, Dr. Marshall. 
There, she’s able to talk freely, unwind, and question things. Most of the sessions she talks about herself and her hangups, along with her relationship with Duke, which is still on rocky ground. 
"I want to taste his sweat. I want to hear his groans. I want to feel him inside of me.'' — Skye
But while Skye is slowly getting back on her feet, Duke feels like he's drowning. He’s afraid of pushing her too much, of initiating intimacy, and it’s weighing between them. Moreover, knowing that he's not the one she’s talking to anymore is making him feel things he never thought possible. 
"It’s a matter of when I’ll stop fighting." — Duke 
As days pass, Duke is showing over and over how vulnerable he truly is and how Skye has more power over him than she ever imagined. 
When Skye sees how they keep hurting each other, she’s determined to do everything in her power to make things right, no matter what the cost. 
But one thing is still sure; she can count on Duke whenever she needs him, even if they disagree and fight. When Duke loves, he loves with everything he’s made of, the good and the bad. 
"Loving her is confusing, making me afraid of myself and what I can do ... because I can break us both." — Duke
add buy links when availableJoin the party to celebrate Fix Up's release! 14th October Facebook Release Party On Sale for $0.99 Skye followed her long time boyfriend to Seattle for their first year of college, but he dumped her after only a week. The relationship brought only pain and destruction in Skye's life, and yet, she can't bring herself to open up and live her life. "What if I am already broken into pieces?" She hates to be touched, hiding under her oversized shirts and behind her wild frizzy hair. Even her bubbly roommate can't reach her. And yet ... "I'm the guy who knows how you can hurt so much that your insides feel like they're cut and bleeding." The tall, handsome, and tattooed TA in her psychology class changes everything when he literally collides with her and confronts her. For the first time in a long time, she wants to try and open up to this guy whose dark, intense eyes can't hide his own pain despite his dazzling smile getting to her. However, just when she's starting to live again, her ex-boyfriend comes back, breaking her time and time again, making it all the more complicated. She wants to fight for herself and for this building thing with the TA, even when he pushes her away, but can two broken people patch each other up? "I never thought colliding with someone could change lives, but it is possible." * Due to some shocking scenes, this novel is for readers of 18 and up

Amazon USAmazon UK
Coming out late November.Change Up on Goodreads: Change Up (Patch Up, #3)



In Patch Up and Fix Up you had Skye and Duke’s story. 
Now, it’s time for Derek and Kate to find their path. 
He fights for the people he loves. 
She fights against love. 
Kate Andrews is starting her second year of college in Seattle. She is happy to leave Chicago and her dysfunctional family behind to be with her friends again. Growing up she thought that her parents' loveless marriage was all her father’s fault, but that summer she discovered that things are so much more complicated in life and love. Her mother is bipolar. That doesn’t mean her father isn’t unfaithful, nor does he support her and her choices. Additionally, he isn't a great father or husband, but it brings a new perspective in her life; the way she envisions love.

Derek Williams graduated college a few months ago, and while he moved back in again with his single mother and teenage brother, he never thought that he would be struggling with two crappy jobs. He is not succeeding in either of his jobs or in his countless plans for the future. Instead, he’s trying to bring back his brother and set him on a straight path, while trying to avoid the wrong crowd hounding him, thanks to his brother. Together with fighting his mother on her lack of support in their family, this all has caused chaos.


Both of them are very different. Their upbringing is opposite; their vision of love and life contrast, and yet …


“I want to open up to it, open up to the possibility of heartbreak even if I’m scared to death. I’m ready to change up.'' — KATE

They’re both still hung up on each other. They can’t forget that one night they shared months ago, can’t ignore their attraction and quickly maturing love. They match in every way that matters, but time and time again their respective families are getting in the way.

"He’s the commitment kind while I’m anti-commitment." — KATE

Are they willing to fight for each other? Is Kate ready to risk her comfort and everything else for love? Is Derek prepared to chose which battles are worth fighting for?

“It’s never been friendship, and it’ll never be.’’ — DEREK
Stephanie Witter is a French dreamer. She started learning English at three, and fell in love with the language. Always with a book, or two close by, she started reading in English when she couldn't wait any longer for Harry Potter to be translated in French. After a while, reading wasn't enough. She started writing Young Adult and New Adult Contemporary novels and PATCH UP is her first New Adult Contemporary novel. Facebook Page: http://www.facebook.com/Stephanie.witter.author
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/StephanieR76
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/Stephaniewitter
Blog: http://stephanie-witter.blogspot.com
Website: http://stephanie-witter.weebly.com



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Krystal Shannan has stopped by on her whirlwind tour to let us have a look at her new novel...let's jump right in!

Backed into a corner and desperate to escape, she does something she swore wouldn’t ever be possible again –trusting a man. And he’s a vampire.
Protection via the sexy vampire Erick Thorson may prove to be a little more than she bargained for. Sparks fly between them and she finds herself agreeing to more than just protection. Though he has promised not to let anyone harm her, the small west Texas town is more than it seems and he may not be able to make good on his vow no matter how hard he tries.
Will Sanctuary be the home Bailey longs for or will she have to die to find out?
Out Now!
Amazon : Goodreads : iBooks : Kobo
Here's a Sneak Peak...but this is only the warm up folks. This book reaches molten hot levels of sexy.


My survival instincts said he wasn’t the only unattached male in the town who might choose to pursue me. Better him than someone worse, but that wasn’t a reason to lead him on. He deserved better than to be used. He’d been a gentleman, so far … and he was kind. Plus, telling him I wasn’t interested in him sexually would be an outright lie. I was a woman, and he’d awakened something that I thought had long ago been beaten out of me. Desire.“I …” I opened my mouth, but choked on my words. Rubbing my sweaty palms on my pants again, I looked up into his perfectly blue eyes and relaxed. There were no cages in Erick’s house. That I could see. No chains on the walls. He didn’t even have bars over the windows. He wasn’t Kevin. Even with all my doubts, something deep down said it was okay to give it a shot. “I want to try,” slipped from between my lips. “Trust has cost me a lot in the past, though. I’m afraid.”“I’m glad you are giving me a chance.” Erick stepped closer. Each movement was calculated and confident. He reached out and touched my cheek, then followed the line of my face down until he was cupping my chin. His fingertips brushed over my ears and slipped into the wet hair at the base of my neck. A shiver flitted across the surface of my skin. Energy charged between his hand and my cheek. Even though my first instinct was to pull away, I somehow found the courage to look up and meet his gaze instead.Full links:
Amazon: http://mybook.to/MyVikingVampire
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22831236-my-viking-vampire?from_search=true
iBooks: http://bit.ly/1zSiaEU
Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/my-viking-vampire
B&N - http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/my-viking-vampire-krystal-shannan/1120195724?ean=2940150678699


Sanctuary, Texas Pinterest Board: http://www.pinterest.com/krystalshannan/sanctuary-texas-series/ My Viking Vampire Facebook Release Party - come join us for fun, games, and lots of prizes! https://www.facebook.com/events/555291657926555/

Meet the Author:


Krystal Shannan goes to sleep every night dreaming of mythical realms with werewolves, vampires, fae, and dragons. Occasional a fabulous, completely human story slips into the mix, but powers and abilities usually crop up without fail, twisting reality into whatever her mind can conceive.
As a child, her parents encouraged her interests in Ancient Greek and Roman mythology and all things historical and magickal. As an adult the interests only grew. She is a child of Neverland and refuses to ever stop believing in fairies.
She is guilty of indulging and being a Buffy the Vampire Slayer groupie as well as an Angel fan. For those of you unfamiliar with the world of Joss Whedon, you are missing out! She also makes sure to watch as many action and adventure movies as possible. The more exciting the better. Yippee-Ki-Yay..... If you don't know the end of that phrase, then you probably don't like the same movies.
She writes stories full of action, snark, magick, and heart-felt emotion. If you are looking for leisurely paced sweet romance, her books are probably not for you. But, for those looking for a magical ride, filled with adventure, passion, and just a hint of humor. Welcome home.
Krystal ShannanPutting Magick in Romance one Soul Mate at a Time.___________________________________~ NEWSLETTER ~  Sign up for newsletter to hear about new releases and giveaways!www.krystalshannan.comwww.theromancetroupe.comFacebook Friend & Fan | Newsletter | Blog

Twitter | GoodReads | Amazon





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An Art of Love novel by Kitsy ClareNew adult romance, book 2 

The Private Internship blurb:

Sugar’s not so sweet and secrets can be deadly … especially with matters of the heart

Sienna’s bestie, Harper warned her not to intern for famous bad boy artist, Casper Mason. After all, he just fired Harper who helped Sienna get the interview. But the moment Sienna sees Casper—or Caz—sweaty and practically shirtless and swinging from chains while he works on his sculpture, she’s hooked. He’s the richest, hottest artist in New York, and he lives in the fabulous Williamsburg Sugar Factory. But he’s also an incorrigible game-player, who seems to relish testing Sienna’s loyalty with a string of unsettling tests.

She knows she should get away fast. But by the time Sienna sneaks into his locked storage room and begins to unearth his dark and terrifying secret, she’s fallen way too hard for the handsome, charismatic Caz.


Book reviewers are saying:

"Beautiful. Amazing. A fantastic read that left me wanting more." -XoXo Book Blog

"A juicy read full of passion and magnetic chemistry that will have you hooked from beginning to end." -From the Purple Matter Book Blog



Author Bio:

Kitsy Clare hails from Philadelphia and lives in New York. A romantic at heart, she loves to write about the sexy intrigue of the city, and particularly of the art world. She knows it well, having shown her paintings here before turning to writing. Model Position, her new adult novella is about artist Sienna and her friends. Living in a Bookworld says: “Beautifully written! We get to learn things about art & painting, which is refreshing. A colorful story from a promising new adult author.” The next in her series, Private Internship launches on September 29 with Inkspell.

Kitsy loves to travel, draw, read romance, spec fiction and teach writing workshops. She also writes YA as Catherine Stine. Her futuristic thriller, Ruby’s Fire was a YA finalist in the Next Generation Indie book awards. Fireseed One, its companion novel, was a finalist in YA and Sci-Fi in the USA News International Book Awards, and an Indie Reader notable. Her YA horror, Dorianna, launches fall 2014 with Evernight Teen.


Social Media links:

Kitsy Clare on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Kitsy-...

Subscribe to her newsletter: http://catherinestine.us6.list-manage...

Twitter: https://twitter.com/crossoverwriter

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/kitsy84557/

Blog: http://catherinestine.blogspot.com/

Website: http://catherinestine.com

Thanks to Crystal, who found fantastic pictures of Coleman and Jolie, the cast for the Shroud Trilogy is set!

First we have Vincent. I've always envisioned Robbie Amell for the lead. He'll have to "play down" in age, but he has the perfect look.











Addison Timlin is the ideal Jule and has that special something about her. A mischievous spark in her eyes that fits Jule to a tee.



Sari is a the heroine from the Realm and Julianne Hough rocks the part. She has that Nordic look and caring demeanor so central to the character.












This guy completely captures Coleman's intensity.  There's also a kindness in his eyes that's so vital



Last, but definitely not least, this green eyed girl jumped from my mind onto Crystal's computer. She couldn't be more perfect for Jolie. Fierce, competent, and clear-minded.

Mending the Shroud is officially a month old! 
To celebrate we're casting the actors if it were made into a movie. Some characters are set, but others are missing. Of course it would help if you've read the novel, but I'll give basic descriptions and see what happens. Post pictures or links to your suggestions for the two missing characters. The winner will receive copies of books 1&2 in the Shroud Trilogy: Tearing the Shroud and Mending the Shroud!


First we have Vincent. I've always envisioned Robbie Amell for the lead. He'll have to "play down" in age, but he has the perfect look.











Addison Timlin is the ideal Jule and has that special something about her. A mischievous spark in her eyes that fits Jule to a tee.



Sari is a the heroine from the Realm and Julianne Hough rocks the part. She has that Nordic look caring demeanor so central to the character.

However, this outstanding selection still leaves us short a couple of vital characters...okay...a bunch but there's only one prize package. :-) Coleman and Jolie. Coleman is a blond, with short hair, about 6' tall, brown eyes. He's a lifelong warrior, a bit of a rogue and has a carefree attitude.  Jolie is brunette, green eyed, athletic. She's lived life as an archer and healer. She's fun-loving and faithful to her friends.



Post your ideas in the comments and let the fun begin! 
Remember to choose one of each to qualify.

About Book One:


Forget Me Not by Stacey Nash
Genre: YA/Fantasy/Speculative Fiction
Published August 1st, 2014
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Forget-Me-Not-Stacey-Nash-ebook/dp/B00K1Q9NA6

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/forget-me-not-nash-stacey/1119538120?ean=9781460704004  


Anamae is drawn into a world which shatters everything she knew to be true.

Since her mother vanished nine years ago, Anamae and her father have shared a quiet life. But when Anamae discovers a brooch identical to her mother’s favorite pendant, she unknowingly invites a slew of trouble into their world. They’re not just jewellery, they’re part of a highly developed technology capable of cloaking the human form. Triggering the jewellery’s power attracts the attention of a secret society determined to confiscate the device – and silence everyone who is aware of its existence. Anamae knows too much, and now she’s Enemy Number One.

She’s forced to leave her father behind when she’s taken in by a group determined to keep her safe. Here Anamae searches for answers about this hidden world. With her father kidnapped and her own life on the line, Anamae must decide if saving her dad is worth risking her new friends’ lives. No matter what she does, somebody is going to get hurt.



About Book Two: Remember Me by Stacey Nash Genre: YA/Fantasy/Speculative Fiction Published October 1st, 2014



When all is lost, she must remember…

Anamae Gilbert managed to thwart The Collective and rescue her father, even though his mind is now a shell. Determined to stop Councilor Manvyke hurting her family again, she’s training to become an active resistance member and enjoying a growing romance. But things never sail along smoothly – Manvyke wants retribution. And Anamae’s name is high on his list.

After a blow to the head, she awakes in an unfamiliar location. Anamae can’t remember the last few weeks and she can’t believe the fascinating new technology she’s seeing. She’s the new kid at school and weapons training comes with ease, but something feels off. Why does the other new kid’s smile make her heart ache?

And why does she get the feeling these people are deadly?

About the Author:  

Stacey Nash writes adventure filled stories for Young Adults in the Science Fiction and Fantasy genres. When her head isn’t stuck in a fictional world, she calls the Hunter Valley of New South Wales home. It is an area nestled between mountains and vineyards, full of history and culture that all comes together to create an abundance of writing inspiration. Stacey loves nothing more than writing when inspiration strikes.


HarperCollins: http://www.harpercollins.com.au/authors/50061696/Stacey_Nash/index.aspx

Website: http://www.stacey-nash.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StaceyLeeNash

Twitter: https://twitter.com/staceynash

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/staceylnash/

Instagram: http://instagram.com/stace_nash


Pre-order buy links:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Forget-Me-Not-Stacey-Nash-ebook/dp/B00K1Q9NA6 &http://www.amazon.com/Remember-Me-Stacey-Nash-ebook/dp/B00K1Q9N5G

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/forget-me-not/id881490143?mt=11 &https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/remember-me/id881501730?mt=11

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/search?q=9781460704004+&c=books
Read below for an excerpt from Forget Me Not by Stacey Nash:

Chapter 1
It’s not getting any easier to tell my mother what’shappened, what she’s missed,what’s been going on in my life. It’s not getting any easier to survive each day without her. It’snot getting any easier to think of her and not cry. Elbow on my writing desk and chin cupped in my hand, I stare at the yellow notepaper. The lines across it are as empty as my pounding head. The spot where the tip of my favorite pen touches is marked by a growing dot, evidence that there are no right words.It’s sure as heck not getting any easier.Hoping to find inspiration, I glance at the photo waiting to be slipped into the envelope with this letter. Normally I put aside a nature shot for her, but this one’s a ‘selfie’ of me and Will. His sandy hair looks kind of messy the way it falls into hisbright eyes, and his arm, resting overmy shoulders so naturally, pulls us close together. Our grins say more than words ever can.Twirling the pen between my fingers, I gaze out thewindow at the soft autumn afternoon and daydream about what to write. A distant clang like metal against metal sounds from outside. Will must be at it again. I shoot up, lean over the desk, and raise the window, letting a rush of warm air brush my face.His jean clad legs stick out from under the hood of a beat-up car parked in their yard.That car is like a full time job, he works on it so often now. He backs out andhoists a motor, or something, onto his shoulder, lifting like it weighsno more than his kid sister. He looks up, catches me watching him, and grins. I wave and, with a sigh, plonk back into the chair, dropping my gaze to the blank sheet in front of me. I really want to write her.For nine years I’ve been writing these letters and placing them in my top drawer with a photo. It’s become a yearly tradition. At least if we ever find Mom, she’ll know what my life’s been like.Nothing comes to me. None of the thoughts ambling through my mind are quite right, so I drop the pen, pinch my lips together, and tap my fingers on the desk in a sharp rhythm that cuts through my aching head. I need the right words.I last saw her on an ordinary March school day the year I was eight. She packed my lunch, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and waved goodbye. I climbed into the bus.As she stood on the curb, she didn’t look happy or sad, scared or frightened—just the same as any other day.Heaviness squeezesmy chest and makes each inhalation of breath hurt. I’ve playedthat day back in my mind over and over, analyzed every detail: her wave, her smile, her words, her haunted look. Did she know it was goodbye?Not knowing leaves a complete emptiness inside me. Knowing if she’s alive or dead, or why she hasn’t come back would make it so much easier. Especially since Dad barely mentions her anymore, and no matter how many times I turn her photos around, they continue to spin and face the wall. I guess it’s just toohard for him.I shake my head in an effort to expel the memories, but it’s no use. The lines on thepaper blur, my eyes slide shut, and it hurts too much. I can’t do this right now. Grabbing my camera off the desk, I slam the window shut and run down the stairs,shouting to Dad, “I’ll be back for dinner.”“Wait. Can you grab milk?”He walks out of the kitchen, a five dollar bill pinched between his fingers. I pluck it from his outstretched hand and turn to leave, but his hand closes over my shoulder, spinning me around.“Everything okay?”I close my eyes and expel a long breath. He won’t want to hear it, so there’s no point sharing. “I miss her, too.”He pulls me into his chest, and it’s too much. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I throw my arms aroundhim, holding him as tight as I can while heruns a hand over my head.“Sweetheart.”I cling to him.“It’s just…”“I know.”He holds me for a long time, untilmy tears stop. When I pull away, Irub the telltale streaks from mycheeks, and shove the money inmy pocket. “Milk, right?”He nods, andI turn for the door. “Anamae,” he says, “I love you, kid.”A weaksmile raises my lips. “Love you, too.”Outside, I head straightto the white picket fence separating our yard from Will’s. He’s been my best friend since he moved here in the sixth grade, and I’m sograteful his parents decided quiet suburbiawas a better place to live than the inner city.I slap my hands ontothe flat tips and stretchover, calling, “Will.”Hepeers around the corner ofthe house, and thesight of his smile is enough torattle this awful mood.“Sure. Two minutes.”Fishingfor weeds in the garden occupies the time while I wait. TheAverys have the nicest yard on our street. Aperfectly manicured lawn complete with stone statues and spiky plants in white pebblegardens. Will’smom likes being fashionable and modern,obvious from the gravel now crunching under his feet. Appearances aren’t important. Sure it’s nice to look good, butit’s not the thing that matters most. That’s one of the thingsshe just doesn’t get about me. I always wear faded jeans and comfy t-shirts,yet sheconstantly tries to dress me up. Make me look like a girl. Still, she’s been like a second mom to me. She evengave me The Talk. I just aboutdied when I realized what was happening.Will’s coming.“Hi, Mae.”“Hey.” I grin. Love it when he shortensmy name.We stroll down our wide path and turn onto the next street.It’s only a few blocksfrom our street to a small cluster of shops. The short walk, fresh air, and Will’s banter help lighten my mood. The cafecomes into sight, and I grabhis hand, dragging him across the roadtoward another storefront—an old shop. Aqua paint peels off thebrick walls around huge glass windows,and two stories rise upabove us. Like all the shops onthis street, a big tin awningslants out over the pavement,and a balcony juts out above. Albert’sSecond-Hand Treasuresemblazons a window spanning the shop’sfront. Through the windowpiles of odd stuffare visible, cluttering the inside. According to the kids atschool, it’s evidence theold man who owns the store is a little unhinged, which earns this place the nickname, Crazy Al’s. But to me, it’s far more than that. ‘Crazy Al’s’ been a part of my life almost as long Will.“Bet you can’t find the weirdestone today,” I say.Will raises his brows and shoots me a look that says ‘you’reinsane.’ “Really, this old game? I thought you wanted to get coffee.”“Oh, come on. I need some childish fun.” I lean in toward him an smile. “Bet you can’t win.”I also need to see Al, not to talk… just see him. His grandfatherly ways might make me feel better.I drag Will toward the front door, and all the while he shakes his head and scuffs his heels. “Okay, but loser buys coffee,” he finally says, “and cake.”He pushes me through the door, making the bell overhead jingle. As he heads toward alarge table in the far corner of the shop, a small smile crosses my lips. Glancing toward the counter, I stop at a long bench and paw throughancient yellowing books andold jewelry scattering it in a disorganized mess. I’ve no idea how Al even knows what’s here.Al raises his white-grey frizzy-haired head from the newspaper sprawled on theglass counter. His bushy eyebrowslift, and he throws me a warm smile which somehow makes me feel a little better.Running my hand over the ‘treasures,’ I stop at a ceramic owl perched amongst the clutter on the table. When I turn it over in my hand, chubby little claws grip thesides of a skateboard. I hold it up so Will can see it. “Check this out.”“A skating owl?” Will laughs. “I can top that.”He holds up a bookwith the title Peanutsin Love. Onthe cover two peanuts hold hands, their cute little shell bodies in a seaof pink hearts.“Not good enough.” I scan the table lookingfor something better and spot a pileofold movies scattered over the next table. I move them aside one by one,looking for a good title. Sunlight dances across thetable and glints off something shiny. A blue flower with a yellow center. My heart jumps, the only part of me still moving. It can’t be.Surely Dad didn’t pawn it or give it to Al. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It can’t possibly have been made into something else.A small noiseof surpriseescapes my lax mouth, and a memory flashes into my mind: the pendant lying on Mom’s pillow the day she disappeared.Will chucklesfrom the corner. I drag my gaze away from the flowerbrooch to see a brightpink pith hat sitting atop his sandy head. He eyes my open palm, which now holds the brooch.“You call that weird?”I run my fingersover the cool glazed metal, and a lump grows in my throat. “It’s the same as the forget-me-not pendantMom always wore.”Not missing a beat, he raises his voice toward the back of the shop. “How much?”Al pauses inhis perusal of thepaper, two fingertips touching his tongue as if to dampen them as heflicks a page over. His bushyeyebrows lift, and he clears his throat.“Gosh, lad, for that?” I hold up the brooch, and Al squints at it. “It’s forMae?” He smiles at me.“Yep.” Will pulls his wallet out, and empties the coins intohis cupped hand. “Nothing,” Alsays, then flicks his gaze to me. “Tell your Dad poker’s ontomorrow night. All the boys are coming.”I return his smile with a nod. “Sure thing, Al.”“Take care, Mae.” He doesn’t mentiontoday’s Mom’s anniversary—the day she disappeared, but he doesn’t have to. Even thoughhe never knew her, I’ve always suspected it’s whyhe took me and Dad under his wing. Especially after Nan died; her death upended the last slither of normalcy we had.“No refunds….” Al says.“Without magic,” I chime in on his usual farewell. No wonder peoplethink he’s crazy,since he’s always saying stupid things. Asign hangs on the wall above the counter mimickinghis words. No refunds without magic.We walk out the door, and thebell jingles. “You owe me cake,”Will says. “I do not. The brooch won.”“No way, the peanutsdefinitely—”“The peanutsdid not beat the skating owl,” I say, and we bothlaugh.I wantto go home. I want to go straight to mom’s pendant. I want to compare it to this brooch, but I promised Will cake and coffee.He’d understand, but it wouldn’t befair after dragginghim out here. Althoughit makes me a little impatient, I’ll wait.
~*~
After hanging out with Will, I climb the stairs into the rarely used, cold, dark attic. Goose bumps prickle my arms with each step. This place is so eerie. Holding my hand out, I grope around in the dark until it closes around the cord for the light switch. A sharp tug illuminates the room with a soft glow which highlights the dust floating in the air. Pressure grows in my nose, and I hold my breath to suppress a building sneeze.A corner of the chest which holds all my mother’s most precious possessions peeks out from behind cardboard boxes. I need to see the pendant and make sure it hasn’t somehow been altered and made into this brooch. Somethingso precious to her can’t be lost. A wooden creaking noise makes me spin around so fast my neck kinks, but the entry is empty. Phew. If Dad catches me up here… don’t think about it. He won’t know, as long as the driveway stays empty of his car, I’m safe.A tight knot grows in my chest, anyway. An image of Mom running her thumb over the charm she wore everyday lingers in my mind.I ease open the lid of the chest. Love letters, a few small items of jewelry, and other precious odds and ends rest on top of a discolored wedding dress, as if every last item was placed in here with care. Dust and the smell of moth balls make my nose twitch and finally bring on the sneeze.Blue fabric, the same color as the brooch, peeps out between a stack of old envelopes. I slide it out of the bunch with care and peel back the fabric, my fingers slipping on the soft, smoothsilk. My breath catches at the sight of my mother’s pendant.My memories of it remained unchanged by time. It’s exactly as I recall. Five blue petals come to a yellow center, creating the shape of a forget-me-not flower. The pendant hangs on a long chain with shiny, silver looped links.The sight of it bringsback so many memories. The only time I ever saw my parents fight… Mom shouted so loud I covered my ears, and Dad responded in a low emotionless voice. Young and scared, I hid in the curtains while she screamed. Her last words were punctuated by her yanking the pendant offand tossing it across the room. Dad scooped it up, crossed the room in long strides and pulled her to him. His fingers traced the edge of her face before he kissed her. He loweredthe pendant over her head, and theangry lines on her face melted into a smile. It’s not exactly a good memory, but it was her.Now, I find myself smiling, too. Surely he won’t mind if I wear it. Something so precious to her shouldn’t be left to rust in the attic. I’m almost certain she’d want me to have it, so I slide the pendant into my pocket with the brooch and pack the other contents of the box away.Easing the door closed, I climb out of the attic and head to the bathroom to clean my dust-covered hands. Water rushes from the spout and splashes against the sides as the basin fills. A reflection of me stares back at me from the mirror, my dirty hand clutching my aching chest. Today everything feels so raw, open, and fresh, like it only just happened.She should still be here.Rubbing my hands clean, I delve into my pocket for the jewelry. Bringing it to my collar, I pin the brooch into my blouse. The hard edgesprick my skin. My thumb brushes over thesmooth, round sides of the pendant and when I pull it over my head, the chain catches on my hair. After I twist it through the tangle so it finally falls cool against my skin, it nestles in the hollowof my throat. I pick it up between my fingers and with reverent slow strokes, rub my thumb over the shiny yellow center—the pendant Mom never took off.A shiver shoots up my spine and out through my limbs like an electric current, zappingevery cell, every fiber, every part of my being. Walking on graves, that’s what Mom would have said. Maybe it’s an omen about her.I plant my palms on either side of the full basin and peer into the still water, taking amoment to collect my thoughts. The water reflects only the cream ceiling. That can’t be right. I do a double take.My chest tightens. I hold my hand up, but I can’t seeit—not my arm, not my chewed fingernails, not my leather watch on my wrist. Where am I? Mouth gaping, I look into the mirror again, but I see nothing.Not even my face.I dip my finger into the warm, reflection-free water.Circles ripple in ever growing rings, but there’s no image. My gaze flits to the mirror, but I see onlythe open door. I have no reflection.My stomach flutters like a thousand butterflies are trying to escape it. I slap my palm onto my chest, and I can still feel me. I must be here. When I slide the pendant over my head, my reflection blinks onto the mirror. Huh? Pulling it back on, my hand brushes the cool metal. The ripple goes throughme again. I look into the mirror,and once more my reflection’s gone.I grab my hairbrushfrom the drawer and wave it around in the air, but its image isn’t cast in the mirror either. It has to be magic, but that’s only infairytales. Will’s not going to believe this, not in a million years. I pull the pendant over my head and my reflection returns. No way. It can’t be, but it is. I’m almost certain it’s making me invisible, but how?I put it on—invisible. Take it off—visible.It doesn’t make any sense. How can something like this—like those video games Will plays—even exist? It must be a magical artifact or some kind of prank. My shoulders shake with a chuckle while I stare at myself in the mirror. This is unreal. I bet he’s gone right back to working on his car. He’ll love this. Ha! Now let’ssee who found the weirdest treasure. I slide it back on and wipe my damp hands on my jeans.Watch out Will, I’m going tosneak up and scare the life right out of you.A sharp rap, someone knocking on the front door, echoes up the stairs. I duck into my room, unpin the brooch, and place both forget-me-nots in the jewelry box on my dresser. The rap sounds again. “Coming.”I bound down the stairs,through the living room, and yank thedoor open.A man in blue overalls carrying a toolbox holds a yellow box-like thing snug in his palm. “My name is Thomas.I’m from the East Coast Natural Gas Company. There’sbeen a gas leak reportedin this area, so I need to check the levels in your home. It won’t takea minute.”A green flame and fancy words, the logo for East Coast Natural Gas, are embroidered on his loose,navy overalls. He’s legit,so I unlock the screen and pull it open,letting him inside.“Sure.”The man’s gaze meets mine as he walks past me, into the living room. He scratches his head of close-cropped dark hair, and moves his hand to his chin, rubbing it along the shadow of facial hair lining his jaw.I scrape my palm across my forehead, suddenly recalling my recent vanishing act. He spoke first. I must be visible again. Phew.  I didn’t forget to take it off.“Ignore the mess,” I say.He holds the yellow gas meter out in front of him, his eyes never leaving the small flashing green light. He walks in straight lines across the living room. Crossing my arms over my chest,I tap my foot. Hurry up. I’ve got a neat trick to show off.He nears the base of the stairs and the green light flicks to red. His pace quickens, and he strides up the steps two at a time. I rush upbehind him. “What is it?”The gas meter beeps when he reaches the top of the staircase. Coming upstairs seems kind of strange. I mean, surely gas leaks would have to be a kitchen thing. The beeping sets my teeth on edge, and I just want it to stop. Maybe there’s something wrong, but here in the upstairs hall?“That doesn’tsound good,” I mutter.“It means there is indeed…”He twists, angling himself toward my open bedroom door, and his gaze locks on my dresser. The back of my neck prickles, a sure sign something about this just isn’t right. I step past him and pull the door closed, but he pushes me aside and slams it open. Panic shoots throughme, but I’m fast enoughto dart aroundhim. Turning my shoulder and reaching for the box.He lunges toward me, grabs me from behind, and his arm pins my neck to him with a shoulder crushing grip. He pushes me against the dresser, and the box falls open, its contents spilling across the top. Heart pounding, my throat burns with a scream. I’ve got to get him out of here.He must know about my pendant, the brooch. Dammit. I wriggle to escape his vice-like grip, but it’s no use—he’s too strong.My hand darts toward the pendant. I snatch it, but he grabs my wrist. Adrenaline tries to pound my heart right out of its home in my chest. If only I can get the jewelry on, I might be able to make its magic work and hide.“Tech breech confirmed,” he speaks into his collar ina matter-of-fact tone; then he turns his gaze tome. “Give me the pendant.”There’s a tiny ripping sound, like Velcro torn open. A young guy in a black leather jacket flickersinto my bedroom. A sharp gasp leaves me. I can’t escapeone attacker, let alone two.Where the heck are these men coming from? I’m not going down without a fight,so I kick at my captor’s shins.The leather jacketguy wrenches the man’s grip from my shoulders and punches him square in the chin, knocking his head to the side. Shaking his head, the gas man stumbles backward.The jacket guy raises his knee and drives a footinto the other man’s stomach. The straight, hard kick makes a loud thud and forces the dude to double over and curl in on himself. The leather jacket guy crouches and drives his fist straight up into the man’s chin. It knockshim flat on his back like a felled tree.My chest rises and falls with my quickened breath.My heart thuds like a booming drum.Themysterious rescuer turns towardme, holding my gaze with intense, steady jade eyes.Hegrabs my assailant by thearm, and they both flicker outofmy room.My mind spins.Legs, arms, body—I can’t move, but it doesn’tmatter. Moving is the least of my worries.Who were they, and what just happened? The meter seemed to lead him straight to Mom’s pendant. Gas man, my ass.I clutch my head inan attempt to stop my mind spinning, but my hand slides off mysweaty forehead and falls against my tightened stomach. They might come back. The guy in the jacket…What was that? The brooch, the pendant…my disappearing reflection. They wanted it. Damn.Sweat trickles down my forehead and into my eyes. I wipe it away witha trembling hand. Questions hurtle through my mind, all jumbling together as they race faster and faster in my mind. Seconds, minutes, hours I don’t know, but a singlethought emerges through the haze of my mind.Will.


The Giveaway: a Rafflecopter giveaway

About Book One:


Forget Me Not by Stacey Nash
Genre: YA/Fantasy/Speculative Fiction
Published August 1st, 2014
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Forget-Me-Not-Stacey-Nash-ebook/dp/B00K1Q9NA6  

B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/forget-me-not-nash-stacey/1119538120?ean=9781460704004  


Anamae is drawn into a world which shatters everything she knew to be true.

Since her mother vanished nine years ago, Anamae and her father have shared a quiet life. But when Anamae discovers a brooch identical to her mother’s favorite pendant, she unknowingly invites a slew of trouble into their world. They’re not just jewellery, they’re part of a highly developed technology capable of cloaking the human form. Triggering the jewellery’s power attracts the attention of a secret society determined to confiscate the device – and silence everyone who is aware of its existence. Anamae knows too much, and now she’s Enemy Number One.

She’s forced to leave her father behind when she’s taken in by a group determined to keep her safe. Here Anamae searches for answers about this hidden world. With her father kidnapped and her own life on the line, Anamae must decide if saving her dad is worth risking her new friends’ lives. No matter what she does, somebody is going to get hurt.


About Book Two: Remember Me by Stacey Nash Genre: YA/Fantasy/Speculative Fiction Published October 1st, 2014  

When all is lost, she must remember…

Anamae Gilbert managed to thwart The Collective and rescue her father, even though his mind is now a shell. Determined to stop Councilor Manvyke hurting her family again, she’s training to become an active resistance member and enjoying a growing romance. But things never sail along smoothly – Manvyke wants retribution. And Anamae’s name is high on his list.

After a blow to the head, she awakes in an unfamiliar location. Anamae can’t remember the last few weeks and she can’t believe the fascinating new technology she’s seeing. She’s the new kid at school and weapons training comes with ease, but something feels off. Why does the other new kid’s smile make her heart ache?

And why does she get the feeling these people are deadly?

About the Author:  

Stacey Nash writes adventure filled stories for Young Adults in the Science Fiction and Fantasy genres. When her head isn’t stuck in a fictional world, she calls the Hunter Valley of New South Wales home. It is an area nestled between mountains and vineyards, full of history and culture that all comes together to create an abundance of writing inspiration. Stacey loves nothing more than writing when inspiration strikes.


HarperCollins: http://www.harpercollins.com.au/authors/50061696/Stacey_Nash/index.aspx

Website: http://www.stacey-nash.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/StaceyLeeNash

Twitter: https://twitter.com/staceynash

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/staceylnash/

Instagram: http://instagram.com/stace_nash


Pre-order buy links:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Forget-Me-Not-Stacey-Nash-ebook/dp/B00K1Q9NA6 &http://www.amazon.com/Remember-Me-Stacey-Nash-ebook/dp/B00K1Q9N5G

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/forget-me-not/id881490143?mt=11 &https://itunes.apple.com/au/book/remember-me/id881501730?mt=11

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/search?q=9781460704004+&c=books
Read below for an excerpt from Forget Me Not by Stacey Nash:

Chapter 1
It’s not getting any easier to tell my mother what’shappened, what she’s missed,what’s been going on in my life. It’s not getting any easier to survive each day without her. It’snot getting any easier to think of her and not cry. Elbow on my writing desk and chin cupped in my hand, I stare at the yellow notepaper. The lines across it are as empty as my pounding head. The spot where the tip of my favorite pen touches is marked by a growing dot, evidence that there are no right words.It’s sure as heck not getting any easier.Hoping to find inspiration, I glance at the photo waiting to be slipped into the envelope with this letter. Normally I put aside a nature shot for her, but this one’s a ‘selfie’ of me and Will. His sandy hair looks kind of messy the way it falls into hisbright eyes, and his arm, resting overmy shoulders so naturally, pulls us close together. Our grins say more than words ever can.Twirling the pen between my fingers, I gaze out thewindow at the soft autumn afternoon and daydream about what to write. A distant clang like metal against metal sounds from outside. Will must be at it again. I shoot up, lean over the desk, and raise the window, letting a rush of warm air brush my face.His jean clad legs stick out from under the hood of a beat-up car parked in their yard.That car is like a full time job, he works on it so often now. He backs out andhoists a motor, or something, onto his shoulder, lifting like it weighsno more than his kid sister. He looks up, catches me watching him, and grins. I wave and, with a sigh, plonk back into the chair, dropping my gaze to the blank sheet in front of me. I really want to write her.For nine years I’ve been writing these letters and placing them in my top drawer with a photo. It’s become a yearly tradition. At least if we ever find Mom, she’ll know what my life’s been like.Nothing comes to me. None of the thoughts ambling through my mind are quite right, so I drop the pen, pinch my lips together, and tap my fingers on the desk in a sharp rhythm that cuts through my aching head. I need the right words.I last saw her on an ordinary March school day the year I was eight. She packed my lunch, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and waved goodbye. I climbed into the bus.As she stood on the curb, she didn’t look happy or sad, scared or frightened—just the same as any other day.Heaviness squeezesmy chest and makes each inhalation of breath hurt. I’ve playedthat day back in my mind over and over, analyzed every detail: her wave, her smile, her words, her haunted look. Did she know it was goodbye?Not knowing leaves a complete emptiness inside me. Knowing if she’s alive or dead, or why she hasn’t come back would make it so much easier. Especially since Dad barely mentions her anymore, and no matter how many times I turn her photos around, they continue to spin and face the wall. I guess it’s just toohard for him.I shake my head in an effort to expel the memories, but it’s no use. The lines on thepaper blur, my eyes slide shut, and it hurts too much. I can’t do this right now. Grabbing my camera off the desk, I slam the window shut and run down the stairs,shouting to Dad, “I’ll be back for dinner.”“Wait. Can you grab milk?”He walks out of the kitchen, a five dollar bill pinched between his fingers. I pluck it from his outstretched hand and turn to leave, but his hand closes over my shoulder, spinning me around.“Everything okay?”I close my eyes and expel a long breath. He won’t want to hear it, so there’s no point sharing. “I miss her, too.”He pulls me into his chest, and it’s too much. Tears roll down my cheeks, and I throw my arms aroundhim, holding him as tight as I can while heruns a hand over my head.“Sweetheart.”I cling to him.“It’s just…”“I know.”He holds me for a long time, untilmy tears stop. When I pull away, Irub the telltale streaks from mycheeks, and shove the money inmy pocket. “Milk, right?”He nods, andI turn for the door. “Anamae,” he says, “I love you, kid.”A weaksmile raises my lips. “Love you, too.”Outside, I head straightto the white picket fence separating our yard from Will’s. He’s been my best friend since he moved here in the sixth grade, and I’m sograteful his parents decided quiet suburbiawas a better place to live than the inner city.I slap my hands ontothe flat tips and stretchover, calling, “Will.”Hepeers around the corner ofthe house, and thesight of his smile is enough torattle this awful mood.“Sure. Two minutes.”Fishingfor weeds in the garden occupies the time while I wait. TheAverys have the nicest yard on our street. Aperfectly manicured lawn complete with stone statues and spiky plants in white pebblegardens. Will’smom likes being fashionable and modern,obvious from the gravel now crunching under his feet. Appearances aren’t important. Sure it’s nice to look good, butit’s not the thing that matters most. That’s one of the thingsshe just doesn’t get about me. I always wear faded jeans and comfy t-shirts,yet sheconstantly tries to dress me up. Make me look like a girl. Still, she’s been like a second mom to me. She evengave me The Talk. I just aboutdied when I realized what was happening.Will’s coming.“Hi, Mae.”“Hey.” I grin. Love it when he shortensmy name.We stroll down our wide path and turn onto the next street.It’s only a few blocksfrom our street to a small cluster of shops. The short walk, fresh air, and Will’s banter help lighten my mood. The cafecomes into sight, and I grabhis hand, dragging him across the roadtoward another storefront—an old shop. Aqua paint peels off thebrick walls around huge glass windows,and two stories rise upabove us. Like all the shops onthis street, a big tin awningslants out over the pavement,and a balcony juts out above. Albert’sSecond-Hand Treasuresemblazons a window spanning the shop’sfront. Through the windowpiles of odd stuffare visible, cluttering the inside. According to the kids atschool, it’s evidence theold man who owns the store is a little unhinged, which earns this place the nickname, Crazy Al’s. But to me, it’s far more than that. ‘Crazy Al’s’ been a part of my life almost as long Will.“Bet you can’t find the weirdestone today,” I say.Will raises his brows and shoots me a look that says ‘you’reinsane.’ “Really, this old game? I thought you wanted to get coffee.”“Oh, come on. I need some childish fun.” I lean in toward him an smile. “Bet you can’t win.”I also need to see Al, not to talk… just see him. His grandfatherly ways might make me feel better.I drag Will toward the front door, and all the while he shakes his head and scuffs his heels. “Okay, but loser buys coffee,” he finally says, “and cake.”He pushes me through the door, making the bell overhead jingle. As he heads toward alarge table in the far corner of the shop, a small smile crosses my lips. Glancing toward the counter, I stop at a long bench and paw throughancient yellowing books andold jewelry scattering it in a disorganized mess. I’ve no idea how Al even knows what’s here.Al raises his white-grey frizzy-haired head from the newspaper sprawled on theglass counter. His bushy eyebrowslift, and he throws me a warm smile which somehow makes me feel a little better.Running my hand over the ‘treasures,’ I stop at a ceramic owl perched amongst the clutter on the table. When I turn it over in my hand, chubby little claws grip thesides of a skateboard. I hold it up so Will can see it. “Check this out.”“A skating owl?” Will laughs. “I can top that.”He holds up a bookwith the title Peanutsin Love. Onthe cover two peanuts hold hands, their cute little shell bodies in a seaof pink hearts.“Not good enough.” I scan the table lookingfor something better and spot a pileofold movies scattered over the next table. I move them aside one by one,looking for a good title. Sunlight dances across thetable and glints off something shiny. A blue flower with a yellow center. My heart jumps, the only part of me still moving. It can’t be.Surely Dad didn’t pawn it or give it to Al. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. It can’t possibly have been made into something else.A small noiseof surpriseescapes my lax mouth, and a memory flashes into my mind: the pendant lying on Mom’s pillow the day she disappeared.Will chucklesfrom the corner. I drag my gaze away from the flowerbrooch to see a brightpink pith hat sitting atop his sandy head. He eyes my open palm, which now holds the brooch.“You call that weird?”I run my fingersover the cool glazed metal, and a lump grows in my throat. “It’s the same as the forget-me-not pendantMom always wore.”Not missing a beat, he raises his voice toward the back of the shop. “How much?”Al pauses inhis perusal of thepaper, two fingertips touching his tongue as if to dampen them as heflicks a page over. His bushyeyebrows lift, and he clears his throat.“Gosh, lad, for that?” I hold up the brooch, and Al squints at it. “It’s forMae?” He smiles at me.“Yep.” Will pulls his wallet out, and empties the coins intohis cupped hand. “Nothing,” Alsays, then flicks his gaze to me. “Tell your Dad poker’s ontomorrow night. All the boys are coming.”I return his smile with a nod. “Sure thing, Al.”“Take care, Mae.” He doesn’t mentiontoday’s Mom’s anniversary—the day she disappeared, but he doesn’t have to. Even thoughhe never knew her, I’ve always suspected it’s whyhe took me and Dad under his wing. Especially after Nan died; her death upended the last slither of normalcy we had.“No refunds….” Al says.“Without magic,” I chime in on his usual farewell. No wonder peoplethink he’s crazy,since he’s always saying stupid things. Asign hangs on the wall above the counter mimickinghis words. No refunds without magic.We walk out the door, and thebell jingles. “You owe me cake,”Will says. “I do not. The brooch won.”“No way, the peanutsdefinitely—”“The peanutsdid not beat the skating owl,” I say, and we bothlaugh.I wantto go home. I want to go straight to mom’s pendant. I want to compare it to this brooch, but I promised Will cake and coffee.He’d understand, but it wouldn’t befair after dragginghim out here. Althoughit makes me a little impatient, I’ll wait.
~*~
After hanging out with Will, I climb the stairs into the rarely used, cold, dark attic. Goose bumps prickle my arms with each step. This place is so eerie. Holding my hand out, I grope around in the dark until it closes around the cord for the light switch. A sharp tug illuminates the room with a soft glow which highlights the dust floating in the air. Pressure grows in my nose, and I hold my breath to suppress a building sneeze.A corner of the chest which holds all my mother’s most precious possessions peeks out from behind cardboard boxes. I need to see the pendant and make sure it hasn’t somehow been altered and made into this brooch. Somethingso precious to her can’t be lost. A wooden creaking noise makes me spin around so fast my neck kinks, but the entry is empty. Phew. If Dad catches me up here… don’t think about it. He won’t know, as long as the driveway stays empty of his car, I’m safe.A tight knot grows in my chest, anyway. An image of Mom running her thumb over the charm she wore everyday lingers in my mind.I ease open the lid of the chest. Love letters, a few small items of jewelry, and other precious odds and ends rest on top of a discolored wedding dress, as if every last item was placed in here with care. Dust and the smell of moth balls make my nose twitch and finally bring on the sneeze.Blue fabric, the same color as the brooch, peeps out between a stack of old envelopes. I slide it out of the bunch with care and peel back the fabric, my fingers slipping on the soft, smoothsilk. My breath catches at the sight of my mother’s pendant.My memories of it remained unchanged by time. It’s exactly as I recall. Five blue petals come to a yellow center, creating the shape of a forget-me-not flower. The pendant hangs on a long chain with shiny, silver looped links.The sight of it bringsback so many memories. The only time I ever saw my parents fight… Mom shouted so loud I covered my ears, and Dad responded in a low emotionless voice. Young and scared, I hid in the curtains while she screamed. Her last words were punctuated by her yanking the pendant offand tossing it across the room. Dad scooped it up, crossed the room in long strides and pulled her to him. His fingers traced the edge of her face before he kissed her. He loweredthe pendant over her head, and theangry lines on her face melted into a smile. It’s not exactly a good memory, but it was her.Now, I find myself smiling, too. Surely he won’t mind if I wear it. Something so precious to her shouldn’t be left to rust in the attic. I’m almost certain she’d want me to have it, so I slide the pendant into my pocket with the brooch and pack the other contents of the box away.Easing the door closed, I climb out of the attic and head to the bathroom to clean my dust-covered hands. Water rushes from the spout and splashes against the sides as the basin fills. A reflection of me stares back at me from the mirror, my dirty hand clutching my aching chest. Today everything feels so raw, open, and fresh, like it only just happened.She should still be here.Rubbing my hands clean, I delve into my pocket for the jewelry. Bringing it to my collar, I pin the brooch into my blouse. The hard edgesprick my skin. My thumb brushes over thesmooth, round sides of the pendant and when I pull it over my head, the chain catches on my hair. After I twist it through the tangle so it finally falls cool against my skin, it nestles in the hollowof my throat. I pick it up between my fingers and with reverent slow strokes, rub my thumb over the shiny yellow center—the pendant Mom never took off.A shiver shoots up my spine and out through my limbs like an electric current, zappingevery cell, every fiber, every part of my being. Walking on graves, that’s what Mom would have said. Maybe it’s an omen about her.I plant my palms on either side of the full basin and peer into the still water, taking amoment to collect my thoughts. The water reflects only the cream ceiling. That can’t be right. I do a double take.My chest tightens. I hold my hand up, but I can’t seeit—not my arm, not my chewed fingernails, not my leather watch on my wrist. Where am I? Mouth gaping, I look into the mirror again, but I see nothing.Not even my face.I dip my finger into the warm, reflection-free water.Circles ripple in ever growing rings, but there’s no image. My gaze flits to the mirror, but I see onlythe open door. I have no reflection.My stomach flutters like a thousand butterflies are trying to escape it. I slap my palm onto my chest, and I can still feel me. I must be here. When I slide the pendant over my head, my reflection blinks onto the mirror. Huh? Pulling it back on, my hand brushes the cool metal. The ripple goes throughme again. I look into the mirror,and once more my reflection’s gone.I grab my hairbrushfrom the drawer and wave it around in the air, but its image isn’t cast in the mirror either. It has to be magic, but that’s only infairytales. Will’s not going to believe this, not in a million years. I pull the pendant over my head and my reflection returns. No way. It can’t be, but it is. I’m almost certain it’s making me invisible, but how?I put it on—invisible. Take it off—visible.It doesn’t make any sense. How can something like this—like those video games Will plays—even exist? It must be a magical artifact or some kind of prank. My shoulders shake with a chuckle while I stare at myself in the mirror. This is unreal. I bet he’s gone right back to working on his car. He’ll love this. Ha! Now let’ssee who found the weirdest treasure. I slide it back on and wipe my damp hands on my jeans.Watch out Will, I’m going tosneak up and scare the life right out of you.A sharp rap, someone knocking on the front door, echoes up the stairs. I duck into my room, unpin the brooch, and place both forget-me-nots in the jewelry box on my dresser. The rap sounds again. “Coming.”I bound down the stairs,through the living room, and yank thedoor open.A man in blue overalls carrying a toolbox holds a yellow box-like thing snug in his palm. “My name is Thomas.I’m from the East Coast Natural Gas Company. There’sbeen a gas leak reportedin this area, so I need to check the levels in your home. It won’t takea minute.”A green flame and fancy words, the logo for East Coast Natural Gas, are embroidered on his loose,navy overalls. He’s legit,so I unlock the screen and pull it open,letting him inside.“Sure.”The man’s gaze meets mine as he walks past me, into the living room. He scratches his head of close-cropped dark hair, and moves his hand to his chin, rubbing it along the shadow of facial hair lining his jaw.I scrape my palm across my forehead, suddenly recalling my recent vanishing act. He spoke first. I must be visible again. Phew.  I didn’t forget to take it off.“Ignore the mess,” I say.He holds the yellow gas meter out in front of him, his eyes never leaving the small flashing green light. He walks in straight lines across the living room. Crossing my arms over my chest,I tap my foot. Hurry up. I’ve got a neat trick to show off.He nears the base of the stairs and the green light flicks to red. His pace quickens, and he strides up the steps two at a time. I rush upbehind him. “What is it?”The gas meter beeps when he reaches the top of the staircase. Coming upstairs seems kind of strange. I mean, surely gas leaks would have to be a kitchen thing. The beeping sets my teeth on edge, and I just want it to stop. Maybe there’s something wrong, but here in the upstairs hall?“That doesn’tsound good,” I mutter.“It means there is indeed…”He twists, angling himself toward my open bedroom door, and his gaze locks on my dresser. The back of my neck prickles, a sure sign something about this just isn’t right. I step past him and pull the door closed, but he pushes me aside and slams it open. Panic shoots throughme, but I’m fast enoughto dart aroundhim. Turning my shoulder and reaching for the box.He lunges toward me, grabs me from behind, and his arm pins my neck to him with a shoulder crushing grip. He pushes me against the dresser, and the box falls open, its contents spilling across the top. Heart pounding, my throat burns with a scream. I’ve got to get him out of here.He must know about my pendant, the brooch. Dammit. I wriggle to escape his vice-like grip, but it’s no use—he’s too strong.My hand darts toward the pendant. I snatch it, but he grabs my wrist. Adrenaline tries to pound my heart right out of its home in my chest. If only I can get the jewelry on, I might be able to make its magic work and hide.“Tech breech confirmed,” he speaks into his collar ina matter-of-fact tone; then he turns his gaze tome. “Give me the pendant.”There’s a tiny ripping sound, like Velcro torn open. A young guy in a black leather jacket flickersinto my bedroom. A sharp gasp leaves me. I can’t escapeone attacker, let alone two.Where the heck are these men coming from? I’m not going down without a fight,so I kick at my captor’s shins.The leather jacketguy wrenches the man’s grip from my shoulders and punches him square in the chin, knocking his head to the side. Shaking his head, the gas man stumbles backward.The jacket guy raises his knee and drives a footinto the other man’s stomach. The straight, hard kick makes a loud thud and forces the dude to double over and curl in on himself. The leather jacket guy crouches and drives his fist straight up into the man’s chin. It knockshim flat on his back like a felled tree.My chest rises and falls with my quickened breath.My heart thuds like a booming drum.Themysterious rescuer turns towardme, holding my gaze with intense, steady jade eyes.Hegrabs my assailant by thearm, and they both flicker outofmy room.My mind spins.Legs, arms, body—I can’t move, but it doesn’tmatter. Moving is the least of my worries.Who were they, and what just happened? The meter seemed to lead him straight to Mom’s pendant. Gas man, my ass.I clutch my head inan attempt to stop my mind spinning, but my hand slides off mysweaty forehead and falls against my tightened stomach. They might come back. The guy in the jacket…What was that? The brooch, the pendant…my disappearing reflection. They wanted it. Damn.Sweat trickles down my forehead and into my eyes. I wipe it away witha trembling hand. Questions hurtle through my mind, all jumbling together as they race faster and faster in my mind. Seconds, minutes, hours I don’t know, but a singlethought emerges through the haze of my mind.Will.


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The genesis of a novel is often a tale in its own right, a story of when and where inspiration struck, and the who and what that filled in the landscape. As for the how and why, they follow in the blazing path of that moment when the muse strikes and you know this story has chosen you. They are the blood, sweat and occasional tears we pay for the gift of a story.
So JM invited me to talk about the genesis of my new release,  Engaging the Enemy. Let me set the scene for you: I’m on my first proper visit to Melbourne and taking my first tram ride. Between my husband, my daughter and me, we can’t find the right change (this is pre-compulsory travel cards). While they sift through coins and shake their heads, I gaze out the window. A red brick building, abandoned and apparently unloved, passes across my view but lodges in my mind. It won’t budge and suddenly I’ve created people who love it, people prepared to fight over it, cherish and preserve it. In a flash, the premise of what became  Engaging the Enemy  was born.

One building, two would-be owners and a feud handed down the generations.Andy (Andrea de Villiers) fights to keep The Shelter for abused women and children open until their council approval comes through but the building has been sold out from under them to charming Irish developer, Matt Mahoney who wants immediate vacant access. They reach reluctant compromise before a past neither knew about threatens to tear them apart in ways neither could have foreseen.
Melbourne is a wonderful city, elegant and refined but with a vibrant focus on the arts. The CBD is filled with lanes and alleyways in which surprising gems of its architectural past hide and the powers-that-be work hard to preserve the city’s heritage. I learned much about heritage buildings and council codes during my research for this story.We’ve been involved in our own battles to preserve heritage sites in my home town and the battle for this lonely red brick building struck a chord with me.
I drafted half the story in the month before my husband and I left for Italy (there’s a whole other story in that too—no, really! That’s when  One Night in Sorrento  came into being!) and sent it off to Escape Publishing. I’m thrilled to say it releases on 1 August which just happens to be my husband’s birthday!
I absolutely love first meetings and these are often the first thing I discover about a new story. To me, they set the tone and the relationship between the protagonists.Here’s the opening scene from  Engaging the Enemy:    
Andrea de Villiers couldn’t have orchestrated the accident better if she’d planned for a year instead of just one night.Cocktails and hors d’oeuvres were almost finished as she edged closer to the group of Melbourne’s wealthy charity patrons and supporters and lined up her tray of drinks with Matt Mahoney’s chest.One second to launch.She took a deep, steadying breath and stepped forward.His blonde companion’s arms drew a giant circle in the air, collided with the edge of her tray and Mr. Mahoney, corporate developer and all round jerk, was instantly wearing expensive champagne as an accessory to his Armani dinner jacket.Round one to Andie.Served him right for refusing to meet her. He brushed futilely at his shiny lapels and a thrill raced through her.I did it.Andie-never-puts-a-foot-wrong-de Villiers had done the unthinkable. If only she could tell him who she was, her triumph would have been complete. 
Engaging the Enemy is available at all good e-tailers, including:
Escape  --  Amazon  --  iBooks  --  GooglePlay  --  Kobo
You can find me at:Facebook  --   Twitter  --   Website  --  Pinterest          
Many thanks to JM for hosting me.I’d love to know—what is your favourite real or fictional first meeting?