NTAP cover (2)

Oh…how I love pirates, handsome daredevils, that they are. Naughty by nature with a flair for dangerously sinful desires. My heart always skips a beat when I travel into a pirate’s literary retreat.

Valerie Bowman blew me away with her latest novel, in the Playful Brides Series, NEVER TRUST A PIRATE. Hooked from the opening line, I found it impossible to put this historical romance down. Set in Regency London in 1817, Ms. Bowman penned an intriguing plot filled with scandalous attraction, hidden secrets and page-turning danger.

After his unexpected arrival in London, Cade Cavendish has moved into his twin brother’s estate. Rafe Cavendish, the Viscount Spy, is certain something is amiss upon his brother’s return from the grave. With Cade’s mysterious disappearances and aliases, could he be the infamous Black Fox?

Miss Danielle LaCrosse has some secrets of her own. After securing a position as Daphne Cavendish’s lady’s maid, she plans to make certain that her previous position as a smuggler stays buried in the past. Her newest assignment, monitoring Cade Cavendish, could possibly reveal all when the petite French beauty finds herself lusting after her employer’s handsome brother-in-law.

I hope that this review has whet your appetite. You won’t be disappointed with NEVER TRUST A PIRATE. Please stop back tomorrow to read Valerie Bowman’s thoughts as she answers questions about her newest novel.

Happy reading!

This week I’m excited to be part of the Valerie Bowman, “NEVER TRUST A PIRATE, blog tour. I’m such a huge fan of Valerie’s work and the newest novel in the Playful Brides series may just be my favorite yet. I’m honored to offer my fellow introverts a sneak peek of this awesome story.

Please sit back and enjoy chapter one of NEVER TRUST A PIRATE. Also, don’t forget to stop back tomorrow to read my full review.

Happy reading!


London Harbor, July 1817

Only three steps. Only three steps separated him from the map. It was there, laying on the rickety wooden table in the captain’s stateroom aboard a ship aptly named Le Secret Francais. The only sound in the cramped space was his own breathing. Sweat beaded on his brow. He’d come this far. Braved the murky, cold water, swam out to the ship moored at the London docks. Climbed aboard silent as a wraith, dressed all in black. Wrung out his clothing to keep it from dripping so there wouldn’t be a trail. Managed to steal into the captain’s quarters as the man slept, and now, now only three steps remained between him and the priceless map.

One water droplet fell to the wooden plank floor like a hammer against steel. The sound of his breath echoed to a crescendo. The blood pounding in his head became a distracting whirring noise.

One step forward. The ball of his foot ground onto the plank. Stealth and silence. Always. The calling cards of the best thief in London.

The captain stirred slightly in his bunk and began to snore.

He froze. One leather-clad foot arrested on the wooden plank. A pistol rested on two nails directly above the captain’s bunk. If the man awoke, he might shoot first at any noise. The captain well knew the value of the treasure he carried.

He counted to ten. Once. Twice. He had long since mastered the art of keeping footing on a ship. He waited until his heartbeats became steady again before taking the next step. A slight creak in the wood floor. A hint of movement from the captain. Another endless wait. Impatience was a roiling knot inside his belly.

Out of the shadows now, he stood only one step away from the table bolted to the floor. The moon shone through the window above the captain’s bed, shedding light on the man’s balding head. The map lay spread out, anchored by pins in the four corners. He would have to remove those pins. Ripping the paper would be too noisy.

Another interminable wait as the captain turned away from him in his sleep. His snores subsided.

He glanced over at the bunk. The pistol shone in the moonlight. One hard swallow. He never carried a pistol. Too loud. Pistols brought the crew, the wharf police, and anyone else interested in such activity. The only weapon he carried was a knife, tucked in the back of his breeches. A weapon of stealth.

Another count to ten before taking the final step. There was no time for an in-depth study of the map now, but a quick glance revealed the destination. The island of St. Helena, off the western coast of Africa, circled in bold scrawl. The map of the route planned for Bonaparte’s next escape. That bastard in the bed had been planning it.

All ten fingers itched to snatch the paper and run, but he forced himself to take a deep, silent breath. Carefully, he dislodged the first pin at the top right corner. It popped out easily. The top of the map rolled toward the center, making a slight flapping sound. Breath held, he glanced toward the captain again. No movement.

He stuck the pin back into the table to keep it from rolling, then his hand darted to the next pin at the bottom right corner. It also popped out easily. He quickly stuck it back into the wood. With two sides free, he carefully rolled the map toward the center. Reaching up to the top, he grasped the third pin. No movement. It was lodged deeply into the wood. Must pull harder. With one black-gloved hand, he clasped the pin between a thumb and two fingers, pulling upward with as much strength as he dared. His own breath in his ear was the only sound … that and the water lapping at the sides of the ship.

The pin finally gave way. He pressed a hand to the top of the map, to keep the freed top left corner from curling and making a noise. His chest and torso flattened against the map and the table, he pressed the third pin back into the wood.

Click. An unmistakable sound. One he had heard too often before. Another hard swallow. Damn it. He’d been so preoccupied with keeping quiet, he hadn’t realized the captain’s snores had subsided.

Half-splayed across the table, he contemplated his options. The door was ten paces to the left, the open window five paces to the right. Would he fit through the window? It’d be a hell of a time to learn the answer was no.

“Step away from zee map, if you don’t want a bullet through your back.” The captain’s voice was harsh and angry.

He slowly rose from his position hunched over the map, arms braced upright at right angles near his head to show the captain he had no weapon. “Ye wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, now would ye, Cap’n?”

“I’d shoot a thief without thinking twice,” the captain replied with a sneer, nearly spitting the word thief.

He glanced down at the map. Studying it in case he was forced to leave without it. He had been in worse situations, more times than he could count. He considered the knife in the back of his breeches hidden beneath his shirt. It would be simple, easy and quick to snake it out and whip it into the bastard’s throat. But a voice in his head reminded him … justice must be served in proper course.

“Turn around,” the captain ordered. “Slowly.”

“Why?” he asked, trying to garner some precious time.

“Because I want to see zee face of zee man who would steal my secrets.”

He began his turn. Slowly. So slowly and so quietly that he could have sworn he heard a drop of sweat from his forehead hit the wooden plank of the floor. He finally stood facing the older man.

“Êtes-vous le Renard Noir?” the captain asked.

“Pourquoi veux tu savoir?”

Visible in the light of the moon, the captain narrowed his eyes. “Ah, perfect French? Why do I find zat difficult to believe from an obvious Englishman?”


“Who else would want zis map?”

His fingers ached to choke the bastard. He might not be able to kill him, but he could wound the scoundrel. Nothing wrong with a wound. He whipped his hand behind his back, grabbed the knife, and hurled it at the captain. It hit the arm that held the pistol. The captain howled. The pistol fired. Smoke filled the cabin with its acrid stench. He ripped the map and fourth pin from the table and ran to the door.

Steps sounded on the planks above the captain’s cabin. In the pitch black belowdecks, he forced himself to wait in the shadows under the stairs until the first group of rescuers filed down the steps into the captain’s cabin. He flattened the map’s scroll and folded it into a six-inch square.

“He’s escaped, you idiots! Find him before he jumps from the ship!” the captain yelled in French.

The group dutifully filed back up to spread across the decks. The captain came running out, clutching his injured arm, blood seeping between his fingers, crimson dripping down his nightshirt. He made his way up the stairs and ran off across the deck.

Springing from the shadows, he raced back into the empty cabin. He flew over to the window, said a brief prayer to fit through the tight space, hoisted up to the ledge, and pushed his upper body through. He ripped off his black tricorn, stuck the folded map to his head, and pulled down the hat as firmly as possible.

A rope swung outside the captain’s window two feet to the right. Thank God for small favors. He lunged at it and grabbed it. Noiselessly, he lowered himself down the rope, bracing both feet against the hull to rappel toward the water. Lowering quietly, he winked back at the figurehead of a saucy French woman carved beneath the captain’s cabin. As soon as he made it into the water, he let go of the rope and swam like a mackerel fleeing a shark toward the shore, careful to keep his head out of the foul-smelling drink. He counted on the black of night and the murky Thames to hide him from the searchers on the ship.

As he covered the distance between the French ship and the shore, he could hear the Frenchmen yelling and running about. He dared a glance back. Every lantern on the ship appeared to have been lit and the crew was scurrying about like a bevy of ants on an infiltrated hill.

He swam to the darkest spot on the far end of the docks, around the bend from sight of the French ship, and pulled himself ashore beneath a creaky dock using only his forearms. Exhausted, he rolled onto his back and lay breathing heavily in the pitch-black night. One hand went up to clap the top of his tricorn and a wide smile spread across his face.

He’d done it. He’d escaped from a French ship with the map detailing the planned route to rescue Napoleon from St. Helena. Of course he had. He was the Black Fox.

Copyright © 2017 by Valerie Bowman and reprinted with the permission of St. Martin’s Paperbacks.


Although she only published one novel, Margaret Mitchell is world-renowned for her epic novel, GONE WITH THE WIND. This classic story centers around the life and times of Scarlett O’Hara. Born into wealth and privilege, Scarlett is a force to be reckoned with after she and her family plummet into the depths of poverty. Unwavering in her quest to save the family plantation, Tara, Scarlett’s fight for survival in the war-torn South is raw and inspiring. Although self-absorbed and lacking empathy for the opinions of others, readers often overlook the fact that Scarlett was a fierce protector of both her family and her land. No matter what trials came before her, Scarlett possessed a grit and determination to be admired.

Along with conveying the socioeconomic and social status of the times, GONE WITH THE WIND offers its readers a dramatic love triangle. Favoring herself in love with Ashley Wilkes, much of Scarlet’s behavior is clouded by her obsessive jealousy of his wife, Melanie. Placid and kind, Melanie overlooks Scarlett’s flaws and as the story evolves, proves to be much stronger than she had been given credit for.

And then there was Rhett Butler. A larger than life character that could make any woman swoon. Who among us isn’t familiar with his famous quote, frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn? I doubt anyone who has watched the movie rendition featuring Vivian Leigh and Clarke Gable hasn’t experienced the rapid fluttering of their heart as Rhett whisks Scarlett from the floor and sweeps her up into his arms. Then proceeds to carry her up the grand staircase to their bedroom. Ahh! How exciting it would be to experience that passionate encounter.

Unfortunately, Margaret Mitchell’s untimely death didn’t allow her to pen another masterpiece. The legacy she left with GONE WITH THE WIND is a priceless literary gem that continues to delight generations. Happy reading!

“I did tell you that is how it should be with a wife. Honor her, protect her, respect her, indulge her, but do it all because you love her, not because it’s a duty or obligation. That’s the path to lasting happiness.”

-A Wicked Pursuit-” – Isabella Bradford

Pixaby Photo


THE IDEA OF YOU features a beautifully written storyline about the struggles of becoming a mother. With a lifelong desire to have a child, Lucy Carpenter is ecstatic to discover that she is pregnant. Finally, the home she shares with the husband she adores will be complete. With images of a baby girl she lovingly knits items to lavish on her unborn child. This exuberance is short-lived when Lucy suffers from her first miscarriage. In addition to adjusting to her losses, Lucy is faced with the overwhelming demands of becoming a step-mother to her husband’s teenage daughter. 

Written by Amanda Prowse, THE IDEA OF YOU offers its readers an honest raw account full of the expectations and the heart wrenching reality of motherhood. It’s a work of women’s fiction that will resonate with anyone who has had difficulty conceiving, adopting or accepting the loss of a child.

Happy Reading!

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photo courtesy of Pexals

April 2017

Happy Spring, my fellow introverts. The first two weeks of April have been a whirlwind. It’s hard to believe that as of today, April is half over. It seems like just yesterday that I was ringing in the new year. The adage is true; time flies when you are having fun.

The past few weeks have provided me with some exciting literary adventures. I’ve taken a leap of faith and entered my manuscript into a writing contest. By doing so, I fed my anxiety a large dose of self-doubt as I reside in the abyss of the unknown. Although I welcome the judges feedback, it’s scary to release a piece of your soul into the world.

I attended the “Let Your Imagination Take Flight” conference in Burlington, Massachusetts. If you’ve never attended a writing conference, I highly suggest you consider it in the future. With a vast number of workshops offered, the wealth of knowledge available is beyond measure. Some of the workshops I attended focused on social media, co-authoring, grammar, and publishing. Molly O’Keefe conducted a superb workshop on writing sexual tension. The luncheon speaker was Zoe York who discussed her road to publication and the keynote speaker was Joanna Bourne. Conferences also offer the opportunity to network with fellow authors and make lasting friendships. I did not pitch my book to one of the agents or editors that were on-hand and I regret that. It is an opportunity I vow not to miss again.

As I sit at my desk, I’m devoted to the further development of future stories waiting to be told. But, questions regarding the feedback of my contest submission linger in my mind. I find peace from the advice Joanna Bourne offered during her speech. That advice was to do something you fear. Make yourself a promise to do this once a day, once a week, or once a month. The truth is that an individual cannot grow without taking a chance. So, why not try something new?