Extract from Just One Time

Just One Time

The first novel by K.S. Hunter, the alter ego of an international bestselling author, whose identity will remain a secret.

Desire can have dire consequences

Two years ago, David Madden made a mistake that almost cost him his marriage. His wife, Alison, gave him another chance, but she has not forgotten, nor has she forgiven.

She is irresistible

Then David meets the alluring Nina at a theatre in London. When he loses his phone in the dark, she helps him find it, and by giving her his number he unwittingly invites her into his life.

What David initially views as an innocent flirt turns into a dangerous game of deception. His increasingly suspicious wife thinks something is up, and each lie he tells pushes them further apart.

She is insatiable

Nina pursues David relentlessly, following him to New York where she gives him an ultimatum: sleep with her, just one time, and then she’ll get out of his life forever; or she’ll ruin everything he holds dear.

She is unstoppable

Of course, once won’t be enough for Nina, and what David hoped would be the end is merely the beginning.

A modern-day Fatal Attraction, Just One Time is a steamy psychological thriller that will have you hooked from the first page and holding your breath until its shocking conclusion. 

Praise for K.S. Hunter

‘An author to watch out for – always interesting and unpredictable’ Sophie Hannah


Today I am honoured to be taking part in the Blog Tour for #JustOneTime by K S Hunter.  My thanks go to @rararesources for inviting me to take part

Now if that above wasn't enough to tempt you, I have a extract which will definitely tempt you and make you want to click, buy and read and then when you have read it make sure you leave a review!

Extract from Just One Time by K.S. Hunter, Chapter Two

I arrived home just under an hour later. I parked in the driveway, locked the car and walked to the front door. A three-bedroom semi-detached property, only five years old, in St Albans, an expensive but attractive small city just north of London.

 

We moved into it when it was a new-build, when we’d just got married, when everything was fresh and exciting, before I ruined it for us by sleeping with a colleague who then didn’t take too kindly to me saying it was a mistake and that it shouldn’t – no, couldn’t – happen again. Who then spilt the beans to my wife, tore apart my marriage and almost permanently destroyed it. I fought for it, was desperate to save it, but merely managed to clutch hold of its separating ends.

 

As a result of my actions, our marriage was held together by Velcro and had remained that way for the past two years. An angry wife, an unforgiving one, one who remembered my actions and responded to my betrayal in every look she gave me, in every word she said to me, in every movement she made around me. She ensured I recognised her feelings of betrayal, endlessly. And I was tiring of it, but I knew that only I was to blame for the state of things.

 

I opened the front door of what was supposed to be our dream home. As I stepped in, I realised I’d forgotten to buy some flowers on my way back. Flowers for Alison. The house was dark inside, which suggested that my wife was already asleep. So gloating about the play would have to wait until the morning.

 

I grabbed myself a beer from the fridge and quickly drank it. I checked the back door was secure, the front door was locked, and went upstairs, heading straight for the bedroom.

 

My wife was indeed asleep, perched on her side as if she were speaking to my horizontal form beside her. Only I knew it was unlikely that she’d speak to me while in bed, for in bed we did little together, rarely even talk – one of the many consequences of my actions two years ago.

 

I removed the wallet and phone from my pockets and placed them on the chest of drawers, then pulled off my trousers and shirt. Keeping hold of them, I left the bedroom and went into the bathroom, which was down the corridor, where I put the clothes in the washing basket and hopped into the shower.

 

Ten minutes later, refreshed and with teeth brushed, I returned to the bedroom.

 

My wife opened her eyes, sighing angrily, loudly, exaggeratedly. ‘Do you have to make so much fucking noise?’ I knew that if I answered back, telling her I was being as quiet as possible, which was the truth, she’d only become incensed, raging more and more, louder and louder, until she was fully awake, unable to fall back to sleep, and then she’d blame me for waking her and for keeping her awake.

 

So I merely whispered, ‘Sorry.’

 

‘So fucking noisy.’

 

I retreated to the bathroom, hoping that if I gave her a few minutes alone she’d relapse into sleep and I’d get a reprieve. I heard her voice, no doubt swearing even more and becoming further incensed because of my inconsiderateness, while I moved along the corridor. I couldn’t make out any of her words and simply chose to sit on the toilet until I heard no more, before returning to the bedroom.

 

When I decided to see if the coast was clear, I switched off the light and crept back into the bedroom. I breathed easy when I saw she’d fallen back to sleep.

 

To my right, on the chest of drawers, my phone, whose case lay open, lit up. I walked over to it and picked it up. Glanced at the screen. A text message. From a number I didn’t recognise.

 

I opened the message. It was great to meet you tonight, David. Thanks for such a special time.

 

Movement from the bed startled me. ‘Will you go to fucking sleep?’ my wife, who’d stirred because of my movement, said through gritted teeth. Quickly and instinctively, without thought or hesitation, I deleted the message and closed the phone.

 

I slowly and quietly got into bed.

 

Another sigh from my wife. ‘You’re so fucking noisy all the time.’ I was expecting more, but there was a pause. Then, some moments later, ‘Who was that from?’

 

Fuck you, I thought but didn’t vocalise.

 

Now wasn’t the time to explain my whole evening to her, especially not when she was in one of her agitated I’ve-been-woken-up-who-do-you-think-you-are moods. Especially when she’d spoken to me like I was a piece of shit, again. ‘Just one of those Vodafone surveys,’ I lied. ‘Nothing important. Deleted it.’

 

She put her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes. ‘Well, do it quieter. You always make so much bloody noise.’

 

‘Sleep well,’ I said in a mock, calm tone, suspecting she might not nod off, awaiting a possible restart of her tirade if she couldn’t get back to sleep.

 

I closed my eyes, but as soon as my mind returned to the message I’d received, they sprang open.

 

I didn’t tell her my real name, did I? I didn’t tell her my name’s David. I wanted to get up and check the phone, but I dared not move for fear of setting my wife off again. Did I?

 

No, it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t want to risk it. I’d check in the morning.

 

If I didn’t tell her, how does she know my real name?

 

 

Author Bio – K.S. Hunter is the pseudonym of an international bestselling author. The identity of the author, who lives in the United Kingdom, will remain a mystery.

Don't know about you, but that sneaky peak has made me want to read more and I can't wait to read this book.  Seriously need to make sure I set some time aside to read this book.

If you are tempted then the links are below for you to click and buy.

Purchase from Amazon UK
Purchase from Amazon USA
Purchase from Kobo

Social Media Links –

https://www.facebook.com/author.kshunter
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36590627-just-one-time?from_search=true
https://twitter.com/Author_KSHunter
http://www.authorkshunter.com/index.html

If you want to read some more reviews, then why don't you check out some of the bloggers who have already reviewed the book.

 

 

 

Extract of The Secret Mother by Shalini Boland.

Today I am lucky enough to be able to share with you an extract from The Secret Mother by Shalini Bolan.

THE SECRET MOTHER

By

Shalini Boland

 Chapter One

The street lamps flicker, illuminating the grey pavement mottled with patches of dirty snow and slick black ice. Slushy puddles hug the kerb, cringing away from the hissing, splashing car tyres. It takes all my concentration to keep my balance. My hands would be warmer if I jammed them into my coat pockets, but I need them free to steady myself on walls, fences, tree trunks, lamp posts. I don’t want to fall. And yet would it really be so terrible if I slipped on the ice? Wet jeans, a bruised bum. Not the end of the world. There are worse things. Far worse things.

It’s Sunday: the last exhale of the week. That uncomfortable pause before Monday, when it all starts up again – this lonely pretence at life. Sunday has become a black dot on the horizon for me, growing larger each day. I’m relieved now it’s almost over and yet I’m already anticipating the next one. The day when I visit the cemetery and stand above their graves, staring at the grass and stone, talking to them both, wondering if they hear my inane chatter or if I’m simply talking into the empty wind. In burning sunlight, pouring rain, sub-zero temperatures or thick fog I stand there. Every week. I’ve never missed a Sunday yet.

Sleet spatters my face. Icy needles that make me blink and gasp. Finally, I turn off the high street into my narrow road, where it’s more sheltered and the wind less violent. A rainbow assortment of overflowing bins lines my route, waiting for collection tomorrow at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. I turn my face away from the windows where Christmas tree lights wink and blink, reminding me of happier Christmases. Before.

Almost home.

My little north London terraced house sits halfway along the road. Pushing open the rusted gate, I turn my face away from the neglected front garden with its discarded sweet wrappers and crisp packets blown in from the street, now wedged among long tussocks of grass and overgrown bushes. I thrust my frozen fingers into my bag until they finally close around a jagged set of keys. I’m glad to be home, to get out of the cold, and yet my body sags when I open the door and step into the dark silence of the hall, feeling the hollow of their absence.

At least it’s warm in here. I shrug off my coat, kick off my boots, dump my bag on the hall table and switch on the light, avoiding my sad reflection in the hall mirror. A glass of wine would be welcome about now. I glance at my watch – only 5.20. No. I’ll be good and make a hot chocolate instead.

Strangely, the door to the kitchen is closed. This strikes me as odd, as I always leave it open. Perhaps a gust of wind slammed it shut when I came in. I trudge to the end of the hall and stop. Through a gap in the bottom of the door I see that the light is on. Someone’s in there. I catch my breath, feel the world slow down for a moment before it speeds back up. Could I have a burglar in my house?

I cock my ear. A sound filters through. Humming. A child is humming a tune in my kitchen. But I don’t have a child. Not any more.

Slowly I pull down the handle and push the door, my body tensing. I hardly dare breathe.

Here before me sits a little boy with dark hair, wearing pale blue jeans and a green cable-knit jumper. A little boy aged about five or six, perched on a chair at my kitchen counter, humming a familiar tune. Head down, he is intent on his drawing, colouring pencils spread out around an A4 sheet of paper. A navy raincoat hangs neatly over the back of the chair.

He looks up as I enter the room, his chocolate-brown eyes wide. We stare at one another for a moment.

‘Are you my mummy?’ the little boy asks.

I bite my bottom lip, feel the ground shift. I grasp the counter top to steady myself. ‘Hello,’ I say, my heart suddenly swelling. ‘Hello. And who might you be?’

‘You know. I’m Harry,’ he replies. ‘Do you like my picture?’ He holds the sheet out in front of him, showing me his drawing of a little boy and a woman standing next to a train. ‘It’s not finished. I haven’t had time to colour it in properly,’ he explains.

‘It’s lovely, Harry. Is that you standing next to the train?’

‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘It’s you and me. I drew it for you because you’re my mummy.’

Am I hallucinating? Have I finally gone crazy? This beautiful little boy is calling me his mummy. And yet I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before in my life. I close my eyes tight and then open them again. He’s still there, looking less confident now. His hopeful smile has faltered, slipping into a frown. His eyes are now a little too bright. I know that look – it’s the one that precedes tears.

‘Hey, Harry,’ I say with false jollity. ‘So you like trains, huh?’

His smile returns. ‘Steam trains are the best. Better than diesels.’ He scrunches up his face in disgust and blinks.

‘Did you come here on the train? To my house?’

‘No. We came on the bus. I wish we did come on the train, the bus was really slow. And it made me feel a bit sick.’ He lays the sheet of paper back on the counter.

‘And who did you come with?’ I ask.

‘The angel.’

I think I must have misheard him. ‘Who?’

‘The angel brought me here. She told me that you’re my mummy.’

‘The angel?’

He nods.

I glance around, suddenly aware that Harry might not be the only stranger in my house. ‘Is she here now?’ I ask in a whisper. ‘Is there someone else here with you?’

‘No, she’s gone. She told me to do some drawing and you’d be here soon.’

I relax my shoulders, relieved that there’s no one else in my home. But it still doesn’t help me solve the problem of who this little boy is. ‘How did you get into the house?’ I ask, nervously wondering if I might find a smashed window somewhere.

‘Through the front door, silly,’ he replies with a smile, rolling his eyes.

Through the front door? Did I leave it open somehow? I’m sure I would never have done that. What’s going on here? I should call someone. The authorities. The police. Somebody will be looking for this child. They will be frantic with worry. ‘Would you like a hot chocolate, Harry?’ I ask, keeping my voice as calm as possible. ‘I was going to make one for myself, so—’

‘Do you make it with milk?’ he interrupts. ‘Or with hot water? It’s definitely nicer with milk.’

I suppress a smile. ‘I agree, Harry. I always make it with milk.’

‘Okay. Yes, please,’ he replies. ‘Hot chocolate would be lovely.’

My heart squeezes at his politeness.

‘Shall I carry on colouring in my picture,’ he says, ‘or shall I help you? Because I’m really good at stirring in the chocolate.’

‘Well, that’s lucky,’ I reply, ‘because I’m terrible at stirring in the chocolate, so it’s a good thing you’re here to help me.’

He grins and slides off the stool.

What am I doing? I need to call the police right now. This child is missing from somewhere. But, oh God, just give me ten minutes with this sweet little boy who believes I’m his mother. Just a few moments of make-believe and then I’ll do the right thing. I reach out to touch his head and immediately snatch my hand back. What am I thinking? This boy has to go back to his real mother; she must be paralysed with worry.

He smiles up at me again and my chest constricts.

‘Okay,’ I say, taking a breath and blinking back any threat of tears. ‘We’ll do the chocolate in a minute. I’m just going to make a quick phone call in the hall, okay?’

‘Oh, okay.’

‘Carry on with your drawing for a little while. I won’t be long.’

He climbs back up onto the stool and selects a dark green pencil before resuming his colouring with a look of serious concentration. I turn away and pad out to the hall, where I retrieve my phone from my bag. But instead of dialling the police, I call another number. It rings twice.

‘Tess.’ The voice at the other end of the line is clipped, wary.

‘Hi, Scott. I need you to come over.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes. Please, it’s important.’

‘Tessa, I’m knackered, and it’s hideous out there. I’ve just sat down with a cup of tea. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

‘No.’ Standing by the hall table, I glimpse Harry through the doorway, the curls of his fringe flopping over one eye. Am I dreaming him?

‘What’s the matter?’ Scott says this the way he always says it. What he really means is, What’s the matter now? Because there’s always something the matter. I’m his damaged wife, who’s always having some new drama or make-believe crisis. Only this time he’ll see it’s something real, it’s something not of my making.

‘I can’t tell you over the phone, it’s too weird. You have to come over, see for yourself.’

His sigh comes long and hard down the phone. ‘Give me twenty minutes, okay?’

‘Okay. Thanks, Scott. Get here as soon as you can.’

My heart pounds, trying to make sense of what’s happening. That little boy in there says an angel brought him. He says I’m his mummy. But he’s not mine. So where on earth did he come from?

I take a breath and go back into the kitchen. The air is warm, welcoming, cosy. Nothing like the usual sterile atmosphere in here.

‘Can we make hot chocolate now?’ Harry looks up with shining eyes.

‘Of course. I’ll get the mugs and the chocolate. You open that drawer over there and pass me the smallest pan you can find.’

He eagerly does as I ask.

‘Harry,’ I say. ‘Where are your parents, your mummy and daddy?’

He stares at the pans in the drawer.

‘Harry?’ I prompt.

‘They’re not here,’ he replies. ‘Is this one small enough?’ He lifts out a stainless-steel milk pan and waves it in my direction.

‘Perfect.’ I nod and take it from him. ‘Can you tell me where you live?’

No reply.

‘Did you run away from home? Are you lost?’

‘No.’

‘But where’s your house or flat? The place you live? Is it here in Friern Barnet? In London? Close to my house?’

He scowls and looks down at the flagstone floor.

‘Do you have a last name?’ I ask as gently as I can.

He looks up at me, his chin jutting out. ‘No.’

I try again, crouching down so I’m on his level. ‘Harry, darling, what’s your mummy’s name?’

‘You’re my new mummy. I have to stay here now.’ His bottom lip quivers.

‘Okay, sweetie. Don’t worry. Let’s just make our drinks, shall we?’

He nods vigorously and sniffs.

I give his hand a squeeze and straighten up. I wish I hadn’t had to call Scott. And yet I need him to be here when I ring the police. I can’t deal with them on my own, not after what happened before. I’m dreading their arrival – the questions, the sideways glances, the implication that I might have done something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong, though. Have I?

And Harry… he’ll be taken away. What if his parents have been abusive? What if he has to go into foster care? A thousand thoughts run through my mind, each worse than the one before. But it’s not my place to decide what happens to him. There’s nothing I can do about any of it, because he’s not mine.

 

I don’t have a child. Not any more.

 

 

Don't know about you, but that extract has made me want to read more!  If the same applies to you then click on one of the links below and grab yourselves a copy.  It's due for release on 9th November 2017 and you wouldn't want to miss out!   

 

 

THE SECRET MOTHER

UK

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US

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Tessa Markham comes home to find a child in her kitchen calling her ‘mummy’. But Tessa doesn’t have any children.

Not anymore.

She doesn’t know who the little boy is or how he got there.

After contacting the police, Tessa comes under suspicion for snatching the child. She must fight to prove her innocence. But how can she convince everyone she’s not guilty when even those closest to her are questioning the truth? And when Tessa doesn’t even trust herself…

A chilling, unputdownable thriller with a dark twist that will take your breath away and make you wonder if you can ever trust anyone again. Perfect for fans of Gone Girl, The Girl on the Train and The Sister.

What readers are saying about Shalini Boland:

'Read in one sitting from 9pm last night until 2:15 am. I literally could not put it down!!!! The story line and the twists and the way it's written just draws you in completely and you have to know where it's going I couldn't read fast enough… absolutely addictive and brilliant and an end I didn't see coming. This is one book you have to read and it gets 5 huge stars from me!!!!’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

‘What can I say? Just wow. I'm usually never surprised by an ending, but this one blew me away. I am totally in shock and think I'll have a hangover from this book for a while. A great read that keeps you on your toes until the very last word.’ Stacey Harrell, Goodreads 

‘If anyone can have me reading until 2am and finishing a book in less than 48hrs in the school holidays it’s this author… massive five stars from me.’ Sarah Mackins, UK Crime Book Club, 5 stars

‘The ending of this book blew me out of the water, you won’t be able to put this down.’ For the Love of Books, 5 stars

‘The plot is gripping and once you've started reading, you have to keep on reading, you need to know how the story will end.’ Bits About Books, 5 Stars
 
‘... one of the most chilling reads of the year for me.’Ajoobacats Blog, 5 Stars

‘This book should come with a warning… make sure you have enough time to read it in one-sitting because as soon as you’ll pick it up, you won’t be able to put it down!’ Bookishly Ever After, 5 stars
 
‘This is a brilliant psychological thriller. In fact, it's one of the best I've read. It is full of suspense and has more twists and turns than a fairground ride.’ Jackie Roche, UK Crime Book Club, 5 Stars

‘I thought I knew the direction this story was going go. Then the jaw dropping moment happened!... unputdownable!’ Goodreads Reviewer, 5 Stars

‘Once again, Boland has managed to blow my mind with all the twists and turns… an outstanding explosive read!’ Mello and June, 5 Stars

'Great book. I read it in less than 24 hours. I was unable to put it down. The story was fast paced and intriguing.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

The Black Hornet (James Ryker #3) - Rob Sinclair



 

 

 

 

 

The Black Hornet (James Ryker #3)

 

 

 

 

 

Black Hornet is the next instalment for Ryker AKA Carl Logan, and continues on immediately from the previous book Red Cobra.  If you haven’t read The Red Cobra I would suggest starting there first to help you understand this book.   

In this book we are reminded of what happened at the end of Red Cobra and see Ryker returning home to his partner Lisa, who for some reason isn’t there.  Ryker is concerned and after some investigation work that we know Ryker has the resources to hand to do, are transported to Mexico six months later where Ryker is intent on finding Lisa.  However, on arrival in Mexico, not all works out as planned and we end up seeing Ryker captured and sent to prison.  The prison as you can imagine is not pleasant and is logically run by one man, who is part of the Mexican Cartel and known as the Black Hornet.

The parts set in the prison I found to be a bit of an uncomfortable read.  However, if you have read the previous books by Rob Sinclair then you know that there is always a reason why these scenes are written as they are, and I always think that if they are uncomfortable for a reader to read then the author is doing his job.    

We are given further insights into the JIA and introduced to two new characters who each want to help Ryker but of course nothing is as easy as it sounds.  However, as you can expect nothing else matters to Ryker but finding Lisa and he will stop at nothing to ensure he does just that.

We are treated to the fast-paced chapters, each one wanting you to turn the pages quicker to find out what is going to happen.  You are given snippets that leave you wanting to know more and have you saying just one more chapter time and time again.  

Rob’s books are another of my go to books and I am always keeping an eye out for the next release so I can pre-order in readiness.  I even go to great lengths to recommend these books to family and friends and have even made sure that my husband downloads on to his kindle and reads. 

 

Prepared to Die - Peter Dudgeon

Prepared to Die - Peter Dudgeon

Prepared to Die has been a book I have been waiting patiently for the author to release.  I have read previous books by Peter Dudgeon and have loved every one of them, so couldn’t wait to see what this book had in store. 

Prepared to Die is a psychological thriller and starts off with a family outing of a grandmother and her grandson enjoying a day at the zoo, however, things quickly take a drastic turn with the grandmother throwing herself into the rhino enclosure under duress and the person who was responsible for making her do this then shooting themselves. 

We are then transported three years later to the murder of Sebastian Fallon found at his home, along with another body found nearby, which seemingly looks like suicide.   How are these two bodies linked?  Are they linked? 

DI Daniel Sheppard has been off work for a period of time, due to nursing his dying wife but now feels that he needs to get back to work and get the old grey matter working again.  Daniel feels that the murder of Sebastian Fallon is not a clear murder-suicide and wants to investigate this further, and does his best to try and solve the case with a team assigned to him that don’t think he should be back at work yet, don’t like the way he runs the investigation and feels that he is not the right man for the job. 

Due to this book being completely different to other books of Peter’s I have read, I found it very difficult to understand what was happening, and found that the first few chapters seemed to be jumping around and wasn’t sure where the story was going.  However, once I started to understand the characters and connected some of the dots, I could get to grasps with the story and found it a good read. 

I am looking forward to seeing if this is the start of a series and if so what is next in store for DI Daniel Sheppard.

My thanks go to Peter Dudgeon for contacting me and allowing me to read and review an ARC of this book.