BEA'S BOOK NOOK "I can't imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once." C. S. Lewis “If one cannot enjoy reading a book over and over again, there is no use in reading it at all.” ― Oscar Wilde

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Giveaway And Excerpt from A Mistaken Match by Whitney Bailey - Make A Date with Harlequin

Giveaway, Excerpt, A Mistaken Match, Whitney Bailey, Harlequin, Bea's Book Nook

 Make A  Date Blog Tour with Harlequin

Bea's Book Nook, Giveaway, Excerpt, A Mistaken Match, Whitney Bailey, Make A Date with Harlequin

What kind of book is your most favorite? Check out these 5 romance subgenres to learn more:
  • ·         Passion: Give in to temptation with steamy tales of irresistible desire. Passion series feature heroes who have it all: wealth, status, incredible good looks…everything but the right woman.
  • ·         Suspense: Prepare for high-octane adventure, heart-racing romance, and just enough intrigue that will have you on the edge of your seat! Take the plunge and join these true-to-life women and strong, fearless men as they fight for survival. (My fave! ~ Bea)
  • ·         Inspirational: Looking for inspiration in tales of hope, faith and heartfelt romance? Love Inspired has three lines for you.
  • ·         Fall in Love: Read satisfying love stories with the intensity, emotion and sparkle of falling in love.
  • ·         Heroes Galore: Whatever hero you’re into, we’ve got him. Take a time-trip with a host of hot historical heroes; navigate the high stakes of falling in love in the high-pressure world of medicine; Delve into dark, sensuous and often dangerous territory, where the normal and paranormal collide. (My second fave! ~ Bea)

    Giveaway, Excerpt, A Mistaken Match, Whitney Bailey, Harlequin, Bea's Book Nook

    Excerpt, A Mistaken Match

    June 1895 En route to New Haven, Ohio, on the Toledo and Ohio Central Railway

    The train’s wheels clattered in perfect harmony with Ann Cromwell’s racing heart. Each beat brought her closer to her new life, and her hands trembled as she thought of what awaited her at journey’s end.

    “Would you like an apple, miss?”

    Ann had nearly forgotten she had a seatmate. She could pretend she hadn’t heard her, but something told her this woman wouldn’t give up easily. Her voice held the kind of friendliness that was the hallmark of a talk­ative traveler.

    Ann waited a beat before blinking the sun from her eyes and turning from the window. Silver hair streaked the woman’s temples and deep lines bordered her mouth. Slightly overweight, she carried it well on the tops of her cheeks and across her bosom. Once Ann faced her, the smile lines deepened.

    “Would you like one? They’re perfectly ripe.”

    Her outstretched hand held a large, red apple blushed with gold.

    “No, thank you,” Ann whispered, even as her stom­ach groaned.

    “Are you sure? I have a whole bag.”

    Though the apple looked delicious, would it stay down? The queasiness in her stomach grew with each station stop. Ever since childhood, nerves always made her belly rebel. She’d last eaten yesterday from a food cart on the Pittsburgh station platform and only man­aged to force down a few bites before throwing the re­mainder of her ham sandwich in a rubbish bin.

    “I’m quite sure.” Ann kept her voice as soft as pos­sible while still remaining audible.

    The woman’s eyes widened as she returned the apple to her bag. “My, what a sweet accent you have! Are you English?”

    No one in New York had noticed Ann’s accent. Only when the train boarded passengers in central Pennsyl­vania did her voice attract attention. Now in Ohio, it seemed impossible to keep from drawing notice—like a scullery maid embarrassingly visible in the parlor. She wasn’t trying to be unfriendly, but conversation was the last thing she wanted.

    The woman’s eyebrows arched higher as she awaited Ann’s response.

    “Yes, ma’am. I’m from London.”

    “London? How exciting! What brings you to Amer­ica?”

    Before Ann could respond with her usual falsehood about visiting an aunt—the story she had crafted to help draw as little attention and interest from her fellow pas­sengers as possible—something gave her pause. As she drew closer to her final destination, so grew the chance of someone catching this particular lie.

    “If you don’t mind, I think I’ve changed my mind about that apple.”

    The woman smiled broadly and fumbled with her bag to retrieve the fruit.

    “Here, let me clean this up for you.” She buffed the apple against the fabric of her skirt. Ann flashed a cur­sory smile of thanks and turned back toward the win­dow. The apple lay heavy in her hand and her mouth watered at the heady scent of ripe fruit. Crisp and sweet, it tasted glorious after weeks of ship and train food. She savored each bite to prolong the silence. Each time Ann entered into a conversation, it led to questions she had no desire to answer.

    All too soon only the apple’s sticky core remained. She glanced about for a place to tuck the scrap.

    “Let me take that from you.”

    The woman produced a small paper sack. Ann dropped in the core and wiped her tacky hands briskly against her skirt. Before she could turn away, the woman spoke again.

    “I’m returning from a visit with my sister. She just had her tenth child.” She paused, clearly waiting for a reaction, and Ann humored her by opening her eyes wide in a show of surprise. “Yes! Tenth! Her sixth girl. She needed help, of course, with some of her younger ones, and I was delighted to lend a hand.”

    The woman paused again. Her eyes softened, and she reached out and patted Ann’s hand in a motherly way. “My children are all older now. My oldest daugh­ter is near your age. I so enjoyed being near babies and young children again.”

    “How lovely for you.”

    The woman grinned. “My, your accent really is nice.”

    “Thank you.” Ann had learned long ago how to mimic the melodic upper-class accent of her employers.

    “Are you traveling on from Columbus?”

    “Yes, to New Haven.” Her own words sounded strange. She hadn’t told anyone even a fraction of the truth in days.

    The woman clapped her hands. “Isn’t that wonder­ful! I’m from New Haven.”

    Ann felt a rush of thankfulness that she hadn’t lied.

    “Are you visiting someone?” the woman continued.

    Ann shook her head. “No, not exactly. I’ll be liv­ing there.”

    The woman waited a beat for Ann to continue. Ann smiled weakly.

    “Who will you be living with, dear? I was born and raised in New Haven. I’m sure I must know them.” The woman’s voice grew softer than before, but no less friendly.

    Ann cleared her throat. “James McCann.”

    The woman’s brows knit together and she pursed her lips tight. Ann knew what her next question would be. She saved her the trouble of asking. “He’s to be my husband.”

    Ann dreaded the interrogation sure to follow. But there were no questions—at least not right away. In­stead, the woman’s hand found Ann’s again and she squeezed it tight.

    “That is wonderful news. Really wonderful. James McCann is a fine young man. I wish you both much happiness.”

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