Going Against Type by Sharon Black

GOING AGAINST TYPE
Sharon Black
ISBN: 9781310882845
ASIN: B00NJ2OL4M
Length: Novel
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Price: $4.99

Buy here - Tirgearr Publishing

Some would say Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Regan has it all. Beautiful, smart, athletic, and a great job working as a journalist – in the almost exclusively male sports department. But Charlotte is not quite so sure as she seem. Recently split from her overbearing boyfriend, she escapes for weekends surfing in the Atlantic, and spends her free nights watching sports, roaring at the TV.

Derry Cullinane is a fashion writer, gossip columnist, and sophisticated man-about-town – The go-to guy for any woman seeking expert advice on what fabulous outfit to wear for any given occasion. He’s also tall, dark, good looking . . . and straight! So what’s the snag? He has a track record of dating glamorous, vain, and shallow women.

Charlie gets an opportunity to write a new column under the pen name Side Swipe, but soon is drawn into a war of words and wit with a rival paper’s columnist, The Squire, and their verbal fireworks get readers and editors talking. Yet neither Charlie nor Derry knows just who the opponent is.

When Charlotte and Derry meet at the Races, the attraction is instant. As their relationship develops, so much more proves at stake than protecting their alter egos. But a blunder puts Charlotte’s job in jeopardy just as Derry’s past makes front page, and Charlotte begins to doubt her feelings. When Side Swipe and The Squire are finally forced to reveal themselves, will they revert to type – or confound everyone’s expectations?

• • •

Charlotte had waited years for Donal to utter those magical words. This morning he'd finally said them.

'We're trying you out as a columnist, Charlie. Go grab 'em by the–'

'Thank you, Donal,' Charlotte replied fervently. Yesssss!!!! She mentally punched the air. 'I won't let you down.'

Maybe not the magical words every girl longed to hear but for Charlotte Regan – sports reporter for Ireland Today – they were music to her ears.

Now she sat at a blank computer screen in the noisy sports department and thought hard about her first column. The sports editor had given her carte blanche. She grinned mischievously as she typed her introduction.

What witless wonder dreamt up the idea of men's underwear with the logo 'Small' emblazoned on it?

And what was English striker Adam Small thinking when he recently dunked his two big feet into the tacky world of big brand fashion?

'Charlie?'

'Donal!'

'What are you down to do this weekend?'

Oh, let's see. Paint my toenails. Bathe in goats milk. Have wild sex with that gorgeous new reporter in the newsroom.

'I'm covering the hurling match on Sunday...'

'I need you to get down to Cork. There's open war! Nine months stand off and the players have called a strike from next week. No one gets that GAA bloodletting the way you can.'

'Uh hmm. I was there yesterday. Just drove up last night.'

'Yesterday? Monday? You were in Cork?' Donal's eyes widened. Charlotte nodded. What other yesterday was there? Maybe he was surprised she'd gone down on a day off.

'And I got a story.'

Donal rubbed his nose as he stared in bewilderment at Charlotte. 'What are you talking about, Charlie?'

She smiled patiently.

'I mean I went into the dressing room last night and got a story. JJ Nevin's not being disciplined. The selectors haven’t been stood down. Nevin’s switching codes. He’s going to sign for Galway. He’ll be playing soccer in the Airtricity League.'

Donal, Charlotte thought, not for the first time, did a great goldfish impression.

'When were you going to tell me?' he managed finally. Then, as an afterthought added, 'hang on, you went in where last night?'

'The dressing room.'

Donal glanced over at the deputy sports editor, Tim Hanlon, who grinned and shrugged. 'They let you in?' His eyes narrowed.

'Not the first time I've been in a men’s dressing room,' Charlotte said, enjoying herself now. 'Well yes, but...'

'What am I supposed to do? Let the male reporters steal a march? Who'd stop me anyway?

After JJ was substituted, he was taking a shower. I'd never get a story if I were shy!'

'Nobody could accuse you of being shy, Charlie,' John Dempsey, the soccer correspondent announced as he strode in and threw a newspaper down on the adjacent desk. 'We talking about the weekend activities?'

Charlotte rolled wide-set, hazel green eyes and grinned.

'Not yet.' She switched her attention back to Donal. 'Anyway, Nevin – clothed in a towel I might add – and I had a long talk. He filled me in on the whole thing.
They're announcing the signing on Thursday.'

'And we lead with the story tomorrow in the supplement!' Donal said, slapping his hand down delightedly. 'You boys hearing this? None of you will ever be half the man Charlie is!'

• • •

Sharon Black trained as a journalist and worked for The Evening Herald and The Irish Examiner.

She has had short stories published and she won the 2010 Dromineer Literary Festival short story competition.

She lives in Dublin with her husband and their three children.

Find Sharon Online

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sharon-Black-Author-Page/1433997893531882
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Authorsharonb
Blog - http://www.sharonblackauthor.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Black_Sharon

Winters and Somers by Glenys O'Connell

WINTERS AND SOMERS
Glenys O'Connell
ISBN: 9781311894632
ASIN: B00KRPTT6E
Length: Novel
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Price: $3.99

Buy here: Tirgearr Publishing

Irish PI, Cíara Somers, makes a good living testing the ‘temptability quotient’ of men for their insecure lovers…but when NY homicide cop and author of red hot romances, Jonathon Winters, makes her take him on as a partner in her Dublin agency, he gets the wrong message from her raunchy style . . . especially when he wants her for himself.

Somers isn’t the type to let a man push her around – the incorrigible Grannie Somers raised her to be her own woman. But when she discovers that even Grannie drools over the sexy Winters, she can’t help but wonder what it would be like to indulge in one of the fantasies that have millions of women reading his romantic books.

And when Somers finally gets her first real case – to capture the notorious jewel thief dubbed The Diamond Darling – she has to survive the help of her weird relatives, the landlady from hell, two stoned friends, a stray dog – and Winters himself . . .

• • •

Cíara Somers prowled among the top drawer clientele of the exclusive Dublin nightclub, her scarlet lips pursed in a sexy pout.

When a hearty male hand slapped her bum, she clamped down on her instinctive reaction to impale the man’s foot to the shiny wooden floors with her wicked four-inch stiletto heel. Instead, she cracked a sultry smile and batted her dark eyelashes provocatively.

After all, she was working tonight. And you could hardly blame the poor darlings. Frankly, any man who didn’t respond to her artfully designed siren’s call had to be dead. At least from the neck down.

The nightclub catered to very rich business and professional Dubliners – the place positively reeked of money – but she was after a specific fish, so it wouldn’t do for a woman like her to draw too much attention to herself. If the eagle-eyed club management copped on to what she was up to, she’d be thrown out on her mini-skirted rear end.

She spotted her prey over by the bar, drinking alone and looking sorry for himself. Bingo! He looked exactly ready for the company of a beautiful, sympathetic blonde. Straightening her back to accentuate the rounded swell of her breasts, Cíara sashayed up to the bar with a hip-sway that would raise any healthy hetero male’s blood pressure off the charts.

She leaned on the bar, the action pressing her cleavage into a picture that instantly mesmerized the barman and several other men. But here was the tricky part – to attract only the one she wanted.

Attracting him wasn’t hard at all. The tall, thin man on her right turned his head to follow the barman’s gaze – and was hooked immediately. Slowly, his eyes traveled from her chest to linger on her mouth, before taking a slow detour to her toes while taking in other vital areas along the way.

“Well, hello there,” he growled. A wolfish smile lit up his face and he treated her to a display of crooked teeth. She suppressed a shudder. This was work, after all, but just occasionally it would be nice to work on a guy she really fancied.

Later she’d remember the old saying about being careful what you wished for in case it came true, but tonight she was just another working girl.

So she returned the smile, twitching her lower lip into that full ruby pout that men found so irresistible. She let a wave of blonde hair fall forward over one eye as she languidly stretched out a sun-tanned hand and drew a blood-red fingernail down his shirtfront.

“Hello, yourself,” she purred, and watched with satisfaction as he swallowed the bait.

Thirty minutes later, she extricated herself from her target’s roaming hands, giggled throatily and excused herself with the need to powder her nose.

“Don’t be too long, baby, I’m having a hard time waiting!” he leered, and gave her an indulgent slap on her behind as she walked away. Cíara turned to wink at him and blow a scarlet-lipped kiss in his direction.

He’d already invited her back to his place for a nightcap ‘…and whatever else we fancy!’

• • •

Glenys O'Connell writes romantic suspense and comedy. She became interested in crime & criminal psychology when covering the crime beat as a journalist for a large daily newspaper. This led to a degree in psychology and qualifications as a counselor - but writing is her first love and she says romantic suspense satisfies her cravings for both romance and crime! She is also the author of two books on mental health issues, several childrens’ books, and is an award winning playwright. She was born in Lancashire, England, and has lived and worked in the UK, Ireland, and currently in rural Canada.

Find Glenys Online

Website - http://www.glenysoconnell.com
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/glenys.oconnell
Twitter - https://twitter.com/GlenysOConnell
Roses of Prose - http://www.rosesofprose.blogspot.com
Romance Can Be Murder - http://www.romancecanbemurder.blogspot.com
Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/OConnell_Glenys

Where the Shamrocks Grow by Cathy Mansell

WHERE THE SHAMROCKS GROW
Cathy Mansell
ISBN: 9781311081100
ASIN: B00N7ZRGIE
Length: Novel
Genre: Romantic Suspense
Digital Price: $4.99

Buy here: Tirgearr Publishing

Set in 1917 against the backdrop of the Irish civil war, young Jo Kingsley is transported from her turbulent childhood of domestic servitude, to the sophisticated life of the upper classes at the beautiful Chateau Colbert. Here she meets Jean-Pierre, the grandson of her employer, Madame Colbert, and visits Paris where she discovers the desires of men. But Jo’s destiny takes her to America where she experiences more than her dreams of becoming a music teacher.

During prohibition, in the mysterious haunts of Greenwich Village, she falls deeply in love with Mike Pasiński, a free-spirit; and a son of Polish emigrants. However, loneliness, loss and hardship follow during the Wall Street crash.

Will the beautiful Jo let go of her demons and learn to love again?

• • •

Dublin City 1917

Jo Kingsley awoke from a troubled sleep. Her eyes flickered open, and her gaze rested on the thick velvet curtains, partly drawn across the bedroom window. The street lamp shone through, casting shadows on the ceiling. She glanced at the holy pictures on the wall that had always been a source of comfort to her. But tonight the Virgin Mary did not appear to be smiling down on thirteen-year-old Jo. A distant scream reverberated around the room. She felt a stab of fear and reached across the bed to her grandmother.

‘Grandma. Grandma, please wake up.’ With trembling fingers, she traced the outline of her grandmother’s face. It was cold. Startled and distressed, she drew back in the clear knowledge that the wailing sound was none other than the Banshee.

Jo scrambled from the bed, hurried down the stairs, grabbed her black woollen coat from the hallstand, and ran barefoot from the house. Her long fair hair flew out behind her as she raced down the street to her mother’s cottage. The Dublin streets were dark and dimly lit, and the frosty pavement made her feet tingle as she hammered on the door. Her stepfather, Tom, wheezing and gasping for breath, finally opened it. She stepped inside.

‘Ma! Ma! Come quickly, something’s happened to Grandma.’

Kate, a thin woman in her early forties, appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘What in the name of God brings you out at this time of the night, girl?’

‘I think me grandma’s dead,’ Jo cried. ‘I… I heard the Banshee.’

Kate sprang into action. ‘You look after things here, Jo-Jo. Sleep on the couch for now.’ In minutes, her mother was dressed and rushing up the street.

Five-year-old Liam cried out in his sleep, and Tom handed her a cover before going back into the bedroom and closing the door behind him. Jo held the thin well-worn blanket close to her shivering body. She didn’t want to be here. A dull ache gripped her. How could her grandma be dead? She’d been all right when they’d bid each other good night. Powerless to stem the tears that trickled down her cold face, she sat in the darkness. What would happen to her now? She bit her nails, digging into the tops of her fingers until they hurt.

The room smelt damp and Jo had no recollection of ever living here. Now, whenever she had cause to visit her mother, it was a sharp reminder of how lucky she was to have been brought up by her grandmother. She curled up on the couch but couldn’t sleep.

She heard coughing, and a shaft of light appeared in the doorway. Tom shuffled into the room clearing his throat, carrying the twins. Jo swung her feet from the couch onto the cold floor. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

He shook his head, too breathless to speak, and placed the whimpering babies down next to her. He lit the lamp on the table and turned up the wick. The light threw shadows across the room, the wallpaper peeling from the walls. Jo looked down at the children’s thin frames and spindly legs, and covered them with her blanket. Innocent eyes looked up at her, the same blue as hers, except theirs were hollow and lacked lustre. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm. The reality of her mother’s life hit her and brought a lump to her throat. She felt sorry for the children, who, in spite of the cold, had fallen asleep.

Feeling wretched and helpless, she made a fire from the turf piled up in the corner by the hearth, hoping it would take the chill from the room. She glanced across to where Tom was lying with his head down on the table, his bald patch visible and a blanket pulled across his thin shoulders. There was no sound apart from his laboured breathing as he dozed, and the sparks from the fire as the turf ignited. She filled the black kettle and hung it on one of the hooks over the fire.

The cupboard was bare apart from a packet of oats, and she wondered if her mother was drinking again! She made the porridge. It was tasteless, watery with little substance, unlike her grandmother’s creamy porridge. Her poor grandma! She had looked after her for as far back as Jo could remember.

Tom stirred and looked across at the sleeping babies, yawned and stretched his long thin arms. The kettle hissed and spouted water, almost extinguishing the fire. Jo got up and made a fresh pot of tea. She poured Tom a mugful and placed it on the table next to him. He was coughing again, beating his chest with his clenched fist. His consumption seemed worse and she pitied him. ‘Tis always worse at night,’ he told her.

‘The porridge is a bit thin, but it’s the best I could do.’

‘Aye! It’s grand.’

When at last daylight seeped through the thin curtains, her mother hadn’t returned.

The room depressed her and she wanted to go home to her grandma’s.

‘I’m going back now, will you be all right?’

‘Aye. Thanks,’ he managed between a fit of coughing, calling out to her when she reached the door. ‘Sorry… for your trouble, Jo.’

• • •

Cathy Mansell writes romantic fiction. Her recently written family sagas are set in her home country of Ireland. One of these sagas closely explores her affinities with Dublin and Leicester. Her children's stories are frequently broadcast on local radio and she also writes newspaper and magazine articles. Cathy has lived in Leicester for fifty years. She belongs to Leicester Writers' Club and edited an Arts Council-funded anthology of work by Lutterworth Writers, of which she is president.

Find Cathy Online

Website - http://www.cathymansell.com
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/cathy.mansell4
Twitter - https://twitter.com/cathymansell3
LlinkedIn - http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=164084748
Blog - http://blog.cathymansell.com
Grassroots - http://www.transculturalwriting.com/Grassroutes/content/Cathy_Mansell.htm
AuthorsDen - http://www.authorsden.com/cathymansell
Tirgearr Publshing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Mansell_Cathy