Book Review ~ I Stole His Car (Love at First Crime #1) by Jessica Frances

I Stole His Car

Series: Love at First Crime #1

Author: Jessica Frances

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Release Date: September 19, 2017 Kindle Unlimited

She stole his car, so he stole her heart…

I saw something I never should have seen.

I took something they wanted back.

I was desperate.

Alone.

Hunted.

So, I did something I never would have normally done.

I stole a car.

Not just any car.

His car.

Now I have no choice but to trust him.

Only he can help me get out of this mess.

Then, when we both become hunted,

And when feelings begin to complicate things,

Can I still count on his protection?

Can I trust what is happening between us to be real?

Because, as some people say: there is nothing quite like love at first … crime.

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As the story opens up, we meet Ava who is on the run and in hiding.  With no money, no phone and no family, she is desperate to leave town, not only to forget, but to escape the horror that she has discovered as well as her demented now ex-boyfriend. And to make matters worse, she can trust no one….not even law enforcement.  Her plan?  Steal a car and get the heck out of dodge.  Not as easy as it sounds, but she finally finds one unlocked and with the keys left in it.  But as she drives away, it seems she has a passenger…..a kid.  So great, now she is a car thief and a kidnapper!  Little did Ava know that this crime would lead to not only love, but so much more!

I Stole His Car is an amazing new book by one of my all-time favorite authors, Jessica Frances. Ms. Frances’ books are always entertaining and I have yet to find one I didn’t love.  I Stole His Car is no exception…..in fact, I dare say that this is quite possibly my favorite that she has written to date.  Looking back, I seem to think that with every new release she has, but the level of growth and maturity as an author is clearly evident this time around and everything was perfect.  This newest release has everything I crave - romance, suspense and drama, all neatly tied up in an intriguing and riveting story line that left me excited for the next installment of this new series.

I Stole His Car is a romantic suspense and is different from the author’s previous works, but it is a great example of how diversified Ms. Frances can be with her talent.  Her ability to draw the reader into the story and being able to visualize everything going on and connecting with the characters makes for an engaging and fascinating reading experience.  I savored every single word in this story and it kept me engrossed until the very end.

This intriguing stand alone is a must read for any fan of romantic suspense and one that I would highly recommend.

5 well deserving stars

Then Zander’s gaze turns back to me, and I don’t feel so warm and fuzzy toward him anymore. Instead, I feel as though I’m facing a judge and ready to hear the verdict on just how many years I’m about to be thrown in jail.

“You stole my car,” he growls.

“Yes.” No point denying it.

“You kidnapped my twelve-year-old brother.”

“Technically, yes. However, I wasn’t aware he was in the car at the time,” I pathetically try to defend my actions.

“You came back, though, even after I told you I was calling the police.” His stance is stern, but I see the same expression of curiosity that I saw earlier in Van. 

“Yes.” I glance around again, waiting to see the flashing lights of a police car approaching in the distance. Instead, I see a lone officer in uniform approaching us. 

I don’t recognize him as one of Brian’s friends, but that doesn’t mean he won’t hand me over to him.

I barely even got to enjoy my freedom away from Brian. Well, it technically wasn’t freedom since I was chased the entire time.

Why can’t I just catch a break?

I can’t stop myself from stepping away from the young officer, my body back to being tense and shaky. I hate that this feels normal to me now. It never used to be. Now it feels strange to feel relaxed.

“What’s wrong?” Van asks me, his concern sweet.

“Excuse me, but did I just hear you accuse this woman of stealing your car?” the officer asks, swinging his hand to rest on his side arm in what looks like a reflex.

Silence falls over us. Van looks as panicked as I feel. I can’t read Zander’s face, but he hasn’t confirmed the man’s words. That gives me a small amount of hope. Maybe he is the most forgiving man in the world.

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Jessica lives in Adelaide, South Australia. When she is not writing, you can find her reading, napping or watching excessive amounts of TV. Connect with her on Facebook and Goodreads.

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Spotlight Tour & Giveaway ~ Taste Test by L.B. Dunbar ~ Excerpt

In a modern twist of fairy tales,

what if the beast is a woman instead of a man?

Ethan Scott

I was about to find out when a mysterious job led to the secluded home of a horror novelist. I’d lost everything: my scholarship, my education, and my way. In denial of my family inheritance, I took the unusual employment as a chance out of a hole, but I found myself buried in the unknown trauma of another situation much deeper.

Ella Vincentia

I had changed my name and my address to keep myself hidden, but my scars were more than physical. Living as a recluse in the woods, I was used to being alone, so I wasn’t happy when a certain someone was always in my space. Our first encounter was less than pleasant and tension continued at every attempt to tame me.

Secrets

I knew she was keeping secrets and I wanted to help, but she was cutting me down and cutting me off every time she opened her mouth. Our frustration with one another grew until a misunderstanding changed everything. How can I be the next guy after something so tragic? It was a challenge I wasn’t sure I was willing to take. 

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I looked directly at her. The blue cloak matched her angered eyes and for a moment I thought I saw something else in them. In her bent over position, she looked down at me and I shivered with excitement thinking she was reaching for me, until she leaned forward further and tried to tip the boat.

“Get out.”

“Are you…” I stopped. I was going to say crazy, insane, cuckoo.

“Say it,” she snapped.

“I wasn’t going to say it,” I lied.

“Yes, you were,” and she reached for the underside of the boat, but could only touch the side, pushing on it.

I still had a hold on the edge of the dock and I let the boat float away a little as if her push had an effect, before I pulled it back.

I knew I was taunting her more.

“I. Said. Get. Out,” and she reached forward again at the same time I pushed the boat away from the dock. Ella lost her momentum and lunged toward me with a look of shear panic. I caught her around the waist as I let go of the dock, but the force of her coming at me pushed us both to the right and we hit the icy cold lake. It was a short drop, and despite the shock of the water, I wrapped one hand around Ella’s head to protect her from hitting the shallow bottom. I slammed my shoulder into the pebbly lake bottom, landing on a rock as I twisted to buffer her fall. I struggled to hold Ella and free my legs that now balanced above me in the kayak.

Once me legs were free, I easily kicked the soft bottom of the lake and righted myself, still clutching Ella around the waist and head. The cold water had been a shock, but the cool air above the surface was additional pins and needles. I sucked in a breath, clenching Ella to me. I heard her gasp for air as she shoved me hard in the chest like she had the day before behind the couch.

“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled.

“Trying to protect you.”

“Well, I don’t need protecting.”

“You almost drowned us,” I returned her growing anger.

“Us? You almost drowned me. Holding me under the water,” she shouted back at me. She had pushed back from me but now stepped awkwardly closer again in the knee-deep water.

“And you ruined my cloak.” Ella looked down at the soggy material and pulled some of it up. The hood fell back when we’d returned to the surface, and her hair fell in heavy waves around her shoulders. The water glistened off it, making it a darker mixture of fall-leaf tones. I held in the moan trying to escape and clenched my hands into fists at my side. I wanted to shake her madly then kiss her passionately.

“You almost drowned me by thinking you could push me out of that boat.”

“Well, you weren’t getting out.”

“What are you? Two? Cut the spoiled bitch act.” Ella gasped in shock as I shook my head and ran both hands through my hair. I didn’t want to get mad at her.

“Funny. Yesterday you said I was beautiful. Today I’m a bitch,” she retorted.

I took two steps toward the dock in my water sodden clothes before I turned to face her again.

“You are beautiful,” I started loudly, angrily, “if you’d just keep your damn mouth shut,” I added in a whisper and finally pushed myself upward onto the dock. She continued to stare at me as I crouched on the wooden platform and offered her my hand.

“Come here,” I said in an unknowingly seductive voice.

“I don’t need your help,” she snapped back, resigned as she walked toward the dock, dragging the soaking wet, heavy material behind her. I stood.

“I get it. You don’t want my help. You don’t want my protection. You don’t want my food,” I spit. “What you need is a good spanking,”…

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I’d like to say I was always a writer. I’d also like to say that I wrote every day of my life since a child. That I took the teaching advice I give my former students because writing every day improves your writing. I’d like to say I have my ten-thousand hours that makes me a proficient writer. But I can’t say any of those things. I did dream of writing the “Great American Novel” until one day a friend said: Why does it have to be great? Why can’t it just be good and tell a story?

As a teenager, I wrote your typical love-angst poetry that did occasionally win me an award and honor me with addressing my senior high school class at our Baccalaureate Mass. I didn’t keep a journal because I was too afraid my mom would find it in the mattress where I kept my copy of Judy Blume’s Forever that I wasn’t allowed to read as a twelve year old.

I can say that books have been my life. I’m a reader. I loved to read the day I discovered “The Three Bears” as a first grader, and ever since then, the written word has been my friend. Books were an escape for me. An adventure to the unknown. A love affair I’d never know. I could be lost for hours in a book.

So why writing now? I had a story to tell. It haunted me from the moment I decided if I just wrote it down it would go away. But it didn’t. Three years after writing the first draft, a sign (yes, I believe in them) told me to fix up that draft and work the process to have it published. That’s what I did. But one story let to another, and another, and another. Then a new idea came into my head and a new storyline was created.

I was accused (that’s the correct word) of having an overactive imagination as a child, as if that was a bad thing. I’ve also been accused of having the personality of a Jack Russell terrier, full of energy, unable to relax, and always one step ahead. What can I say other than I have stories to tell and I think you’ll like them. If you don’t, that’s okay. We all have our book boyfriends. We all have our favorites. Whatever you do, though, take time for yourself and read a book.

 

 

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Release Day Blitz & Giveaway ~ Taste Test by L.B. Dunbar ~ Excerpt

In a modern twist of fairy tales,

what if the beast is a woman instead of a man?

Ethan Scott

I was about to find out when a mysterious job led to the secluded home of a horror novelist. I’d lost everything: my scholarship, my education, and my way. In denial of my family inheritance, I took the unusual employment as a chance out of a hole, but I found myself buried in the unknown trauma of another situation much deeper.

Ella Vincentia

I had changed my name and my address to keep myself hidden, but my scars were more than physical. Living as a recluse in the woods, I was used to being alone, so I wasn’t happy when a certain someone was always in my space. Our first encounter was less than pleasant and tension continued at every attempt to tame me.

Secrets

I knew she was keeping secrets and I wanted to help, but she was cutting me down and cutting me off every time she opened her mouth. Our frustration with one another grew until a misunderstanding changed everything. How can I be the next guy after something so tragic? It was a challenge I wasn’t sure I was willing to take. 

Amazon Amazon CA Amazon UK Amazon AU
B&N Kobo

   

I knew I was taking the dirt road a bit fast, but I felt exhilarated with the prospect of my new job. It sounded simple. Cook. Live in the woods. Keep a secret. Easy. My thoughts were screaming a song in my head about freedom when I turned one of those unexpected curves in the winding drive and pulled up short in front of a girl.

I noticed her hair immediately. It was brown with reddish tints, like a perfect combination of brilliant fall leaves wild and blowing in the September afternoon air. A storm was definitely coming and I was mesmerized for a moment as the startled girl looked up at me. I couldn’t slam on the brakes of my motorcycle without flying over the handlebars, so I slowed as best I could and skidded to a halt inches before her.

          “Jesus Christ,” I yelled over the dulling roar of the cycle as I yanked off my helmet, releasing my own set of wild waves. The girl was frozen like a deer in headlights looking back at me. Her bright blue eyes pierced my own deep brown ones.

          “Are you okay?” I asked as I squinted with concern. She turned her head just the slightest bit and I noticed a horrid scar down the right side of her face. Three long gashes dragged down her cheek and neck, ending under her white tank top. Her bright highlighter-orange shorts and the earbuds in her ears made it obvious she had been out for a run. I flicked my glance from her scar to the shorts and back to her hair. I didn’t want to stare at her face. I knew how much I hated it when people stared at Mum and her bald head from chemotherapy. The girl’s tongue sneaked out to wet her pink lips and she bit her bottom one slightly.

I opened my mouth to speak again, but the girl bolted for the woods. She propelled herself through the greenery and disappeared before I could get off the bike. I had no idea where she went due to the thickness of the trees and shrubs. Shaking my head as if I had seen a mirage, I sat back on the motorcycle, returned my helmet to my head, and roared the bike back to full life, taking the road more slowly as I exited Winters Trail.

Amazon Amazon CA Amazon UK Amazon AU
B&N iTunes Kobo

I’d like to say I was always a writer. I’d also like to say that I wrote every day of my life since a child. That I took the teaching advice I give my former students because writing every day improves your writing. I’d like to say I have my ten-thousand hours that makes me a proficient writer. But I can’t say any of those things. I did dream of writing the “Great American Novel” until one day a friend said: Why does it have to be great? Why can’t it just be good and tell a story?

As a teenager, I wrote your typical love-angst poetry that did occasionally win me an award and honor me with addressing my senior high school class at our Baccalaureate Mass. I didn’t keep a journal because I was too afraid my mom would find it in the mattress where I kept my copy of Judy Blume’s Forever that I wasn’t allowed to read as a twelve year old.

I can say that books have been my life. I’m a reader. I loved to read the day I discovered “The Three Bears” as a first grader, and ever since then, the written word has been my friend. Books were an escape for me. An adventure to the unknown. A love affair I’d never know. I could be lost for hours in a book.

So why writing now? I had a story to tell. It haunted me from the moment I decided if I just wrote it down it would go away. But it didn’t. Three years after writing the first draft, a sign (yes, I believe in them) told me to fix up that draft and work the process to have it published. That’s what I did. But one story let to another, and another, and another. Then a new idea came into my head and a new storyline was created.

I was accused (that’s the correct word) of having an overactive imagination as a child, as if that was a bad thing. I’ve also been accused of having the personality of a Jack Russell terrier, full of energy, unable to relax, and always one step ahead. What can I say other than I have stories to tell and I think you’ll like them. If you don’t, that’s okay. We all have our book boyfriends. We all have our favorites. Whatever you do, though, take time for yourself and read a book.

 

 

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