Category Archives: crime thrillers

So this group of snobs decide to mock a hotline psychic … big mistake. Huge!

Cover SMALL Hotline Psychic B 21 April 2020

 

A group of socialites are dining in their mansion during a mother of a storm one evening, minding each other’s business, when the electricity goes out. Worse, they are rudely interrupted by a knock at the door. It’s a rain-drenched woman who complains about car trouble and begs for shelter from the storm. At first, the hosts refuse to help her, because of, you know, stranger-danger and stuff. That, and the fact that she looks poor and sort of homeless. However, when they learn that she is a hotline psychic, they say, “Come on in!” The reason for their change of mind? To get her to entertain them during the storm with palm readings. For free, of course. Sounds reasonable, right? They give her shelter, she gives them free palm readings … win, win. Yeah, they’ve got limousines and mansions, but still – they’d like to save a buck where they can.

The look on their faces when the psychic refuses to read their palms? Priceless, I tell you.
The snarky women in the group start to mock and ridicule her, call her a scam artist and demand that she demonstrates her “so-called” psychic abilities, or else.
Since the “or else” is not an option because of the raging storm, the psychic, having no choice, goes ahead and read their palms. But … here’s the kicker – she retaliates by openly revealing their deepest, darkest secrets. That’s right, maliciously drags it all out in the f**king open and flings it into their Botoxed faces. Cool, huh?
The snobs, horrified at the psychic’s ‘lies’, lose their sh*t – the women in the group gang up on the psychic, bully and hurls insult after insult at her.
You feeling sorry for the psychic? Well, don’t, because the feisty thing fires back in more ways than one, even crossing the line and doing something unforgivable – she flirts with their husbands! Damn, it gets ugly! I’m talking CoronaVirus, toilet paper shortage, ugly. Soon, friendships are fractured, relationships are wrecked, and the inferno inside the mansion, man, it is more catastrophic than the storm outside!

And then?

Well, there’s plenty of “and thens”, too many to mention here, so you’ll have to read the book for yourself to find out more. (I suggest a pitcher of tea when reading this book. Long Island Tea, that is, with extra shots of everything. Not chamomile, please, because it’s a pretty screwed up tale.)

This is a scandalous crime and suspense novella and it’s FREE for a limited time on Amazon and Smashwords. So, go ahead, hit one-click.
Click!

Wait! One more thing: this is a standalone, no cliff-hanger book and it’s … FREE, as I’ve said, so, go ahead, hit one-click.

Click!

Wait! One more thing – this isn’t the kind of book that would make Oprah’s book club, because it has violence, cussing and sex, so … sorry, not sorry. So, go ahead, hit one-click.
Click!

Wait! One last thing: someone gets murdered too. I forgot to mention that. Silly me. So, add murder mystery to that genre, will you?
Click!

Whachu waiting for?
Oh, you’re waiting for the book links, are you?
Well, here they are:
Amazon link:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B087CMMZ85

Smashwords link:
https://www.smashwords.com/dashboard/edit/1016972

Click! Click! Click!

blog couildnt put it down

 

 

Make Sure Your Mascara is Waterproof!

portrait of young  couple

Ever loved someone so much, that you would die for them? You would? Okay! Great! Superb! Fantas … hey, how about murder – would you … would you kill for them?
What? You’ve gone all quiet on me?
Cat got your tongue?

blog just a few pages in 2 April 2020

When Arena escapes Tom, her abusive and vengeful husband, he vows to make her pay. Luckily, she finds love in the arms of a wonderful cop called Bear Shaw. Loving, generous Bear adore her kids, they in turn adore him, and soon they are a family. Life is perfect, Arena is a success story and they have the HEA.
When Arena’s SUV is stolen with her sleeping toddler in it, Arena immediately points at vengeful Tom. He did it. she is convinced of it, because he had vowed to make her pay. To her surprise, the police point at Bear, because Bear cannot be found. Worse, according to them, Bear Shaw does not exist!

GRIPPING CRIME & SUSPENSE with unexpected romance!

blog 5 STAR reviews April 2020

EXCERPT FROM PAYBACK

SYDNEY AUSTRALIA – 2012

Operator: “Police helpline, what is your emergency?”

Caller: “Eh, a woman, like, she’s screaming her head off. Can you send
the police? Please, please, please!”

Operator: “What seems to be the problem?”

Caller: “She says…she says that someone stole her car and stuff…”

Operator: “State and town please?”

Caller: “Eh, Sydney…St Ives…”

Operator: “Yeah, where about in St Ives?”

Caller: “Warrimoo Avenue, outside the eh, shops and stuff.”

Operator: “Would that be…corner Dalton road and Warrimoo?”

Caller: “Eh, let me see…yeah, that’s it.”

Operator: “Is anybody hurt?”

Caller: “No. Just the baby.”

Operator: “Baby? Did you say a baby was hurt?”

Caller: “No, no, she was in the car. The baby. Sorry, I’m just fifteen so…”

Operator: “She was in the…are you saying that the car was stolen with
a baby in it?”

Caller: “Yeah. Can you hear her? The mother? She’s screaming her head
off like a ban—”

Operator: “Yes, I can. What’s she saying?”

Caller: “She’s saying…hold on…eh, she says she knows that it’s her ex, like,
he’s behind it, and she’s screaming and running up and down the street,
going mental.”

Operator: “O…kay. I need you to stay on the line. What’s your name?”

Caller: “Carly. But my cell battery is dy—”

Operator: “Hello? Hello? Carly, can you hear me? Hello?”

…………….

The first time Tom hit me, I was highly pregnant. Slapped me across the face so hard, I saw tiny white stars even though I was indoors. I was twenty-two, he was thirty-five.

I was eight months pregnant and waddling around like a duck; he was approximately one hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle. He took part in triathlons, ran five kilometers every day, had wheatgrass and quinoa for breakfast, a green salad with no dressing for lunch, and usually ate lean chicken breast with three different colored vegetables for dinner.

Fit, disciplined, and focused – that was my husband.

Throughout my two years of marriage, I’d seen bursts of his rage – towards me and others, and his road-rage, now that was the worst – it terrified me. Especially since he liked to take on truck drivers. The bigger the truck, the greater his rage. Usually, people steered away from trucks, but not Tom; he took them on, provoked them until I was shaking with fear.

Deep down, I guess I did fear being hit by him one day, but I didn’t expect it that day – the day of my second wedding anniversary.

I was so stunned by the slap, I didn’t move away or try to defend myself. I just stood and gaped at him, one hand on my cheek, the other on my swollen belly.

“I take care of everything!” he hissed. “All you had to do was chill the Cristal, and you forget to do that. A small thing like that. Chill. The. Cristal – how hard is that, huh? HUH?”

To celebrate our wedding anniversary, Tom had invited eight couples to a four-course sit-down dinner at our house, located in the upscale suburbs of St Ives, Sydney.

He had hired caterers, waitstaff, and a barman for the occasion. Like all of Tom’s parties, it promised to be interesting, excessive, and showy.

It was true – all I had to do was chill the Cristal, as he had taken care of everything else, without consulting me once about anything. Not even asking me who I’d like to invite. Solo – that’s how Tom operated.

I didn’t mind. Tom was extremely capable, highly efficient, and most of all, he had flair. I didn’t, so if I did make a suggestion for just about anything, he’d usually scoff at it and shred it to bits, making me feel like the hillbilly I was. So over time, I stopped suggesting or contributing, and left everything in Tom’s highly capable hands. That suited him just fine.

With pregnancy hormones, my brain sometimes became a pile of mush, and I would walk into a room and forget why I was there. I often forgot which level I had parked my car on at the mall.

It annoyed the hell out of Tom as he called it foolish, and God knows, being as astute and intelligent as he was, he didn’t suffer fools gladly.

As my pregnancy progressed, everything I did was foolish and stupid to him, and he became increasingly irritable with me, and finally, he hit me.

“See what you do to me!” he snarled, his nostrils flaring, his lips a thin white line. “You make me act like this.”

After throwing me a look of disgust, he stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusted his tie, straightened his five-foot-eight frame, and walked towards the door of our bedroom.

At the door, he paused and turned to look at me. “Put on a darker shade of lipstick, wear the necklace I bought you for Christmas, and be downstairs in five,” he said before he walked downstairs.

With my hand on my cheek, I sat on the bed, shrouded in disappointment and disbelief.

How could he hit me? I asked myself. How could he hit a pregnant woman? His pregnant wife – who does that?

There was no way I was going to go to his party after that. I would leave quietly through the back door before our guests arrived. I wouldn’t even tell him that I was leaving him. To hell with him and his party.

Just then the doorbell rang. Too late. Our guests had arrived.

“The place looks wonderful, Tom.”

“Thank you!”

“Yes, it’s just fabulous, Tom. Marvelous. Where’s Arena?”

“She’ll be down in a sec,” I heard Tom say. “Honey, our guests have arrived,” he called in a sweet voice from the foot of the steps. “Arena, sweetheart?”

I panicked. What do I do? How could I possibly not show up when guests had already arrived? In all honesty, I’m ashamed to say, I chickened out. Feeling pressured, I decided I would go downstairs and be civil and courteous to Tom’s friends, but I would leave immediately after the party. If he tried to stop me, I would have it out with him and call the cops if I needed to. I may have been twenty-two years old, but I realized that Tom had crossed a line and I wasn’t going to accept it.

I scrambled up from my king-size bed and walked over to a mirror where I eyed my cheek, red from his slap.

I picked up some concealer and dotted it over the redness. Didn’t work. His imprint on my cheek and the welt showed through the concealer.

I tried green concealer. That did the trick and that was the first time I learned that green concealer worked better on bruises better than yellow or beige concealer.

Over the years I used a lot of green concealer, and I became an expert at concealing “flaws.”

Luckily, my deep mahogany hair was in a bob and fell in a sharp point two centimeters below my ears. (Styled as per Tom’s strict instructions. He ordered me to wear my hair exactly that way, because he was in awe of Victoria Beckham.) That night, with the help of a little wax, I pulled the edges forward so that it covered my cheek. Just in case the green concealer let me down.

Then I went one step further and decided that if the concealer faded and someone enquired about the marks on my face, I would simply say that I had an allergy – a new facial that didn’t quite agree with me. (Over the years, my friends were surprised at how many facials didn’t agree with me.)

Still dazed, I adjusted my clothing, darkened my lipstick, put on the chunky gold necklace that Tom ordered me to wear, and waddled downstairs. As instructed.

When I reached the last stair of the spiral staircase of our 2.6-million-dollar home in Sydney, which had a spa, sauna, tennis court, and an Olympic-size pool, I plastered a smile on my disappointed lips and murmured greetings to our guests.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed Tom watching me with elevated eyebrows, probably waiting to see if I would tell on him, or indicate marital discord in our supposedly perfect marriage.

I ignored him and focused on our guests. I would deal with the bastard later.

After a while, his eyebrows returned to normal and he moved towards me. As if nothing had happened, he slipped his arm around my waist. I stiffened, then casually tried to shrug it off, but he held on, his fingers digging into my side, tacitly warning me to behave, or else.

After our last guest had arrived, Tom rattled a knife on a Royal Doulton goblet. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for me to give my beautiful wife her anniversary gift.”

With a fake smile plastered on my darkened lips, I allowed him to take my hand.

He led us all outside, where a silver BMW X60i E75 was parked in our driveway, a huge red bow on it. I knew that it cost more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, as I had gone car shopping with him weeks ago.

“For you, my love,” he said.

All eyes were on me, most of them filled with envy.

Overwhelmed by the slap and by the present, I remained mute.

He pinched my waist. Hard.

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured quickly, feeling pressured to say something. It truly was a lovely vehicle, although the one I was driving, a Mercedes four-wheel drive, was just as beautiful.

I looked at him. “But, I didn’t get you anything, Tom.” My voice felt strained and high-pitched.

He hugged me. “You are my gift alone, Arena. You bring me so much joy, my love.”

“Aaaawwww!” I heard a guest mutter. “How sweet!”

My guests had no idea that less than an hour ago, this man had slapped his pregnant wife.

“And that’s not all,” he said and produced a pretty red-and-gold box. Tom opened it, revealing a chunky diamond bracelet. He slipped it onto my wrist, then kissed my hand and bowed obsequiously.

Back inside, gasps of delight and more unbridled envy abounded, which Tom seemed to visibly revel in.

Envy was Tom’s currency – his elixir of life. Without it, I do believe that he would have shriveled up and simply died.

Then he took me into his arms and once again, lovingly embraced me. When he kissed me, he threaded his fingers into my hair and slipped his tongue into my mouth. His kiss felt horrible – like sucking on raw steak. I felt awkward and uncomfortable, and I wanted him to stop the Broadway show. I was a lousy actress and a terrible leading lady for sure.

When I jerked slightly away, his fingers gripped my hair and pulled hard, a silent warning – Play along or else.

Having no choice, I became a supporting act in his show and felt like the phony I was.

Then the doorbell rang.

He released me and said, “Will you get that, darling?”

I was surprised, because Tom always answered the door. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the door and caught my breath at the sight of the biggest bouquet of roses I had ever seen.

“For Mrs. Arena Botha,” the delivery guy said, struggling to carry the bouquet.

Again, the room echoed with oohs and ahhs!

Of course, I was not one bit impressed with any of his gifts. It was not that I was ungrateful. Sure, his gifts were lovely, but I would have preferred if he had given me the gifts that morning, when it was just the two of us, or if he had sent me the roses during the day.

These gifts were all about him and his ego – Look at me. Look how successful I am. See what I can give my woman. Don’t you wish you were married to me instead of your husband? When you leave here tonight, you’re gonna wish you were Arena. You’re gonna wish you were Tom Botha’s wife.

I did leave the house that night, but it wasn’t because of Tom’s slap. I went into early labor and had to be rushed to the hospital that very night. Three hours after our last guest had left, I held in my arms a beautiful blue-eyed boy called Warren, who became the silver lining in my life.

All thoughts of leaving Tom and ending our marriage went out the door after that. I continued living with Tom, starring in his Broadway shows and buying copious amounts of green concealer.

One word to describe living with Tom – suffocating.

Every time he was around, I felt like I had a pillow over my face. I dreaded the hour when he would walk through that door, and when he left the house, I felt like the pillow had been lifted from my face.

Weekends were the worst – the pillow seldom lifted, and unlike most people, Monday was my best friend. I looked forward to it.

The moment Tom left the house for work, I would let out a long sigh, make myself a cup of hot chocolate, and as the morning progressed, my shoulders would slowly drop from around my ears and I would smile.

My Sunday morning psalm: Monday my love, where are you?
………………………………………………………………………………………………….

PAYBACK, a stand-alone #romantic #suspense #book is #FREE for a limited time.

To read more about good people being pushed into doing very bad things, click on
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blog crackling revenge read 2 April 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You love him? Oh, please! We’re talking five years in prison! Get real, okay?

29 March 20 pastor's daughter

 

“Your love is a crime,” the law says and throws you both behind bars.
You:
a) Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love?
b) Lie like hell – claim that you’ve never seen before, that he took you
against your will, yes, throw him under the bus without a second thought
and secure your freedom within minutes?

Which will it be?
What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah, yeah, but
we’re talking serious prison time for you here, so get real now. What
will it be?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

A heartbreaking, fast-paced romantic suspense tale of love, betrayal
and unrequited love.

 $0.99 cents for a limited time
Also available on #Kindle #Unlimited!blog face of racism 29March 2020

EXCERPT FROM COLOR BLIND

“My low spirits, self-loathing continued for the remainder of the day. When
I wasn’t crying, I was close to it. At the dinner table that night, I barely
touched my food. I stole glances at my father. He appeared unperturbed,
swirling his glass of red wine, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t
caused Miss Annabel to run off.

“This apricot lamb is very lekker,” he said.

Shut up! I hope you choke on it!

Dankie,” my mother said.

“As if you cooked it!” I said.

My mother jerked her neck to look at me, her eyebrows raised.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Katrina shake her head, silently urging
me to shut up before I got bashed by my mother.

“Ja, what’s your problem?” my mother asked. I do believe she was surprised
that I was being openly mouthy.

I didn’t answer, I just pushed my food around in my plate.

“Ay?” She pressed on, not drunk enough or she’d have ignored my … well,
she would have ignored everything I said. “Why your face like a horse?” She
took a sip of her drink. “Ay?”

“Miss Annabel left, today,” I said. At the mention of Miss Annabel’s name,
my voice grew watery.

She took a sip of her wine. “So? For how long?”

“For good. Forever. She’s never coming back. Ever!”

“Why?” My mother seemed genuinely surprised.

“Why, because, ma, she does not want to teach me anymore!”

My mother jerked back in her chair. “Ay? Ding! Dong! is gone forever?
That stick-in-her-arse woman left?” She chuckled at her joke. “Why?
What you do, Sarie?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything,” I said in a voice filled with icy control.

She giggled over her glass. That caused my anger to accelerate. I glared
at her. How dare you laugh when I have lost my beloved Miss Annabel?
Why can’t you see my pain? You’re an adult, my mother, you should see it!
Why aren’t you seeing my pain, mother? Why the hell are you laughing,
you drunk!

“Sarie, eat up so you can get your ice cream,” Katrina said from the
kitchen, in a voice imbued with warning.

My eyes shifted to Katrina. She shook her head, urging me to shut up. My
eyes shifted back to my mother’s – she was still laughing. I knew exactly
how to wipe that smile off her face, and I did. “You should ask Pa; he took
Miss Annabel into his study when you wasn’t around and they had a … a
long chat. After that she was crying, then she left, because she said she
couldn’t take it anymore. He used to see her often in the study. But only
when you were away, ma. He used to touch her face and ask her to call him
Schoeman. I think he like her more than Popsicle Laurika, Ma. First Miss
Annabel, then Popsicle Laurika, then the maids, then you. Actually, I don’t
think he like you anymore, Ma.”

Even I was surprised at my blatant bitchiness. Hurt and anger had brought out the little bitch in me. My passive aggressiveness sure wiped the grin off my mother’s face. She stared at me with huge eyes, glass mid-air, mouth open. I held her gaze, a slight smirk on my lips. That’s right, he’s been seeing all those women. Your little daughter knows it. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows that Magda is not enough for her husband. Don’t think you are. Whose laughing now, huh?

My mother swung her head to look at my pa who was sitting with his eyes now fixed on his honey, apricot lamb, appearing outwardly calm. His white knuckles around his wineglass told another story.

“Schoe … man …”

My father kept his eyes on his plate, but I noted with satisfaction that his body had turned rigid with fear.

“Schoe … man …”

He tried to shrug off what I was saying, but fear caused his shrug to present like a fearful twitch. After a murderous look my way, my father looked at his plate again.

Taking on Schoeman Vorster was akin to a suicide mission, daughter or no daughter. I knew that, but at that moment, I didn’t care; I wanted a fight, a chaotic brawl, something that could give me an excuse to scream, cry and punch and kick back, hurt someone, something, anything! I wanted an excuse to weep loudly and release some of the pent-up hurt I was experiencing over the loss of my beloved Miss Annabel. I was grieving and I had gone straight into the anger phase.

I sat back and waited for … whatever! I just waited for the outcome. So far, they hadn’t sent me back to my room, so I was excited at the prospect of witnessing a fight. From the corner of my eye, I saw Katrina in the background, signalling desperately for my attention. I looked at her. With her eyes bulging, she patted her lips vigorously – Shut up Sarie before you get it!

She was right, I would get it for sure. But, I didn’t care. They could beat me, I just didn’t care. The pain from a physical beating would be less than the emotional pain I felt. I ignored my keeper and focused on the impending explosion. There had to be one – Magda Vorster hated the idea of not being the only woman in her man’s husband’s life. Being as beautiful as she was, meant that she should be, because looks alone is what satisfies a man. Well, that’s what her pea-brain believed.

There’d be hell to pay if the man who was supposed to adore and cherish her was adoring and cherishing another, one with no plastic crown to prove that she was the fairest in the land. She had turned a blind eye to popsicle-loving Laurika, because she had no choice but to, but this was too much.

The room went quiet. I was disappointed – no explosion? How could that be? Please God, let there be an explosion.

I think, for the first time in my life, my prayers, even though I had become an atheist, came true.

With a snarl, my mother jerked to her feet, lifting up the table at the same time, toppling it, sending crockery and cutlery and crystal glasses and honey apricot lamb and red wine flying. Mad Magda was in the room!

“Magda! What the … FOK!” Pastor Schoeman bellowed.

Mad Magda responded by grabbing a steak knife from the floor and plunging it into my father’s shoulder.

“Yes!” I cried out loud, thrilled at the way things were going. I had gotten more than I bargained for, to my delight. To my horror too.

My father screamed and fell forward, while I jumped back, out of harm’s way. If only his congregation could see this now, I thought, before, I panicked – what if she killed him?

This was more than I expected. She was going to kill him. Okay, then!

I realized very quickly that I didn’t mind her killing him. It would save me the trouble. Would they kill each other? I realized very quickly that that would be okay too.

Sadly, my mother did not kill my father, because he recovered, lunged at her, grabbed the knife out of her hand and flung it across the room in Katrina’s direction. I heard Katrina scream and duck just in time.

He grabbed my mother’s flailing arms and pinned her to the wall. “Are you foking mull?”

That to me was a rhetorical question, but my mother answered anyway. “Ek is nou!” (I am now!) and clawed at my father’s face, drawing streaks of blood. She was way smaller than him, but she was like a china cracker, compact, loud and dangerous, and the pastor could hardly restrain her. Finally, he punched her several times, managed to partially subdue her, grabbed her by the hair, dragged her kicking and screaming all the way into the bedroom and shut the door.

I stood with a trembling Katrina outside the closed bedroom door and listened to the screaming and shouting and loud thuds.

“You better hide,” Katrina whispered in a panicked voice, pointing at some heavy drapes. “Your pa is coming for you next.”

I knew that, so I bolted downstairs and hid behind the drapes.

Minutes later, I heard the thudding of my father’s footsteps, his heavy breathing, then, “SARIEEE!”

I held my breath, trembling with fear – I was probably in for the disciplining of my life – at the same time, exhilarated at having been able to rattle him. He deserved to be rattled – my mother deserved to be rattled, the whole world deserved to be rattled, because I had lost one of the most life-altering people in the universe – my precious Miss Annabel because of my parents. Yes, my mother was also to blame for my loss. She dared make fun and laugh at Miss Annabel? Miss Ding! Dong!? Really? Who’s laughing now?

“SARIE!” The varying tempo of my father’s voice told me he was searching room to room for me.

Then, I heard him feet away from me. “Where the fok is she?”

“Gone to her mother’s room,” I heard Katrina lie. “I think.”

That was a good answer, because silence followed.

Curious, I peeped at him from behind the curtain. There he was, staring at the closed bedroom door, his shirt blood-stained from the shoulder wound, his chest heaving, the bloodied lines on his face causing him to look like he had lost a fight to a dozen feral cats.

“Careful,” Katrina said. “Mevrou got a corkscrew thingi.”

His hand flew to his neck, probably because the woman he called his wife and others called Mad Magda was capable of plunging the corkscrew into his jugular. After mumbling angrily, he took his car keys and almost ran out of the house. At the sound of screeching tyres, I came out of hiding and walked over to my mother’s bedroom and put my ear to the door and listened. It was quiet. I opened the door and peeped inside. My mother lay on the floor in a tangled mess – my father had knocked her out.

I should have checked up on my mother, called an ambulance even, but I didn’t, because I guess I didn’t care enough, and I hurt too much. Which was a sad thing for everyone, because every single person on Earth should love their mother more than anyone else in the world. My guess is that I had come into this world loving my mother. However, bit by bit, her behavior over time, had eroded that love and eventually, caused my love for her, for my mother, the woman who brought me into the world to dissolve completely. How could such a thing not be painfully sad? It was more than sad, it was tragic.”

Young blonde girl with long hair and boy

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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense about unrequited love – book 8 now available on Amazon!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Color Blind book 8 is now live on Amazon! Click on the image

above to download your copy!

Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie

that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom

within minutes?

What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah,

yeah, but hey, we’re talking

serious jail  time for you here.

Which would you choose?

Be honest now.

Color Blind books 1-8 are now live on Amazon!

0.99 cents for a limited time!

Avail on Kindle Unlimited

Praise for Color Blind:

“The style of writing this author uses is unique to every other
writer out there. The humour is funnier than comedy and the
horror is tear-jerking. I read this in less than a day.”

“Read this book in one night! Great read and couldn’t put it down!”

‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor,
this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’

$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
so click on the images below to get your copies before the price increase.

Amazon U.S. links in the Color Blind Series (click on images below
for Amazon U.S.)

 

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Amazon U.K. links (click on images below for

Amazon U.K.)

 

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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense about unrequited love – book 6 now available on Amazon!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Color Blind book 6 is now live on Amazon! Click on the image

above to download your copy!

Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie

that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom

within minutes?

What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah,

yeah, but hey, we’re talking

serious jail  time for you here.

Which would you choose?

Be honest now.

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horror is tear-jerking. I read this in less than a day.”

“Read this book in one night! Great read and couldn’t put it down!”

‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor,
this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’

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Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie

that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom

within minutes?

What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah,

yeah, but hey, we’re talking

serious jail  time for you here.

Which would you choose?

Be honest now.

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Praise for Color Blind:
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor,
this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’

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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense book Release (book 3)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tell the truth and spend 5 years behind bars for love, or lie

that that you don’t know him and secure your freedom within minutes?

What? You love him? He’s your soul mate? Yeah, yeah, yeah,  but we’re talking

serious jail  time for you here.

Which would you choose?

Be honest now.

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Praise for Color Blind:
‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected
humor,
this book will have you staying up late into the late.’

‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better,
you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what
will happen next!’

$0. 99 cents for a limited time,
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Color Blind – Heartbreaking Romantic Suspense romance, book Release

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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‘Fast-paced, raw and entertaining with moments of unexpected humor,
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‘Clear your calendar this weekend – Eve Rabi has a new tale and
it’s kick**s as usual!’

‘OMG, Eve! Just when I think your writing can’t get any better, you surpass yourself! I am
biting my nails, wondering what will happen next!’

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Color Blind – Heartbreaking romantic suspense, now live on Amazon!

The law declared their love a crime and imprisoned them both.

Now, one of them must risk all to save the other.

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Color Blind is now live on Amazon! 

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ColorBlind – A heartbreaking romantic suspense book by Eve Rabi – Excerpt 6

COMING SOON!

Apartheid: noun, historical, a policy or system of segregation or discrimination on grounds of race. 

Decades before Nelson Mandela became president of South Africa, the country was rigorously governed by various pro-apartheid acts, including the Immorality Act, where sex between white and other ethnic groups was a criminal offence. Both parties contravening the Immorality Act would be imprisoned for up to ten years.
Under that law, Shabba and Sarie’s love was declared a crime and both of them were imprisoned. Now, one of them must risk all to save the other. A heartwarming tale of love, loss, redemption and … revenge!

EXCERPT 6

If you haven’t read the first FIVE excerpts in this series, please click on the link below:
https://everabi.wordpress.com/2019/04/18/colorblind-a-romantic-suspense-book-by-everabi/

(NB: This is a raw excerpt, not yet professionally edited, so please overlook any errors in this piece)

The story continues …

Cape Town
1972

SARIE 

The puppies were just gorgeous, and they thrived with the love and attention everyone on my parent’s property gave them. Well, by that, I mean they thrived on the love the servants gave them. My mother and father ignored the puppies. Why? Well, think about it – if they ignored their own daughter, their own flesh and blood, how can we expect them to love dogs? To love animals? It was too much to ask of them.

Anyway, they grew up to be great watchdogs, growling menacingly at any stranger or car approaching our property, snarling at anyone they didn’t know. The slightest sound, and they were on their feet, ears pricked, ready to charge. They were so alert, so scary, so good at guarding our property, we no longer needed to lock our doors.

There was intense love between Shabba and the dogs. When he walked, they walked, when he sat, they sat. They woke him up in the morning, by entering his room and literally pulling the blanket off him, then followed him everywhere, until the sun set and he went back to bed. Whenever he climbed into the treehouse, they would sit at the bottom of the tree for hours patiently waiting for him to come down. When he climbed down, they would once again shadow him.
Baba loved the dogs and spent hours cooking them special food on an open fire for their growing bones, which the dogs devoured in seconds, then looked at him with eyes that said, This is it? Seriously?
Life was good for me, I had no complaints. I mean, I had a lot going for me – I had Shabba, who was my best friend, Baba, Mama, Katrina, Fendi and all the servants who loved me. I had a real-life doll called Poppie, who could now dance and clap and blink her eyes and give me smiles that lit up my day. I had four puppies who could fetch sticks, roll over and play dead, and make me laugh with delight. So, with so much love around me, so much joy I received from everyone and everything around me, I didn’t miss the love of my mother and father. Well, only when I saw other children being openly adored by their mothers and fathers in public, would I miss their love. Then, I would grow quiet and wishful – if only my parents loved me that much.  If only …

One day, my mother appeared excited – a TV show had decided to film a documentary titled, At Home with the Vorsters. “The place must look sharp, ay?” my mother said, as she brought out her tiara and lovingly wiped it down for the filming.
So, every servant on the property was put to work, to make the house sparkle for the photoshoot. They started off by hiding the cases and cases of vodka my mother purchased in bulk – had to keep the pastor’s wife’s secret safe.
My mother’s entire family was over for the shoot – my grandma or Ouma Jan, my mother’s sisters, Hestrie and Elzette, together with their husbands and children, my mother’s two brothers Willie and Nieman, their wives Sourcie and Peggy, and their children.
It was no secret that my mother hated her sisters-in-law Sourcie and Peggy and constantly complained about them – “They just jealous ‘cause I marry bucks, and they got bugger all!” I had an inkling the feeling was mutual, so, I wondered why they had been invited.
It was no secret that my mother hated her sisters Hestrie and Elzette too, and constantly complained about them – “They just jealous because I got a rich man and they got fok all! Good, let them come see how wonderful my life is, and let them cut and burn!” she said, as she brought out her beauty queen sash from almost nine years ago, and handed it to Katrina for ironing.
All of my father’s children from his previous marriage were also invited, and they all showed up in their finery, sparkling like my mother’s crystal glasses. Also invited was Torit, my father’s ex-wife, the wife of my father’s youth, the woman my mother stole him from. Of course, my mother and Torit hated each other, but I do believe that my father, the pastor, had Torit over to subtly show the world that he continued to have a harmonious life with his ex-wife and children. It was a case of – If my wife forgives me for cheating on her and dumping her for a woman thirty years my junior, then you should too.
The cameras followed my mother around inside the house, clicking away in different locations to show off the house. It was a pleasant summer’s day, so lunch was served on our oversized patio. Katrina, Mama Tsela and another servant named Margaret served lunch to our guests, while Baba served drinks. On a blanket on the grass nearby, Poppie played with some of my toys, while Fendi and Shabba watched over her.
Eenie, Meenie, Miney and Mo were at hand, looking magnificent, because Baba and Shabba had bathe them earlier that morning, and brushed their coats till they shone.
That day, my mother, for some reason, did not have any migraine medicine. She just drank water with lemon and ice. Around twenty-five by then, she looked really lovely in a flowing peach caftan and her signature accessory – a crown of miniature flowers on her head, lest we forget that she was once Miss Boksburg. I assumed that my father ordered her not to wear her tiara and sash, so she rebelled with a crown of flowers on her hair.
My parents put on quite a show for the cameras. They sat at the lunch table, holding hands and even kissing lovingly at times. I rarely saw them this close, this affectionate, so I stared at them with a confused look on my face. In fact, everyone at the lunch table stared at the happy couple.
“Schoeman, he say he want us to renew our wedding vows,” my mother boasted. “I tell him ‘Ja, but only if we do it on the beach.’” She looked up at my father for confirmation.
“Okay, my darling,” my father said with a smile.
“A beach wedding with all the trimmings and watnot.”
“Okay, sweetie!”
“With Ge’ Korsten singing for us?”
“Of course, lovie,” my father said, before he leaned in and kissed her coral lips.
While they kissed, there was a lot of eye rolling that went on between not just my mother’s sisters-in-laws, but also between her own sisters, Torit and her six children. I felt left out because I also wanted to roll my eyes, but I wasn’t sure at what point to do so.
“My rock must be bigger than this one, ay?”
“Liefie, of course! Anything for my poppie.”
At the mention of her name, Poppie, who had been crawling on a blanket on the grass, looking as sweet as ever, with Fendi and Shabba hovering nearby to stop her from wandering too far off the blanket, let out a loud gurgle.
“You’ve got to see this baby,” I said to my cousins. “She’s so cute. She’s got hair the color of Ouma’s furniture.”
“Hai, my furniture is noggal Imbuia!” Ouma snapped, before she craned her neck to look at Poppie’s hair.
Soon, everyone was straining to see Poppie, who had hair the color of Ouma’s furniture.
So, together with my cousins Jessie and Alettie, I ran over to Poppie.
“Watch this,” I said. “Clap for me, Poppie.”
Poppie clapped and we hollered with delight.
“Hey, that’s my name!” my mother yelled from the patio.
The adults on the patio smiled at Poppie cuteness.
“Gosh, Sarie,” my mother said, “I can’t believe you used to be so small. You were so cute then. Time flies, ay?”
I was cute then. I wanted to be cute now.
“Ja, Ma,” I said, “but how come I didn’t get pa’s birthmark and Poppie did? It’s not fair, Ma. I want to be blessed with the stamp of my country on my face too!” I began to trace the birthmark on Poppie’s face. “The shape of Africa …”
“Lemme see, lemmee see,” Alettie said, as she peered at it. “Ja, it’s the same shape as your Pa’s, ay?”
“She’s got the same color eyes as your Pa, too,” Jessie remarked.
“Let me see.” I said, holding onto Poppie’s squirming head. “Ja, she has!” I looked at my father, “Pa, did you …”
I stopped when I saw the look on the adult’s faces.  All of them sat rigid with their eyes the size of saucers. The cameras continued rolling and clicking capturing everything.
I looked at my mother. She sat with her lips pressed together, her nostrils flaring, her eyes narrow. I looked at my father. He had sunk low in his seat, his face the color of the beetroot salad on the table.
“What?” I said to my mother.
She didn’t answer.
I looked at Ouma. She was staring at Poppie, her hands on her chest, her false teeth out of alignment and hanging as loose as her jaw.
“What?” I asked.
No answer from her either.
I looked at Katrina who had been serving food. She stood frozen, a look of abject terror on her face.
“What?” I asked again, suddenly very fearful.
“I got me one too,” Katrina piped up in a shrill voice. “Look! Poppie got it from me. Look!” She moved aside her scarf to reveal a birthmark – the shape of South Africa above her left eyebrow, the one Agnes made her cover with the scarf. The one Agnes insisted Katrina painted clay over each time she left the servants quarters.
That gesture of Katrina’s, intended to add salve to the situation, only served to worsen the  situation. My Ouma started to breathe loudly, causing my aunts to jump to their feet and fan her. My mother’s brothers sat with dazed expressions on their faces. My mother’s sisters-in-law, they handled the situation differently – they clicked champagne glasses with each other, then drank up.
Torit and her children – how did they handle the situation? Well, how do you think they did? I mean, considering that Magda had stolen their husband and father, destroyed their home and lived happily ever after with a golden-haired child? They were unmistakably smug. All of them.
My mother kicked back her chair, got up and storm off into the house. My father, the esteemed Pastor Schoeman Vorster, now flaming red in the face from being busted for rape and incest, stammered and stuttered under the glares and stares of disapproval.
Suddenly, we heard the sound of breaking glass inside the house. I was ready to run into the house, when my father said, “Stay here!” and rushed into the house, ditching his shocked guests and equally shocked cameramen.
Ignoring the sniggers and high-fives between my half-siblings and their mother, I hovered around the entrance to the house, dying to see what was taking place inside.
Unable to stand Torit and her happy children, Ouma stood up and in a terse voice, instructed her family to leave, muttering something about giving the young couple some privacy. My mother’s family rose from their seats and left, but not before each adult family member helped themselves to bottles of alcohol, and almost all the remaining food on the table. By the time they left, their bags were bulging with food and alcohol. The servants did not have much to clear that day, because my mother’s family took care of that.
Torit and her brood also left, seeming in unusually high spirits.
Of course, too curious to listen to my father to stay where I was, I crept over to their bedroom and found my mother glaring at my father, the empty vodka bottle in her hand suspended in mid-air, ready to strike. Nearby, shards of broken glass from the mirror on her dressing table lay on the floor.
“Magda …” My father uttered just one word, however it was enough to hear the terror in his voice.
I watched him rush to shut the door, after which, I heard the sounds of muffled voices, the sound of furniture being moved around, yelps,
then silence.
The next morning, my mother emerged from her room in a black silk gown, black slippers and a black eye. Sensing she was in a foul mood, I said nothing.
When my father emerged from the room, he sported terrible scratch marks on his face, neck and arms. Of course, I pretended not to notice, even though I missed nothing. Has to do with Poppie, I thought.
Days later, I awoke to the sound of anguished wails. I hurried to the kitchen to find Katrina on her knees before my mother. “Please Mevrou, please don’t send her ’way!” Katrina begged. “Please!”
“No, Katrina! She makes too much nose. I need her gone, or you will have to go too.” My mother began to walk away.
Katrina ran after her, tears streaming down her face. “Please, Mevrou, please!”
“She’s a very nice woman okay? They can’t have a baby, so she will treat Poppie like her own. She is happy to take Poppie because she has a little bit straight hair, so be grateful, okay?”
Katrina dropped to the floor and grabbed my mother’s knees. “Please, mevrou! I beg you. I will do anything! Please!”
My mother shrugged her off and walked away with her bottle of migraine medicine. Horrified at what I was hearing, I ran after my mother. “What are you doing, Ma? Why are you sending Poppie away?”
“Shut your mouth, Sarie! Don’t stick your nose into big people’s affairs. How many times must I tell –
“But Ma –”
My mother’s hand lashed out and connected sharply with my cheek. “Shut up, Sarie!”
Despite being hit, I continued to fight for Katrina. “You can’t do that to Poppie! To Katrina! You can’t! you can’t! You CAN’T!”
This time I got the back of my mother’s hand which sent me staggering.
With a determined look on her face, my mother walked to her room. Katrina ran after her, begging her to change her mind. My mother, deaf to my pleas, entered her room and shut the door behind her. Katrina fell to her knees and sobbed outside my mother’s bedroom door, begging my mother to open the door, to let her keep Poppie, begging her to reconsider. My mother’s door remained locked.
Margaret and Mama Tsela picked up a limp Katrina and almost carried her to the servant’s quarters.
The next day, a white couple from a neighboring farm turned up at my mother’s house with an envelope for my mother. After which, they began to pull Poppie out of Katrina’s arms.
I became terribly upset and started to cry. “Where are they taking her?” I wailed to Mama Tsela.
“To their home,” she whispered, before she wiped tears from her eyes with her apron.
“Why do they want our baby?” I demanded. “We can take care of Poppie. Tell them to go. Tell them to go now!”
Mama Tsela put her finger on her lip, a helpless look on her face. I looked at Katrina, who was sobbing hysterically.
“Tikki and I gonna to take good care of her,” the woman whispered to Katrina. “We gonna love her like our own baby, ay?”
“You said I could s … see her over weekends, right?” Katrina asked through her tears.
“Ja, ja,” Tikki said, then looked at his wife, “Charne?”
“Ja, ja, ja!” Charne said.
While Katrina sobbed, the woman removed all Poppie’s clothes, and dressed her in the new clothes they had brought along.
Mama Tsela brought out a bag for Poppies old clothes. She placed the items of clothing into the bag and handed it to the man. He reached to accept it, when Charne screeched, “Nee, Tikki!” She looked at Mama Tsela. “Keep that for the other poor children.”
Mama Tsela nodded and hugged the bag to her chest. Katrina took the bag of Poppie’s clothing from Mama Tsela and held onto it.
I looked at Baba lurking in the background. Everything about him sagged – his shoulders, his jowls, his mouth … I looked around me – everyone was crying. Except my mother. She stood in the background with a mug in her hand, her eyes fixed on Katrina. In hindsight, I do believe that she had enjoyed seeing Katrina lose Poppie. She had been humiliated in front of our family by the discovery that Poppie had been sired by her straying husband, and for that, someone had to pay – Katrina.
A strange feeling flitted over me. Hatred. I felt hatred for my mother. As a child you are not born with hating; it is instilled in you by people, painful circumstances experiences and hurt. I was hurt, angry and terribly ashamed that my mother could be so cruel and heartless. She had a child; she should have known better. I began to despise my mother for sending Poppie away.
As Tikki and Charne drove off with our Poppie, Katrina ran after the car sobbing. She ran until the taillights of the car disappeared from view, then fell to the ground and sobbed. Baba tried to pick her up, but it was as if all the bones in her body had liquified, she kept flopping onto the ground. He eventually stepped back. It broke my little heart to see her so broken. I lay with her on the floor, my arms around her, weeping with her. Mama Tsela, Margaret and Fendi joined us. Together, we all lay on the floor weeping with Katrina over the loss of our beloved Poppie, the bones in all our bodies equally liquid. The day Poppie was stolen from us, I learned how about hate, how to despise, and what the meaning of helpless was.

End of Excerpt from ColorBlind – Coming Soon!

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