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EMBERS OF TEMPTATION by Eve Rabi (Book Release)



Blog image 1 wordpress Wrath of Temptation 09 Jan 18


Pumping with adrenaline, I look out of the window, my ears cocked for the sound of the chopper. Where are you? Liars, cheats – where the hell are you? Better hurry, I don’t have all day.
Nearby, three technicians quietly comb my home for bugs. “It’s an emergency, the Church of Light is in grave danger!” I declared when I called them. “Pastor Colin needs your help.” The suckers dropped everything and rushed to protect their church and their pastor.
I figured, first things first – before I deliver any kind of retribution, I need to rid the place of all surveillance equipment installed by that psychopath called Clover. Or Love. Or Whatever the fuck she’s calling herself these days. Before more damage is done.
Joy Sterling indeed – I can hardly believe how dumb Sister Grace was for not checking this so-called volunteer out thoroughly. By not doing her job, she has allowed Clover to believe that she can take me on. Me, Scarlett Smyth-Murdoch-Callan, manipulator and criminal extraordinaire, probably one of the finest Svengalis to tread the Earth. She has no idea who she’s dealing with. How dangerous I am. That she is tangling with someone with an IQ higher than that of Einstein.

Such a fraud, pretending to be so helpful and supportive and reliable – coming up with the sparkling pacifier, the convenient playground – God, I feel like screaming right now!
Before you call me dumb (someone like me could be duped by an  unremarkable, unimpressionable, thrift-shopper in long skirts, vintage cardigans and sensible shoes), just remember that I have an empire to run, so I was distracted. It happens, okay? Distraction is an occupational hazard for moguls like me, so don’t even think of berating me. And … just keep in mind how quickly I derailed her locomotive of deceit.
Clover’s biggest mistake was thinking she could take me on. Her second biggest mistake is that she forgot about that greedy hillbilly named Liz. That beanpole who also, God knows why, thought that she could take on someone like me. “Give me ten thousand dollars today and two hundred thousand dollars in three days.” Yeah?

“Fetch me cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows.”

Really? Bitch, I am the director of the Church of Light, not a volunteer. And FYI, never in my whole life had I ever fetched anything for anyone.

Well, I hope she enjoyed that steak sandwich and that cup of hot chocolate, her last feast before she was deposited where she belongs – three feet under (six is not necessary). May the maggots enjoy feasting on her wiry body.

Bristling with fury, I look at the three wise men, roaming the place with their selfie sticks. Or detectors – they look like selfie sticks to me. My ears are cocked and ready for that, Found one! For that, beep! beep! beep! followed by ‘gotcha!’
More than an hour passes, and not a squeak from the men. Absentmindedly, I inspect my nails – I’ve ruined a good manicure by constantly tapping of my fingernails on the table.
As I wait, I think about Townsend, the sleaze bag. Thanks to Shane, he will soon be accompanying Liz. No one will come calling for Townsend – he’s a mere unemployed British actor working illegally in Australia, and doesn’t have any family around who will miss the creep in ridiculous red briefs. The nerve of him thinking I’d fall into bed with him. The nerve of him demanding a Maserati. The nerve of him thinking he could blackmail me. That’s always been the problem in my life – everyone around wants a piece of me. Love, Liz, Townsend, Shane – yes, even Shane the cokehead is expecting a piece of the pie I so lovingly and so painstakingly baked. Why? I’ll tell you why they demand a piece of me – it’s because I’m a woman. A powerful woman at that. If were a man, not even an authoritative one, even if I were a Weasel like Woody Allen, everyone would laud me, not blackmail me. They would expect nothing from me and be too scared to even think of asking. You think people can go up to Donald Trump and shake him down? Picture it – Trump, can you fetch me a steak sandwich? Trump, go fetch me a hot chocolate with marshmallows. Trump, buy me a Maserati.
Can you picture the look on Donald’s face? He’d stare at them with puckered lips, before he makes a call – not to 911, not to the Secret Service, not to the FBI, not even to Ivanka – no, he’d place a call to the Russians. That’s right – they’d be there in fifteen seconds to douse the person in mob-strength, flammable Vodka, light a match and throw it on them – Nostrovia! (now you know why mobsters light their cigarettes with matches. You can’t throw a lit cigarette lighter at a body, can you?).
“Sister Callan?”
I spin around to look at the men. “Yes?”
“All done,” the head of the bug-finding team says. “Nothing to report.”
“What? That can’t be right!”
The man shakes his head, his comb-over causing a breeze in the process. “Not a single one.” He waves the selfie stick like a flag.
“Are you sure? There must be surveillance devices.”
“Nah. We’ve combed the place for them. Nothing. Checked, doubled checked – nothing. Not even one of those cheap nanny cams.”
“And you’re certain of that?”
“Positive. We would have caught them by now. The place is clean.”
“Luckily for everyone, right?”
No, not luckily. If there aren’t any camera’s around, just how did the bitch gain access to my computer files and my money? She’s gained access to just about everything and everywhere in the house, except the basement. It’s startling to think of the damage she’s done without the use of old fashion surveillance cameras.
“Ah, well, okay then.”
The men stare at me.
What? Surely, they’re not expecting to get paid? It’s the friggin’ church, for crying out loud! Have some goddamn respect!
“The Church of Light thanks you,” I say in a dismissive voice, before I turn away from them.
The men look at each other, shrug, before they slowly shuffle out of the house.
The moment they leave, I log onto my laptop, and holding my breath, I double-check my off-shore bank account. Maybe, just maybe, the money is still there. Please, please, please, let my money be there!
As I look at the screen, a feeling of utter devastation follows – the money, the one I’ve worked so hard for, has definitely vanished. My heart shatters and the pain is physical. Clover … I’m going to slice her up if I don’t get my money back. She has it. There’s no way someone can spend sixteen million dollars in such a short space of time. My guess is that she’s stashed it somewhere. In another bank account in Switzerland. (When did she get to Switzerland? How did I not notice her absence?) If she does not want to die a painful, prolonged death, she will return my money.
With my ear cocked and listening out for the sound of the chopper, I walk over to the bar, fetch a bottle of vodka (which is the only fetching I do, by the way), and take a couple of swigs from it.
What? Like you don’t drink from the bottle?



In the chopper, Clover shifts about in her seat. Hurry up! Hurry up! Hurry up! Questions zip through her mind:
What’s happening to Angel?
What will happen to her and Colin?
Will the evil witch shoot them on sight? Has she already shot Angel? Buried her …
At the thought of her baby being hurt, at the recollection of the drawing of the child on the fridge, the cold hand of dread squeezes her heart. Please God …
Colin reaches over and slowly removes her hands from her head. She looks at him, unaware that she was holding her head. He nods – Relax, it’s going to be okay.
Clover squeezes her eyes shut, before she opens it again and looks out the window. She whiles away the time tallying her deceptions: among others … the secret DNA test of Colin and Angel, the hidden suitcases, Colin’s secret recovery, stealing Joy’s identity to worm her way into the church and hiding her real identity, stealing back Colin’s love and affections, and the grand prize – stealing millions of dollars from the wicked witch of darkness. People who steal that kind of money usually goes to prison or ends up having their throats slit. There are more crimes that she committed, too many to name, that make her believe she should run, that she should never have boarded the chopper. If it wasn’t for her baby in the clutches of that psychopath, she would never return to the Church of Light. No, she’d run and hide, leave Colin and bolt for her life.
At the sight of the church, her anxiety soars.


Release date: Coming soon!

More excerpts to follow soon! Follow this blog to avoid missing out. You want to keep up with Scarlett’s underhandedness, believe me!

This is one of the books in the Girl on Fire Series. Read The Other Woman (an epic and jaw-dropping collision between a betrayed wife and a cunning seductress),  which is available on #KindleUnlimited, Please read before you read this book. 
Fans of Girl on the Train and Gone Girl, The Affair,  will love Eve Rabi’s tale of love, lust and revenge.
#RomanticCrime #RomanticSuspense #StoriesofRevenge #VigilanteJustice #FreeonKindleUnlimited #LoveTriangles#TheOtherWoman

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Cover Temptation 1 9 nov 16 MEDIUM.jpg

He may be dedicated to the church, to his God, and he may have chosen to lead a sterile life. However, he is still a man. Deep down, his wants and needs are like those of most men.
Once he encounters me, the forbidden fruit, those repressed desires will be stirred. My plan is to quench those desires and gain ascendancy over him.  

LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION, Eve Rabi’s latest book, a crime & suspense thriller about love, lust and revenge is coming soon. 

Watch this space for a release date and more excerpts.




My Wife’s Li’l Secret – Release Date

banner my wife's blog believed past tense

Release date:

18 November 2014

Do good guys really finish last?

A thrilling read about an errant wife, a husband determined to find answers and a web of lies and deceit.


“Wow I was totally entranced with this book from the beginning!” 

“Wish I could award this 10 out of 5 STARS!!”

“All in all I loved this book, it made me laugh, cry, hold my breath till I went blue, smile and finally caused my heart to break for Ritchie!”

“Very gripping story line! But keep the tissues handy.”

“Twists that will blow your mind and make you think about this book long after you finish it.”

Release date: 18 November 2014!

Friend Eve Rabi on Facebook for updates.

In Just a Few Hours …

In Just a Few Hours ...

…book 2 of You Will Pay for Leaving me, will be available.

Have you posted your review for You Will Pay for Leaving Me?

If you have, for a limited time, book 2 as well will be free to you!

Email with your review link to grab your free copy of book 2.


Remington Correctional Centre. Maximum security prison. A replica of Silverwater Correctional Services, home to me almost four years ago.
Harsh, unforgettable, behind-bars memories that never can be forgotten by a prisoner.
In my quest to be whole again, I have undergone two years of therapy and have learned how to successfully manage these memories.
Emphasis on manage, because there is no SPF50 type lotion you can use to block out these memories. They creep into your thoughts, invade your dreams, your daydreams, your life, and often incapacitate you.
I had to figure a way to manage my fears – I have three children who depend on me and if I am not whole, how can I possibly help them be whole?
But as I walk into Remington and make my way down the dreary, harshly-lit corridor toward Tom, all my recent years of utter freedom, of being unchained to him, of never having to hate weekends again, fades away.
My gut burns, my mouth feels like I swallowed a handful of cotton wool, and I gulp at the air, familiar and dense with the odor of ammonia and hopelessness.
In my mind, I’m back to being Mrs. Botha, wife of successful and charismatic self-made millionaire, Tom Botha, man extraordinaire envied by both men and women alike because of his beautifully groomed and supportive wife, his always-seen-but-seldom-heard-toddlers shod in shoes at all times, his immaculate and spotless home that he runs military style, his efficacious business he built single-handedly.
Perfection personified.
(Ladies, if you ever meet a man who is like Tom, perfect in every single way, got his shit totally together, ding! ding! ding! ding! ding! Get the fuck out of there. Slip off your stilettos, hitch up your narrow skirt and run! In the opposite direction. Sprint, if you have to.)
Tom’s eyes flash in front of me, causing my steps to falter. .
Deep breaths. You’re not going back to prison, you’re just visiting it. In…out…in…out…
Tom can’t harm you anymore. He’s dying of colon cancer, remember?
The picture of Tom changing a colostomy bag, and having to live in a body that is less than perfect, brings on a hysteria-induced chuckle.
Knowing Tom, he’s probably dying quicker from the shame of his illness than from the disease itself.
In spite of my yoga breathing, my stern self-talk, and the mental picture of Tom minus his quinoa and wheatgrass shots, minus a healthy head of carefully groomed hair, my shoulders hitch closer to my ears with every step I take.
The prison corridor snakes on and on and stirrings of claustrophobia hover.
A hitch – prison security has me as Arena Botha, not Arena Shaw.
Tom’s doing, for sure. It’s his way of disregarding Bear, my new surname, the new life I have assumed.
Even Warren has assumed Bear’s surname.
After producing a driver’s license to support who I say I am, and answer a hundred identifying questions, I am ushered into the Visitors’ Room, not into the infirmary or the prison hospital where Tom should be, given the nature of his illness.
Maybe he’ll be wheeled in to see me?
I take a seat in front of a thick, but clear glass partition and wait. I eye the telephone receiver in front of me but do not pick it up. Instead, I inhale deeply and brace myself, force myself to sit upright and look confident. Fake confidence, more like it.
Not knowing what to expect, I play with my knuckles and tap my feet.
Moments later, Tom appears.
He walks toward me, no wheelchair, no assistance from anyone.
Full head of hair, with just the slightest grey around the temples.
When he sees me, he stops walking and smiles.
Do I smile back?
He hangs his head, then throws it back, the broad smile on his face reaching his eyes.
I recognize that smile. It’s the one reserved for wives of his close friends, who he constantly sought to charm and enamour. Have to give him credit; he was successful at it.
They called that smile “charismatic,” I called it “manic.”
Okay, he may have been charismatic, but he had to be to hoodwink everyone around him just about all the time.
But then again, aren’t most serial killers, paedophiles, and psychopaths charismatic?
They need oodles of charm to lure their victims, dazzle them with their magnetic smile and captivating personality, then when their guard is down…
As Tom walks toward me, he raises his hands to the sky. Glory be!
My face is inscrutable, or at least I hope it is.
As he takes his seat across from me, he mutters to himself and shakes his head in what looks like disbelief.
After he picks up the phone, I pick up mine.
Then I hear it – evil’s voice after three long years.
End of Excerpt

Here’s the links to You Will Pay For Leaving Me, a free book:

Revenge is a Dish Best Served with a Chilled Glass of Chardonnay.


I wrote You Will Pay – For Leaving Me, because I wanted to gift something to my readers.

Something empowering and uplifting, and to round it up, I threw in some juicy revenge.

So I didn’t charge for the book. However, I notice that in some countries like Australia and Spain, charges for the book.  Bastards!

However, it’s still free on and ITunes, so go grab your copy there before they start getting ideas and start charging for it.

Anyho, from the feedback I received from my readers, You Will Pay may just be my best novel to date.

Since I’m constantly being asked about a sequel to You Will Pay, I’ve decided to write not a sequel, but rather a spin off. So…drum roll please … it’s coming January 15, 2014.

It’s about revenge and Arena and Bear are actively involved in the story.

Here’s some feedback from my readers on You Will Pay I thought I’d share with you:

“I’m in a similar situation to Arena, so I am getting myself a storage locker.” (Imagine that?)

“This book gives me hope. I have left an abusive relationship and didn’t think I would find happiness again. But now I think maybe there’s a chance.” (This brought tears to my eyes.)

“Is this your story?” (Nope. As I said before, if a man ever lays a hand on me, I will probably Lorena Bobbitt him. Or Tonya Harding him. Trust me.)

“So glad there is a sequel coming.” (Eh, not sequel as such…)

“Brilliant story, Eve, I couldn’t put it down.” (Why, thank you so much. Please come again.)

“I’m so upset because I spilled pumpkin soup over my laptop now I can’t read it.” (This would never have happened had you chose beef soup. Pumpkins are for Halloween, girl. Trust me.)

“I’m leaving my husband soon. This is my life story.” (I wish you all the very best. You have taken the first step towards leaving the lying, cheating, motherfucking SON OF A BITCH!)

Sorry, I got carried away there. And I’m assuming he’s also a liar and a cheat and his mother is in not a very nice person.

There’s more, but I will not bore you. Any more.

Please note: these are not reviews. They are some of the private emails I received.

Taking about reviews…the nicest review I had was from a lovely reader of mine who I’ve become good friends with. She’s really pretty, sweet and appreciative, always generous with her feedback and praise. Which is great. We authors need to know how we’re doing.

Here’s what she said:
In my last review I mentioned that Eve Rabi rated in the top 5 on my list of authors. Well, she is now in the top 3. I am hooked – truly hooked!!”

Nice, huh?

Now, all I have to do is find those other two writers in her top 3 and take them out one-by-one, then I will be her bestest author.

Execute them mafia style and blame the poor Goodreads trolls. My peeps are already hacking into my lovely reader’s computer as we speak. Well, not speak, speak, but …

Anyho, keep your eyes peeled for Rich, Olga, Ashley, Kevin, Bear and Arena.

Oh, and let’s not forget Tom, who was most impressed with Pamela and Tommy Lee’s video, remember?

Allow me to refresh your memory:

“That video of Pamela Anderson giving Tommy Lee a blow job – he forced me watch it with him.

“I want that,” he said, pausing the video at a certain point and pointing to Pam. “See that look in her eyes? See that? I want that. That babe, she likes it. She wants it. She’s begging for it. See? See? I want that, you hear? You better shape up, cos I expect that.”

“Basic Instinct, 9 ½ Weeks—that what we should be having.  You have to sweat, Arena. If you don’t sweat during sex, you might as well be …fucking your wife.”

Everything he said didn’t always make sense, but I never questioned him about anything.  I didn’t care to; I just wanted it to be over. And …never once did I sweat during sex. Not even a slight slick over my body. I hated sex.

End of excerpt

Rings a bell?

I have to go now, cos my hackers have found some IP addresses for me. It’s my first experiencing with hacking, so I’m quite excited. If this works, me and my peeps, we are going for Oprah’s bank account then JK Rowling’s. Wish me luck.

I wanna be a trillionaire so frigging baaaaad! I wanna be on the cover of Forbes magazine, smiling next to Oprah, the queen and Bruno Mars.



MY EX-BOYFRIEND’S RING (18 years later, I get a friend request from him on Facebook.)

18 years later, I get a friend request from him on Facebook ring p

I was eighteen, he was nineteen when we met. I was shy when it came to boys, so he was my first kiss, my first date, my first love, my first everything. We were both college students, so money was scarce, yet he insisted on buying me a ring. All he could afford was this li’l diamond chip bought with money from his student loan. It became my most prized possession and it seldom left my finger.

We dated for five years, planned to marry someday, even chose names for our kids – a girl and a boy – Wesley and Paris.

We were truly, madly, deeply in love.

Sadly, as the years passed, I grew restless and left him in search of greener pastures. He was sad at my desire to leave, but he was quickly snapped up by a mutual friend. Within months, they got married.

I did get greener, bigger and maybe even better, but I never forgot the boy who bought me my first diamond. The boy who gave me all he could, all he had, all the time.

I moved to a different country and for years we had no contact with each other. But I always thought of him. What became of him? Then, a stroke of sheer luck – 18 years later, I get a friend request from him on Facebook. With shaking hands, I accepted his request.

Him: You hiding from me?

Me: Nope, you disappeared from my radar. Good to make contact with you again.

Him: Great to make contact with you. Wonderful in fact.

I feel a surge of happiness at his adjectives.

Him: Heard you changed your Facebook status to single. What gives?
Me: Didn’t work out. Happens.

Him: Happens, true. U ok?
Me: I will be now that I’ve heard from you. Smiley face.

Him: smiley face jumping up and down.

Me: lol.

Me: How is the wife, the kids, work?

Him: All good. Kids grown, taller than me. Smart too.

Me: Same here, except my kids aren’t really smart, just know-it-all kind of kids. They know everything. Seriously.

Him: Lol.

Him: Hey, you remember you once bought me a chain while we were dating?

Me: Yeah…the silver one? Y?

Him: Still got it. Use it all the time.

Me: U serious?

Him: Absolutely. It’s my most prized possession.

His most prized possession? My heart warms. I couldn’t believe it.

Me: I would love to see a pic.

Him: Hold on, will take one. Am wearing it now.

Me: Now? Wow!

I bristled with excitement as I waited for the picture. After a few minutes, I saw the chain. Thin, cheap and sterling silver. I laughed with delight, then cringed at its cheapness. He’s on the flashy side – gold chains, BMW, expensive threads… so I was surprised that he’d wear something so simple.

Me: Wow! Does your wife know about it?

Him: She thinks my mom gave it to me.

Me: I still have your ring, you know.

A short pause before he responds:

Him: U kidding me?

Me: Nope. I have it.

Him: You use it?

Me: No, for obvious reasons, but I think of you whenever I see it.

Him: Wow! Seriously?
Me: Seriously.
Another short pause before he responds.

Him: I’m feeling … well, moved. Can’t explain it.

I smile.

Him: Can I see a photo of the ring?

Me: Okay, I will send u one tomorrow.

Him: Now.

Me: Can’t. People around. Sorry.

Him: Pouting emoji.

Me: Smiling emoji. Still a big baby, aren’t ya?
Him: Yep.

Me: Gotta go.
Him: Wait!

Him: Same

Him: time

Him: tomorrow? This time?

I think about it before I answer. Will I be at my latptop tomorrow this time?

Him: Say yes. I really wanna talk to you. You’ve been on my mind for so long, and there’s so much to talk about. Right?

Me: Right. Talk tomorrow.

Him: Cool. Supercool. three smiley faces.

That evening, I softened and pushed back my cuticles, exfoliated my hands, painted my nails a pretty blue and took a picture of me wearing his ring. The next day, I sent it to him. His reply was immediate.

Him: Wow!

Him: It’s beautiful, but a bloody cheap-ass ring. I’m so embarrassed to have bought U such a small diamond. Cringing.

Me: Don’t be. As I said, it’s my most prized possession, too. I’ve kept it in the safe, tucked it away behind all my other jewelry and my last will and testament so that my husband (ex-husband now) wouldn’t find it and badger me into throwing it out. Like he did with all our photos.

Him: I’m touched that you kept it. Hey, I remember the day I bought you the ring. You had this big grin on your face and you kept waving your hands around so that everyone would notice.

I laughed out loud. He was right; you’d think it was an 8 carat Harry Winston pink diamond or something the way I flashed it around. But I was 18. Even though I tried to dissuade him from buying me a ring, I was thrilled with it and kept polishing it.

Me: I remember that day like it was yesterday. You paid cash in small notes too. All your money was spent on the ring, so we couldn’t afford a fancy lunch that day. We shared a pizza and a coke
I smiled, but as nostalgia washed over me, my smile faded. We were college kids, dabbling in the world of adults.

Me: u there?

Him: Yep. Frog in my throat.

Me: Same here.

Him: Besides the times when you look at the ring, do you …like, I mean, do you ever …think of …me? Of us?

For five years he was my life, my sweetheart. We spent every spare moment together, and talked about our future. What did he expect my answer was going to be?

Him: Honestly?

I cleared my throat.

(To be continued)



Eve Rabi is the author of 29 romantic crime and suspense novels, five screenplays and more than half a dozen short stories, due to be released soon.
Inspired by the likes of Sidney Sheldon and Gillian Flynn, her tales are bold, scandalous, controversial. They’re also peppered with romance, humor and drama.
To quote an Amazon reviewer: “When you pick up an Eve Rabi book, forget sleep. She writes gripping page turners that will keep you reading till the very end.”
If you’re bored of regular romance, if you like your romance with twists and turns, if you prefer your crime novels to have strong romantic themes, then you will enjoy Eve Rabi’s multi-genre books.
In her spare time, Eve likes to dance like no one is watching.
She also likes to eat like no one is watching. That’s why she has to dance so often.

For more of Eve Rabi’s works, click on any of the links below:
Amazon U.K.:
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