Sep 062016

My Heart’s Desire by Andrea Kane Tour Banner

My Heart’s Desire
by Andrea Kane
on Tour September 2016

My Heart’s Desire by Andrea Kane

Book Details
Genre: Historical Romance
Published by: Bonnie Meadow Publishing LLC
Publication Date: September 20, 2016
Number of Pages: ~ 402
Series: Book 1 in “Barrett Family Series”
Purchase My Heart’s Desire at: Amazon Barnes & Noble or Add it to your reading list on: Goodreads


Lady Alexandria Cassel scorned London’s frivolous social whirl, seeking adventure as a stowaway aboard a merchant ship. Drake Barrett was the vessel’s powerful captain—and a cynical duke who disdained a noble’s shallow life. At sea he revealed neither his origins nor his wealth, and to Alexandria he was simply a man who made her cool reserve fly with the winds… whose desire for her was as wild as the ocean they sailed.

Caught in the crossfire of war, they were shipwrecked on an idyllic island, where they tasted perfect passion… and tenderness. But Drake dreaded the day of their rescue—when his love would discover that the virile man she adored was at the pinnacle of the aristocracy she despised. Hardly did they suspect the base treachery that would soon threaten them… and the dangers each would brave to join forever their hearts and lives!

Guest Post:

How and/or what type of research is needed for a historical/past era as a setting?

A: In order for me to write a solid, realistic historical romance, I have to do mountains of research. I must create a vivid backdrop for the story. I must also create equally vivid, time-specific characters and a well-drawn-out plot, and then make all those pieces fit together seamlessly and with maximum impact. In My Heart’s Desire, that meant bringing to life Regency England, as well as Little York (now Toronto), and the Thousand Islands. I had to incorporate everything about those places and the specific time in history in which my story was set—the political climate, the architecture, the merchant ships, the clothing, the dialogue—I could go on and on.

Since My Heart’s Desire was originally written 25 years ago, I had no Internet to consult, no online sources to turn to. So I did it the old-fashioned way. I read dozens and dozens of research books, took more notes than I could fit in my binder, and wound up buying many of those books (which became my go-to reference tomes) so that I could constantly refer to them. I visited Mystic, Connecticut to see the historical ships firsthand, and then continued my research trip up to the Thousand Islands and to Toronto, where I did more firsthand research and connected with the aura of those places, just as Alex and Drake would eventually do. It was much later on that I got the chance to live out my lifelong dream of visiting England, where I walked where my characters walked, rode where they road, and experienced the historical architecture and the beauty of London and its surrounding shires, thus enhancing all my future research.

So, having done my comprehensive research, I now have a rich tapestry on which my characters will write their story. This is where everything happens. Think of Walt Disney’s Mary Poppins, when Mary, Burt, and the kids jump into Burt’s painting and become part of the world he’s created on canvas. At that point, instead of that painting and those characters being separate entities, they’re now combined in a three-dimensional world, with the characters as living participants and the viewers drawn right in with them. That’s exactly what my job is as a writer—to create that canvas and have my readers feel as if they’ve jumped into it, right along with my characters, making that world their own.

Like writing, strong research takes a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. But it’s essential. It brings a genuineness to the book, and it enables the characters to take their rightful place in a fictitious world that is now very much a reality.

Read an excerpt:


No storm could be as fierce as the one that raged in Alexandria’s flashing eyes as she faced Drake across the cabin. Her expression was murderous, her small hands clenched at her sides, her tone lethal.

Drake closed the door behind him with a firm click. “By ‘your clothes’ I presume you mean that dusty gown and shredded chemise you discarded on my cabin floor?” He leaned nonchalantly against the wall, regarding her with amusement.

Alex was too angry to be shocked at his casual mention of her undergarment. “You know damned well what clothes I mean!”

“Now, now … such language, my lady. I am truly shocked.”

She looked as though she might strike him.

“I demand that you return my things at once!”

His brows went up. “You demand? Careful, princess, your snobbish airs are showing. Remember, on this ship the only one who demands is me.” He crossed the room, ignoring her as if she were no more than an annoying child.

She stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

“Did you want something, my lady?” He paused, studying her livid expression. She was as transparent as glass, her anger and exasperation clearly evident on her beautiful face.

Drake grinned. “Your clothes are no longer with us.”

The color in her face deepened. “What?”

“They were torn from your adventure.”

“Liar!” she shot back. “There was no reason for you to discard them … at least not for the reason you just gave.”

Her accusing tone made him chuckle. “You are quite correct, princess. The real reason is that I cannot have you parading around in your finery. My men are already lusting after you quite openly. We wouldn’t want to further intoxicate their senses, now would we?”

“The only one on this ship who has treated me with any disrespect is you!” she retorted.

“Then be grateful that I have limited you to men’s attire. Perhaps you will be safe from my lecherous advances.”

Drake moved away, and Alex turned her back as he took off his shirt and tossed it carelessly onto the chair. Tossing his breeches next to his shirt, he put an end to her torment by climbing into his berth.

The cabin was silent. Drake could sense Alex’s presence nearby, and he knew instinctively that she was not in bed.


He heard her jump. “What is it?”

He cleared his throat. “Is there some problem?”

“No … yes …” She paused. “May I use your basin and some water to wash the dirt from my face?”

Drake smiled in the darkness. “Go right ahead. And, princess … if you can find your way around in the dark, help yourself to one of my shirts. They are clean and more than large enough to protect your modesty.”

Again, silence. Then, “Thank you, Captain.”

Her bare feet padded across the room. Drake listened to her opening the heavy chest, taking out one of his shirts, and slipping it on. Splashing sounds told him she was washing, followed by her soft footsteps as she returned to her cot. Then a thud and a cry of pain.

Drake was out of bed in an instant, moving toward the sound of her choked cry.

“Alexandria? What is it?”

“I walked into the cot,” she whimpered.

“Are you badly hurt?”

In truth she was not. It had been a sudden painful blow, yet already the pain was subsiding to a dull throb. But it was more than she could withstand after her emotionally taxing day. Hot tears filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. Try though she would, she could not control the sobs that shook her.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I never cry … and it is not that bad a bruise … I just can’t …” She shook her head helplessly, covering her eyes with trembling hands.

There was no forethought. Drake reacted instantly, pulling her into his arms.

“Shhh,” he soothed, pressing her head against his chest. He felt her tears drenching his bare skin, her narrow shoulders shaking. “It’s all right, sweetheart … don’t cry,” he murmured, raising her chin with his forefinger, wishing he could see her face. He stroked his other hand down her back, pressing her closer to him.

They became aware of each other at the same moment. He was totally naked. She was clad only in a thin white shirt. She needed comfort. He needed more.

Author Bio:

Andrea KaneAndrea Kane is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty-seven novels, including thirteen psychological thrillers and fourteen historical romantic suspense titles.

With her signature style, Kane creates unforgettable characters and confronts them with life-threatening danger. As a master of suspense, she weaves them into exciting, carefully-researched stories, pushing them to the edge—and keeping her readers up all night.

Kane’s beloved historical romantic suspense novels include My Heart’s Desire, Samantha, The Last Duke, and Wishes in the Wind.

With a worldwide following of passionate readers, her books have been published in more than twenty languages.

Kane lives in New Jersey with her husband and family. She’s an avid crossword puzzle solver and a diehard Yankees fan. Otherwise, she’s either writing or playing with her Pomeranian, Mischief, who does his best to keep her from writing.

Connect With Ms. Kane on Facebook, Twitter, or her website.

Tour Host Participants:


This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Providence Book Promotions for Andrea Kane. There will be 5 US winners of one (1) eBook copy of My Heart’s Desire by Andrea Kane. The giveaway begins on August 31st and runs through September 30th, 2016.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Sep 052016

Mailbox Monday

Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is  now hosted on its own blog.         

According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.
Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.


Monday: The Judas Game by Ethan Cross from The Story Plant/PICT
Thursday: Old Wounds by Giacomo Giammatteo from author/PICT

Sep 012016

A Black Sail by Rich Zahradnik Tour Banner

A Black Sail

Rich Zahradnik

on Tour September 2016


A Black Sail by Rich ZahradnikOn the eve of the U.S. Bicentennial, newsman Coleridge Taylor is covering Operation Sail. New York Harbor is teeming with tall ships from all over the world. While enjoying the spectacle, Taylor is still a police reporter. He wants to cover real stories, not fluff, and gritty New York City still has plenty of those in July of 1976. One surfaces right in front of him when a housewife is fished out of the harbor wearing bricks of heroin, inferior stuff users have been rejecting for China White, peddled by the Chinatown gangs.

Convinced he’s stumbled upon a drug war between the Italian Mafia and a Chinese tong, Taylor is on fire once more. But as he blazes forward, flanked by his new girlfriend, ex-cop Samantha Callahan, his precious story grows ever more twisted and deadly. In his reckless search for the truth, he rattles New York’s major drug cartels. If he solves the mystery, he may end up like his victim—in a watery grave.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Thriller
Published by: Camel Press
Publication Date: Oct 2016
Number of Pages: 264
ISBN: 1603812113 (ISBN13: 9781603812115)
Series: Coleridge Taylor Mystery, 3rd (Stand Alone Novel)

Purchase Your Copy of A Black Sail by Rich Zahradnik on:
Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or check it out on Goodreads

Read an excerpt:


The NYPD Harbor Launch Patrolman Crane thudded over the waves toward the Brooklyn docks.
Millions of New Yorkers lived on islands and never gave a thought to the sea surrounding them. At this moment, the water was very much on Taylor’s mind. Gripping the rail of the police boat, he was looking down at a small undulating patch of it. Throwing up.

Minutes earlier, Taylor had watched the big orange Staten Island Ferry John F. Kennedy cross the harbor. He’d stared too long, and the police boat had bounced even harder as it crossed the ferry’s wake. The rocking of the Patrolman Crane and the counter movement of the Kennedy on Taylor’s immediate horizon had sent him running for the side.

Once he was done, Taylor stood and leaned against the side of the boat. A small American flag fluttered from a pole on the back of the launch. The Patrolman Crane’s white cabin and pilothouse, which took up most of the space on the vessel, were in front of him. The NYPD craft looked like a working boat—all business—and one that could move quickly when necessary.

Officer Greg Mott laughed at Taylor’s rookie distress. “You haven’t been out on the water for thirty minutes and you’re sick.” He handed Taylor a wet cloth.

Taylor wiped his face and thanked the Greek Orthodox God of his late mother he’d only had a buttered hard roll for breakfast two hours ago.

“Wouldn’t mind if this was real news. Seasick for a feature story? Not a price worth paying.”

“We’ve had a bunch of ride-alongs with reporters. Suddenly there’s lots of interest because the tall ships are coming for the Bicentennial celebrations. Usually no one cares what we do out here.”

Taylor gritted his teeth and ordered his stomach to stop flipping. It wasn’t listening.

The police boat slowed as it neared the Brooklyn piers, which jutted into water deceptively blue, considering how badly polluted it was. Must be some trick of the light.

Mott, a short, muscular member of the NYPD scuba team, leaned against the rail. “How the hell you going to cover Operation Sail if you’re seasick?”

“After this one feature about the harbor and what you guys will be doing July Fourth, I’m working from dry land. There are lots of safe, solid places to watch the boats.”

“Wouldn’t call them boats. Not if you want to write accurate. There’ll be ships. A lot of ships. Full-rigged and barks and barkentines and schooners.”

“Sound like an expert.”

“Sail myself. I begged to work the Bicentennial on Sunday. July Fourth, 1976. Two hundredth birthday of the USA. We’ll have the biggest modern day assembly of tall ships ever. Naval review. Fireworks. Great day to be on the water. Then there’s all the events on land. Might not see the like of any of it again. I mean, took them years negotiating just to get the ships here.”

At this moment, Taylor didn’t care if he saw a boat, ship, or whatever again, much less stood on one.

Sergeant Pat McCarthy, pilot and commander of the launch, stuck his head out the window of the bridge.

“Get ready, Motty. Possible drop.”

Mott pulled on his wetsuit and zipped himself in. “What’s the call?”

“Someone said they saw something go in before dawn.” “They’re telling us that now?”

“Precinct’s apparently been really busy.” Sarcasm seasoned McCarthy’s thick New York accent—Queens or maybe the borderlands with Brooklyn. “New York, man.”

Mott checked his equipment. Taylor marveled at him. The man should get a medal for just jumping into the polluted soup of New York Harbor.

“What’s a ‘drop’?” Taylor said.

“Drugs, usually. They cruise over from Jersey and dump sealed packages near the piers for pick-up later. The narcotics boys have had me check a bunch of times. Came up with four kilos of smack a month ago.”

“Why go by water?”

“Because of traffic stops outside the Jersey docks. The narcs have a fix on some of the suppliers’ messenger boys. Been grabbing them after the stuff comes off the freighters.”

Taylor shook his head. More than a decade covering cops in New York, and he still came across new and different ways to commit crime. The launch slowed more as McCarthy eased the craft between two piers. Sunlight turned to shadow. The morning had started with the air on land humid and heating up, but the breeze across the water made it feel less like an oppressive summer day.

The police boat stopped, gently bobbing between the pilings. That wasn’t enough to convince his stomach. Taylor didn’t know what would, but he wasn’t putting his head over the side if a real story was about to come aboard. He’d held no hope of anything that good happening when he stepped onto the launch.

Mott dropped into the water. Minutes passed. He came up with a headshake and dove again.
McCarthy stood by the rail, watching.

Taylor joined him. “How does he know where to look?” “The divers have a way of combing an area. Eliminates guesswork. Dumbasses think they can throw a gun in the water and it’s gone. They’re so wrong. Motty and the other divers know what they’re about.”

“What will they do during Operation Sail?”

“Untangle anchor lines of civilian craft. Help direct traffic. We hope nothing more serious. The Coast Guard expects thousands of small boats. Maybe more. We don’t want anything bad to go down on Sunday. New York needs this.”

Mott came up, pulled his mouthpiece out, and yelled for a line.


“Up against one of the pilings. A body.”

“Shit. I’ll call homicide.”

It took Mott more than ten minutes to get the body properly secured with the line. McCarthy and a second crewman strained to pull the dripping thing up into the boat. Water ran off a blue gingham dress onto the deck. The face and arms were already puffed up. Taylor knew the dead woman hadn’t been in the water long because the body would have looked a whole lot worse. She was white, with red hair, and appeared to have been relatively young. Her right foot had on a purple sandal. Her left was bare. She’d been shot in the right eye.

The witness had seen the body dumped early this morning. It was like the woman had gone for a summer walk sometime on Tuesday and run into terrible violence.

Around the body’s waist, looking almost like a floatation belt, was taped a chain of six square packages wrapped in heavy-duty black plastic. Maybe garbage bags. Maybe sheets of industrial-grade stuff.

Mott came up the ladder and dropped an iron bar in the boat. “That was tied to her foot. Why she wasn’t a floater.” Perversely, the body had settled Taylor’s stomach. Now he had a crime to focus on, and the possibility of a real story acted like some kind of natural Dramamine. He eased around to her left side. There was a deep depression above her left ear, the hair still matted by dried blood that hadn’t washed away. Hit hard and shot. Just to make sure? Somebody seriously wanted this woman dead. He wrote down everything he saw so he’d remember what to ask about later.

Wearing a work glove, McCarthy leaned in and pressed one of the black packages. It gave in to the pressure. “They’re not weights. That was the iron bar’s job. What’s inside stayed dry. The heroin we pulled up last month was wrapped exactly like this.”

Taylor looked up from his notebook. “Really think it’s drugs?”

“What else?”

“Why would someone deliver drugs strapped to a body?” “What if we didn’t pull her up?”

“Well, whoever was coming for the drugs would find her.”

Taylor pointed at the blue gingham.

“Exactly. I ain’t no detective. Never will be. Like driving my boat too much. My guess is someone’s sending a message.”


“That I couldn’t tell you. Know a message when I see one. Right now, I got other things to worry about. This week is supposed to be big PR for the city. My captain is going to go through the roof. Like I dropped the poor thing in the water.”

McCarthy went back to the cockpit, slowly backed the 50-foot Patrolman Crane out and navigated her between Governor’s Island and Brooklyn. Taylor, at the rear, took one moment to watch the Brooklyn Bridge, with its massive granite towers and, by comparison, fragile webs of steel cables, recede and disappear as the boat came around Red Hook. He loved that bridge, New York’s most majestic. As a Queens boy, he had to give Brooklyn credit for the bridge, but that was all. Brooklyn had nothing else to recommend it. He could say that in full confidence, especially since he lived there now.

McCarthy, the crewman, and Mott attended to their duties, taking care of all sorts of boat-related chores. There wasn’t anything more they could tell Taylor about the woman. Once the bridge disappeared from view, he sat near the body with his long, lanky legs stretched out in front of him, wondering who had put her under the water as some kind of message. He folded a stick of Teaberry Gum in his mouth to clear the bad taste. His stomach didn’t flinch. He stayed with her during the launch’s short journey from the piers to Harbor Charlie, the docks at the Army Terminal used by the Patrolman Crane and the rest of the Harbor Precinct.

Narcotics and homicide detectives, two apiece, from the 72nd Precinct were on the scene when the launch tied up. The narcs and the murder cops both wanted the case. They were still arguing over jurisdiction when the wagon took away the woman’s body. McCarthy and his crewman stowed gear and secured rope. Mott checked his diving equipment. Taylor hung back from the argument. Stepping in the middle of it would get him in trouble and yield no information.

The homicide cops ended the dispute by leaving. As the aristocracy of the NYPD, they swaggered off, probably certain they would go back to the house and win the turf war. Why were any of them trying so hard to add to their caseload? There was more than enough crime to go around for a police force shrunk by huge budget cuts. Too much. Maybe they wanted to be in on what was happening in New York Harbor this weekend. Even if it was the evil stuff.

One of the two narcotics detectives jumped into a Ford, leaving behind the other, Marty Phillips, a narc of Taylor’s acquaintance. Dressed in the not-quite-convincing attire of the modern plainclothesman—flared jeans, blue-and-white tie- dye T-shirt, and long hair not actually long enough—Phillips walked toward the exit to the street.

Taylor caught up. “Where’re you heading?”

“I need a drink.” Phillips always needed a drink. “How’d you sniff this one out so fast?”

“I was on the launch.”

Phillips’ light-brown eyes gave Taylor a quizzical look.

“A ride-along for an Operation Sail feature.”

“Seriously? Police reporter like you is writing about sailboats?”

“Everybody’s writing about sailboats. At least through the weekend. That why the homicide guys wanted to add this to their board?”


“I’ve seen killings over drug deals. I’ve seen ’em over who sells on what corner. This doesn’t fit.”

“This one’s not about corners.” Phillips looked around, which was odd, since he wasn’t a guy to worry who heard what. “It’s an import war. Not saying more out on the street. Let’s get a beer. Fraunces Tavern.”

“All the way back in Manhattan?” “I like to get off my patch to think.” To drink.

After the subway ride under the East River, they walked several blocks, winding their way along the narrow streets that made downtown so different from the grid—the squares and numbers—of midtown. At the corner of Broad and Pearl Streets stood Fraunces Tavern, one of New York’s great survivors. Built in 1719, a tavern off and on since 1762, it had been headquarters to Washington and witnessed his farewell to his officers.

As they both stepped up to the bar, Taylor breathed in sweet wood polish mixed with the pleasant hint of fresh beer. The tavern’s greatest feat of survival was the most recent one: re- opening after being bombed by the Puerto Rican terrorist liberation group FALN. A year ago January, a deadly explosion had ripped through the building when ten sticks of dynamite detonated, killing four and injuring more than 50. A crack running through the wall mural of the City of New York remained as a testament to the attack.

Taylor pushed a hand through windblown brown hair, trying to get back the rough side part that was supposed to last all day. He didn’t carry a comb. Unlike Phillips’ hair, his was trimmed shorter than the fashionable style. He’d tried long hair briefly, but it’d looked messy and dirty. He now kept the close, parted style he’d worn—except for the experiment with the mop top—since he’d outgrown his childhood crew cut.

Phillips ordered rye on rocks, and Taylor a seven-ounce Rolling Rock. It was a few minutes after noon.

“What’s with the cute beers?”

“I’m a cute guy.”

Taylor didn’t tell the narc that drinking little beers was one of the rules he followed to avoid the alcoholism of his father. The rules weren’t something he shared with cops—or anyone else. His stomach had already settled some. The Rolling Rock would be the real test. The first sip went down well. In fact, made him feel better.

Phillips took a big swallow of rye. “Never used to come here. Place is for bankers, not cops. But I’ll be fucked if some scumbag ’Rican terrorists are going to kick me out of a bar.”

“Still haven’t arrested anyone.”

“This is America. We let you blow shit up. We let you get away.”

“Tell me about this import war.”

“Where’s the heroin on the street come from?’

That question was New York Crime 101. “Mostly Afghanistan by way of Marseilles. Brought in by the Italian mob.”

“Yeah. The Fronti crime family, to be specific. That’s one reason for those Brooklyn pier drops. When the package comes in on a ship, the ship docks in Jersey. Slipping across the water’s become a safer way to get it over. But there’s a new supply of heroin and a new supplier. China White out of Southeast Asia. The Golden Triangle. The Leung tong in Chinatown is bringing it in. They want the import license for New York City.”

Confirms what Mott said about Brooklyn drops. But….

“It’s actually referred to as the ‘import license’?” “No, that’s me. Pretty good huh?”

He smiled around another swallow of whiskey. “How’s the murder figure into this?”

“The tong wants to take over as heroin supplier to New York City. I’ll bet money the victim’s related to someone in the Fronti family. That woman’s a statement.”

“McCarthy said something like that. Sounds like a leap with the body just recovered.”

“C’mon. It’s even obvious to a guy who paddles around in a boat. Wives and kids are off limits for the Italians. Nobody hits them. The tong doesn’t play by the same rules. Slant-eyed bastards never do. That’s why her body says this is about the import war.”

“What other evidence you got?”

“There’s already more China White on the street. This is big. It’s why the homicide guys want in. Important case. Meanwhile, they want us to stay on the street busting pushers—who will sell whatever comes their way. Pushers don’t care who’s importing. They want the smack the addicts will buy. China White is the better shit.”

Taylor got Phillips a second rye and left the narcotics cop at the bar. The one little beer on an empty stomach had already given him a buzz. He needed to get out of there before he spent the afternoon drinking and talking cop stories he wouldn’t remember later.

He caught the subway uptown to Times Square and walked one block to the City News Bureau’s offices in the Paramount Building. He needed to manage expectations with Henry Novak. He’d write the feature on the harbor patrol. He also wanted to work on something his boss—and friend—wasn’t looking for on the eve of the Bicentennial. Taylor was covering a murder that could turn into a big drug story.

© Rich Zahradnik

Author Bio:

authorRich Zahradnik is the award-winning author of the critically acclaimed Coleridge Taylor Mystery series (A Black Sail, Drop Dead Punk, Last Words).

The second installment, Drop Dead Punk, won the gold medal for mystery/thriller ebook in the 2016 Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPYs). It was also named a finalist in the mystery category of the 2016 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Last Words won the bronze medal for mystery/thriller ebook in the 2015 IPPYs and honorable mention for mystery in the 2015 Foreword Reviews IndieFab Book of the Year Awards.

“Taylor, who lives for the big story, makes an appealingly single-minded hero,” Publishers Weekly wrote of Drop Dead Punk.

Zahradnik was a journalist for 30-plus years, working as a reporter and editor in all major news media, including online, newspaper, broadcast, magazine and wire services. He held editorial positions at CNN, Bloomberg News, Fox Business Network, AOL and The Hollywood Reporter.

In January 2012, he was one of 20 writers selected for the inaugural class of the Crime Fiction Academy, a first-of-its-kind program run by New York’s Center for Fiction.

Zahradnik was born in Poughkeepsie, New York, in 1960 and received his B.A. in journalism and political science from George Washington University. He lives with his wife Sheri and son Patrick in Pelham, New York, where writes fiction and teaches kids how to publish newspapers.

O&A with Rich Zahradnik

Welcome and thank you for stopping by CMash Reads.

-Do you draw from personal experiences and/or current events?
The first book in the series is set in 1975 and this one, the third, is set in July of 1976 so I draw a lot from events that were current at the time. The second book, for example, deals with the financial collapse of New York City. This one features the Bicentennial celebrations in New York as the backdrop. My personal experiences as a journalist also inform the series.

-Do you start with the conclusion and plot in reverse or start from the beginning and see where the story line brings you?
I start with the beginning and see where the journey takes me. I outline lightly—a couple of sentences on the next four or five chapters I will write. I definitely don’t know the end until I get close.

-Are any of your characters based on you or people that you know?
I take traits and emotional reactions from different people I know and incorporate those into characters. But no character is based entirely on a real person. My protagonist, a journalist, has some of my traits, but in many ways is different from me. Taylor is a much better reporter than I ever was. He is far more focused on getting the story—sometimes to his detriment.

-Your routine when writing? Any idiosyncrasies?
After about an hour of coffee drinking, email, social media and other chores, I start writing. I try to complete a chapter a day when writing the first draft. With revisions, I’m looking to do two or three chapters a day. I close email and social media windows and only open them during quick breaks.

-Tell us why we should read this book.
People should read this book if they enjoy mysteries that keep them guessing and keep the pace moving fast. Those who enjoy visiting a particular place and time—and perhaps seeing it anew—will also like A Black Sail.

-Who are some of your favorite authors?
Michael Connelly, Georges Simenon, Derek Raymond, Graham Greene, Tony Hillerman, William Gibson, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Charles Dickens.

-What are you reading now?
Plum Island by Nelson DeMille, The Orient Express by Graham Greene, Reporting World War II Vol. 1: American Journalism 1938-1944 edited by Samuel Hynes, Weird Heroes Volume 2 edited by Byron Preiss.

-Are you working on your next novel? Can you tell us a little about it?
I’m just finishing a stand-alone thriller called “The Causeway,” in which three people witness a drug murder as a hurricane is approaching a barrier island off New Jersey. With the storm raging, they must escape over the causeway back to the mainland before the murderers can catch them. In the next couple of weeks, I will start writing book 4 in the Coleridge Taylor series. This one will be set during the summer of 1977, when the serial killer Son of Sam terrorized the city and a blackout in July resulted in looting, millions of dollars in damages and more than 3,000 arrests.

Fun questions:
-Your novel will be a movie. Who would you cast?
Mark Ruffalo to play Taylor.

-Favorite leisure activity/hobby?
Love movies and watching soccer (attended three world cups and still played pick up until three years ago). Swim for fitness. Still read comic books. As a volunteer, I teach journalism to middle school and high school kids, primarily in New York City schools.

-Favorite meal?
Rib eye

Catch Up with Rich on his Website, Twitter, or Facebook

Tour Participants:


This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Rich Zahradnik. There will be 5 US winners of one (1) eBook copy of A Black Sail by Rich Zahradnik. The giveaway begins on August 31st and runs through September 30th, 2016.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours

Aug 292016

Mailbox Monday

Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is now hosted on its own blog.

According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.
Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.

Sunday: Among The Shadows by Bruce Robert Coffin from Harper Collins/PICT
Friday: The Troutbeck Testimony by Rebecca Tope from Harper Collins/PICT

Aug 222016

Mailbox Monday

Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is  now hosted on its own blog.         

According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.
Click on title for synopsis via GoodReads.


Sunday: Moonlight Weeps by Vincent Zandri Personal purchase
Thursday: Skin of Tattoos by Christina Hoag from Author/PICT