Book Blitz: Drawn di Cecilia Gray + giveaway

Eccoci ad un nuovo book blitz, ideato come sempre da Giselle di Xpresso Book Tours; questa volta vi presento uno young adult paranormal, spero possa piacervi :) Non perdete il ricchissimo giveaway alla fine del post ;)

Titolo: Drawn

Autore: Cecilia Gray

Genere: Young adult paranormal
Trama: Take a journey into the gritty world of political espionage through the eyes – and lies – of one extraordinary girl. A wholly original tale of friendship and betrayal from the author of The Jane Austen Academy series….
Sasha has a secret – that she can make you spill your secret with nothing more than a question. Her strange gift makes her a burden to her foster family and a total freak of nature. Not that Sasha cares. Why should she when no one cares about her?
Then the CIA knocks on her door. They want to give Sasha a new identity and drop her into a foreign country to infiltrate a ring of zealous graffiti terrorists. They want to give Sasha something to care about.
To survive a world where no one is who they seem, Sasha needs to make people trust her. But when that trust blossoms into love, Sasha is forced to decide between duty and friendship, between her mind and her heart, and whether to tell the truth or keep her secrets.

Cecilia Gray lives in the San Francisco Bay Area where she reads, writes and breaks for food. She also pens her biographies in the third person. Like this. As if to trick you into thinking someone else wrote it because she is important. Alas, this is not the case.
Cecilia has been praised for “instilling a warmth and weight into her characters” (Romancing The Book Reviews) and her books have been praised for being “well-written, original, realistic and witty” (Quills & Zebras Reviews).
Her latest series of young-adult contemporary Jane Austen retellings was named a What’s Hot pick (RT Book Reviews magazine) and is a Best of 2012 pick (Kirkus Reviews) where it was praised for being a “unique twist on a classic” and offering “a compelling mix of action, drama and love.”
She’s rather enamored of being contacted by readers and hopes you’ll oblige.

Website / Facebook / Twitter / Goodreads

ESTRATTI

#1

FBI Field Office, Atlanta, Georgia

I've studied Chelsea since the FBI teamed us up when I was twelve. She has a move…classic Chelsea. She turns the doorknob and her body stiffens, a metal rod shoved down her spine. As she sets a high heel inside the interrogation room, her southern accent and soft manners are buried beneath a terrifyingly sleek, blond exterior in a perfectly pressed pinstriped suit.

Four years of practice, two custom-cut suits of my own, and I still look epileptic when I try to project that sense of total control. Of I've got this. Even though I don't have her drawl and my posture's not bad.

I follow Chelsea, stiff as can be, into the room with the bright white walls. Our sicko suspect glances up from the steel table in its center. I flinch at his chilling stare. Flinching already, see. A slow smile bulges his cheeks as he studies me. Attention from a guy in an orange jumpsuit sitting at a steel table—to which he is handcuffed—is what Chelsea would officially term an undesirable outcome. More undesirable—me showing I care. Like she always says, "Don't let 'em see you sweat, hon."

No way am I giving this psycho the satisfaction. I suppress a shiver as the air conditioning kicks on with a groan. Tiny goosebumps break out on my forearms, raising the fine hairs to attention. Can't rub myself warm—that's a tell. Instead, when Chelsea slides into one of the fold-out metal chairs across from him, I follow her lead and take comfort in her giraffe-like posture in the chair next to mine.

Chelsea tosses a manila folder so that its contents spill across the table. The file details his alleged heinous crimes, the FBI's efforts to track him, and the blood evidence in his garage that matches that of the latest missing girl—Georgia State art major, vegetarian, and more important to the suits, daughter of a local bigwig. Funny, the things you remember from a file when they have nothing to do with the case, like how she specialized in collages. They'd found cut-up pieces of magazines littered across the desk and floor of her dorm room. The pieces trailed into the hall like flower petals down a church aisle.

The strewn high-gloss photos of his suspected victims—his own personal collage of the young, female, and carved—don't solicit a cringe from him when I can barely hold down my water and I've been staring at them for weeks. My gaze flickers to the one-way mirror—a silent promise: We're gonna nail this freak.

"I'm FBI Agent Chelsea Tanner. This is my partner. How are you this evening?"

This is normally when a suspect will ask, with understandable outrage, why I'm party to the interrogation because aren't I, at almost sixteen, too young to be in the FBI? Pinstriped suit or not, I look my age, maybe even a year or two younger because I've always been small—childhood malnutrition will do that to a girl.

It's the suspects who don't care that I'm in the room who worry me. Like this guy, whose pale eyes flicker to my throat.

I fight the urge to shift, even to clench my fingers tight into a fist. I don't blink.

"Fine weather we're having this winter." Chelsea manages not to smirk at our sitting in a windowless room. Her face is unbreakable. "These are perfect skies for a getaway. Do you have plans for the weekend?"

When he doesn't answer, she shares our itinerary—a leisurely drive to Savannah to visit her mother at their family wintering home. Yes, that's a thing. The trip always involves mint juleps and wide-brimmed hats, not that Chelsea shares the finer details. A genteel background rarely earns cred with criminals.

She chit-chats as if he's not imagining the slice of his boning knife into my neck. The careful incision he would carve against the clavicle, removing the flat bone from the ligaments attached to the shoulder. I don't need my unique magic to know what's on his mind. Some things in the case file stick for a reason.

My bone structure fascinates him. His gaze caresses my cheekbones, roams over the bridge of my nose, dips into the hollow of my neck, and brushes the stray dark corkscrew curls that drape over my sternum.

Don't move. Don't blink. Don't even breathe.

"Savannah's so beautiful this time of year. Any time of year. I go as often as I can. Don't you think you should make time for family?" The word rolls off her tongue in three syllables, a rare ray of southern shining through her otherwise stiff facade.

Fah. Mil. Lee.

He closes his eyes as though in prayer. When he opens them, his pupils dilate to nearly black and he rubs his thumbs over his knuckles. He does not take the bait.

Come on, Chelsea. You work your magic and I'll work mine.

That's our deal. She gets them talking. I make them spill their guts.

#2

Zaventem National Airport, Brussels, Belgium

I'm herded through a swinging door into a crowded pickup zone. Waiting families shuffle back and forth, vying for a glimpse of us past the barrier. Every searching gaze brushes over me, as dismissive as the disembodied female voice whispering from above.

Please report any suspicious activity to the nearest airport official.

S'il vous plaît signaler toute activité suspecte à la fonctionnaire le plus proche.

Meld verdachte activiteiten aan de politie.

First time out of the country. Don't know a soul. Working for the CIA, surrounded by all this foreignness—and not just the languages. What have I gotten myself into?

The surge of bodies at my back carries me toward the open lobby. Chelsea had said he would find me, but as I keep walking I'm struck with this vision of running outside to the street. Not stopping until I'm swallowed by the city. No job, no ties. I whip my head back and forth, hoping for something familiar, and I find it in the crowd of eager faces—my name, written in black marker on a piece of cardboard.

Holding the sign is Porter Jennings, fresh from Clark Kent's Smallville: salt-and-pepper hair, weathered skin, and a blue and white checkered shirt. He looks so normal that my relief at not being abandoned at the airport is tempered by a flare of disappointment. No James Bond tuxedo for this Company NOC.

At second glance, I concede he's clever. He's been assigned to Brussels for over a decade but hasn't shed his Midwestern vibe. A perfect anti-spy disguise. No one would pick him out of a lineup unless it was for a tractor driver. I'd packed and unpacked my pinstriped suits a half-dozen times before finally leaving them hanging in the closet. The decision that had at first felt petty now feels smart.

Porter spots me, folds the sign into halves, and shoves it in his back pocket. As I approach, he grabs my hand for a vigorous shake but never breaks stride, forcing me to keep up.

"Welcome aboard, Sasha."

"I'm glad to be here, sir." Simple. To the point. Pretty close to what I'd practiced on the plane.

"Quick, quick. I'm hoping we can make it home for dinner." He makes for the automatic glass doors, leaving me to break into a jog, canvas bag and all. What kind of spy cares about being home for dinner, I don't know. Maybe he's not very good at his job after all. Maybe that's why he needs a teen misfit to do his dirty work.

#3

Brussels, Belgium

I tighten my scarf, shove my hands in my pockets, and quicken my pace.

I challenge myself to make it downtown without peeking at the map. The residential townhouses give way to a bustling business district with dimly lit storefronts. Pockets of bundled pedestrians lazily stroll by.

It's unreal to clop down a cobblestone street in a foreign city like a real spy. Since getting wind of the new assignment, I've watched countless espionage movies and read an endless supply of intrigue books—about other people.

Now, this is me. These are my sneakers squeaking against stone damp from tonight's rain. My breath fogging the chilly air. My adventure in full swing.

Who needs boring dinner conversation when I have this?

When the suit first laid out the CIA reassignment, I'd assumed I'd be based in Baghdad or London. I wasn't psyched when I got Brussels. I kept thinking, how am I supposed to flex my mojo in the city of Brussels when nine times out of ten, Brussels makes you think of sprouts? The city's claim to fame is a statue of a naked kid pissing into a fountain. Seriously. And a comic strip about tiny blue creatures who live in 'shrooms. Again—seriously.

But then I learned Brussels is home to the European Union. Headquarters for Europe's political shenanigans.

If I play my cards right, Brussels could be home. My own apartment. One door instead of the revolving door of well-meaning foster parents, overeager research scientists, and partners who would rather not double as a babysitter. It's all led here.

This will make it worth it.

~~~~~

Stella Artois Restaurant and Bar, Brussels, Belgium

The wooden door swings into a smoky tavern with a wall-length bar backed by hundreds of colorful bottles stacked to the ceiling. Clinking glass and hushed conversation muffles a peppy rock beat. Cigarette smoke cloaks the room and settles into the fibers of my clothes and hair. A shiver of excitement rocks through my body. My new life, my awesome mission, and now my first bar, thanks to Belgium's low drinking age. Chelsea would freak if she knew.

The bartender doesn't seem old enough to drink beer in America, either. He wears a white V-neck tee that sets off a deep tan and a head of close-cropped black curls. He wipes down the counter in slow circles.

Exit—the porthole door behind him that likely leads to a kitchen with an alley door. Weapon—any of the glass bottles behind the bartender, broken in half.

He glances up—chiseled jaw, pronounced nose—and holds my gaze from across the bar with dark eyes that scrutinize the newcomer. I amble up to the counter and take a seat on a red stool.

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