A sweeping NEW historical romance set in the golden age of Hollywood from Alexandra Weston.
A governess bound by her own strict rules, a movie-star tormented by grief, a forbidden love story you won't forget.
Hollywood, 1937
Hester Carlyle has no wish to look after the pampered offspring of the rich anymore, in spite of being a highly sought-after governess. But with her elderly father frail, and the roof of their rundown cottage in dreary Yorkshire falling in, she has no choice but to accept a dazzling new placement.
Movie star Aidan Neil is box office gold, but after the…
Twenty-nine years ago, a newborn baby named Isabelle was taken from her cot by her mother’s side. Am I the missing girl?
As the tears roll down my cheeks, I’m shaking as I stare at the faded newspaper photograph of my beloved father. In one moment, my world has been turned upside down. I’m already exhausted by grief, I’m not thinking straight, shattered by his death. But finding this old photograph could change everything I thought I knew about who I am…
A shiver runs through me as the idea that my life is not what it seems begins to…
'An absolute treat of a read with all the ingredients of a vintage murder mystery: a country house, mysterious dead bodies and three actresses all keen to catch the killer. Perfect weekend reading!' Janice Hallett, author of The Appeal
'Celebrates and gently satirises Golden Age crime novels in a hugely entertaining country house mystery' The Times ----------
Three rival actresses team up to solve a murder at the stately home of the author who made them famous - only to discover the solution lies in the stories themselves. A contemporary mystery with a Golden Age feel, perfect for fans of…
An absolutely addictive psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist
Love they neighbour. Fear they neighbour.
I thought moving to this quiet cul-de-sac was the fresh start my husband and I needed, escaping the noise of our cramped flat in Hounslow. I left India and all that was familiar for a new life with him in England.
But my husband works all hours, leaving me alone in a house that doesn't feel like a home. Our neighbours notice the bruises on my arms. They draw the obvious conclusions.
They seem kind, but they're hiding something. I just can't shake the feeling that someone is always watching me . . . waiting.
My husband's working late. Again. That's when I see it. A face pressed to the glass...
