Sloane Taylor Guest Blogging

Hi Everyone,

December is filled with wonderful holidays. It also happens to be my birthday month. A few friends are dropping in to celebrate between December 1 – 14 and I hope you’ll join us at http://www.sloanetaylor.com/blog for a fun time.

Each day I’m giving away a free download to one person in a simple contest. The winner gets to select the book of their choice from my releases. All you need to do is email me sloanetaylor @ comcast.net, no spaces, on the day you wish to enter the contest. Type BOOKS in the subject line and the title you’d like in the body of your email. Told you it was easy! You can enter as many times as you like. I’ll draw a winner each day and announce them on my blog.

Below are the marvelous authors and their days. Be sure to check them out. They’re a lot of fun and filled with amazing talent. You’re sure to find an exciting new author to read. Feel free to ask anything you like. These folks will check in throughout the day and evening to answer.

DECEMBER AUTHOR

1 Sloane Taylor
2 TA Chase
3 Lena Austin
4 Clare London
5 Jan Springer
6 Linda Sole
7 Aline de Chevigny
8 Sloane Taylor
9 Tabitha Shay
10 Jennifer Loy
11 Beth Anderson
12 Melanie Atkins
13 Pam Champagne
14 Melissa Bradley

Also, if you like bookmarks and postcards send you snail mail address to me, sloanetaylor @ comcast.net, no spaces, with FREEBIE in the subject line. I’ll be happy to send you a packet no matter where in the world you live.

Hope to see you on at least one of the days!

Sloane Taylor
Teddi Turns On 2008 EPPIE Finalist
http://www.sloanetaylor.com/

No one is going to take advantage of Teddi Howard again, including the Munich tour operator who screwed her over when he reneged on their contract. Her only option is a face-to-face confrontation with the little weasel.

David Stiefel is a prominent German businessman who lets nothing stand in his way, especially after his snaky cousin stole the love of his life. He enjoys brief affairs to satisfy his healthy appetite, but no way is he getting involved again, even if she is the sensual Mrs. Howard.

This Week's Winner

*AmyC ~ Book by Carrie Lofty

Please send your snail mail info to terraontop57 at yahoo dot com. Congrats to our winner and I hope you enjoy your prize!

Carrie Lofty reveals Will Scarlet and Meg (An Interview)

Thank you Carrie for doing this interview with us at Yankee Romance Reviewers. Your book is really luscious.

Terra: Why do a story about Will Scarlett and is it because he is the bad boy you would just love to get your hands on?

Carrie: In the old Robin Hood ballads, Will has been portrayed as a cad, a dandy, a thug, a turn-coat, a newbie, a hothead, a doubter, and a victim. He's always been what authors needed for any particular story. I decided to see if he had the mettle to become a hero. He's like a bad boy who's trying really, really hard to do the easy, amoral thing, but his conscience and sense of justice keep getting in the way. I love that contrast, and it made his inner personality so much fun to write.

Terra: How hard was it to come up with a story some years beyond Robin Hood, keeping with the back story of Robin and the time period and making it a delicious romance to sink your teeth into?

Carrie: I'll be honest in that the inspiration came from Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, in which Christian Slater played Will. Sure, at the end of that film, Robin and Marian have their happy ending--but what about Will? He'd only just started to grow up, so I didn't imagine his relationship with Robin would be quite so easy-peasy as we might hope. I wanted to more about how he developed into a man, so setting the novel a few years down the road felt natural. As for the romance, that was the fun part! Sparks just flew whenever he and Meg got together.

Terra: What made you decide to give your heroine a handicap? How do you think people of that time period would have accepted a woman with her ailment?

Carrie: I actually don't remember why I first decided to make Meg blind, but it was part of her character from the first. And like you did, I jumped quickly to the notion that she wouldn't be accepted. She's an outcast not only because of her blindness, but because of the illness it caused, her father's attempts to find a cure, and her ongoing fascination with alchemy. All of these things together set her at odds with most people, scarring her and making her a little, shall we say, morally flexible--just to get by.

Terra: You have kept up with the corrupt politics that were in Nottingham at the time of Robin but seem to have stepped it up a notch. If you were a peasant from that time how would you feel about having such a slight reprieve before the corruption started all over again?

Carrie: Excellent question! I would've been happy to have a champion like Robin or Will, first up. But more realistically, I think people make their way in life. When we see corruption or unfairness today, we get upset, do what we can, contribute to worthy causes, protect our families, choose strong leaders to help make a difference--probably not all that different from years past, once you strip away the technology.

Terra: What is it that makes us women fall for the bad boy, good boy persona and why is it that we think that our attentions will change him?

Carrie: Ah, the mystery of why we love romances! I write stories to get at the heart of this. Why? Why do people fall for each other? Why do formerly unconquerable men suddenly get twanged on the head by love? As for the bad boy, I think the appeal is in what he doesn't reveal to everyone else. He's tough, macho, distant, sarcastic, a little reckless, and people may or may not trust him. But what he reveals to his woman, that secret realm of vulnerability and dreams, is intensely exciting--as is the relationship that fosters such an intimacy. Everyone wants to be part of something special, and the moment of connection between a bad boy and the woman he loves is very special.

Terra: Our heroine seems to have trust issues. That small niggling voice from her heart tells her she should trust but the larger niggling voice from her head confuses her and steers her in circles. Why wouldn't this type of behavior turn any sensible man running in the opposite direction?

Carrie: On some level, Will understands that he hasn't behaved in a trustworthy manner. He knows what it is to be suspected of the worst, and to actually be guilty of what he's accused of doing. Maybe if he were a completely faultless hero, he could have reason to run and find a girl who appreciates his goodness. But Will isn't perfect, and he starts out behaving in rather duplicitous ways. Pair this with Meg's inherent lack of trust for people--in that people have scorned her for years because of her blindness, and even her own sister betrayed her in a rather personal way--and she's just not capable of falling into his arms and declaring her love. Not at first, anyway!

Terra: The story focuses around our heroine and her sister. Will there be another story to come with the sister as the heroine and will she be as difficult to deal with?

Carrie: Oh, Ada. Yes, Ada's a difficult one. She's the heroine of the late 2009 sequel, currently titled SCOUNDREL'S KISS. In it, Ada has a great deal of growing up to do, which involves facing up to her fears, her faults, and her past. There to guide her--or perhaps to goad her--is Gavriel, a warrior-monk with his own laundry list of issues. Their love story is adventurous, tender and heartbreaking, in that I love to see two wounded people able to heal each other.

Terra: The tension between our hero and heroine is quite intense. Their arguments seem to be based on misconstrued words and feelings. Do you think that couples of today have much the same problems and barriers?

Carrie: Of course. Men and women haven't changed, even if we aren't charging through Sherwood with a sword and a pack of soldiers at our backs. And I believe men and women are essentially insecure when it comes to love. There's nothing more rewarding, but there's also nothing more terrifying--that possibility of opening up, hoping, dreaming, and being crushed under for it. That insecurity and fear makes people wary. So I hope I've been able to portray genuine emotions without contrivance or too much melodrama, just the way I see that men and women struggle and strive to connect.

Terra: Considering our heroine's occupation, why hasn't half the peasant population turned her in with the claims of witchcraft clinging to her so strongly?

Carrie: Fear! Actually, Meg keeps a really low profile until she meets up with Will Scarlet. So I think her isolation, something she enjoyed but also fought against, kept her safe. Obviously that isn't the case so much when she gets out into the world. Their fear holds them off only so long, and then mob justice comes for her.

Terra: As an author of such a delightfully decedent delicious romance, what is the one main thing that will make the reader fall in love with this novel and why?

Carrie: As much as I love and identify (in some respects) with my dear Meg, no one and nothing holds a candle to Will Scarlet. Strong, contentious, just, comic, sardonic, vulnerable, proud, and ultimately triumphant, he's a hero for the ages, and I hope readers fall in love with him too.

Carrie will be giving away one signed copy of one of her books to one lucky commentor. You must leave a comment about her interview or the excerpt along with your email addy to qualify.

Chapter One


"You, Scarlet, you are always moody here."
--Robin Hood

Near Melton Mowbray, England
Autumn, 1199


Will Scarlet hated trees. Any trees.

Woods. Holts. And Sherwood Forest, most of anything.

Although Sherwood lurked at the end of a long day's ride to the northwest, Charnwood Forest taunted him with its resemblance. The stink of rotting leaves crawled into his nose. Noises like chattering goblins sounded through the ever-moving branches. Even at noontide, details hid within clusters of shadow.

A shiver skimmed his backbone. Crouched in the ferns, he glanced to see if the other dozen men working for Sheriff Finch noticed his nerves, but they remained intent on their task.

"God grant me leave from this hell pit," he muttered, crossing himself.

Sinking a knee-guard into the loam, he leaned forward along the road to Nottingham. Four warhorses slowly approached, riding out of Melton. Struggling fingers of sunshine burnished the mail of the foremost riders. One's lax posture suggested a light sleep, while another carelessly held the reins of his plodding mount. Slender-bodied horses followed, bearing riders in stately dress and the crest of the Earl of Whitstowe.

Will's superior, Roger of Carlisle, a close confederate of the Sheriff of Nottingham, stepped from the cover of brush. The nearest horses snorted and shied. Riders jerked to attention, raising flattop shields and unsheathing swords in a cold song of steel sliding along steel.

The earl's foremost guard, a gaunt man with ruddy cheeks, raised a gloved hand and brought the procession to an abrupt halt. "Who goes? Away now, man."

"No." Carlisle crossed thick arms across his chest. The boiled leather he wore made his stout, muscular body appear even more formidable. "I shall speak to Lord Whitstowe."

The earl himself nudged his horse forward. "What's the meaning of this?"

"I am Roger of Carlisle. I represent the Sheriff of Nottingham, Peter Finch."

Lord Whitstowe pushed back the hood of his embroidered surcoat, scowling. "My party has not reached the Nottinghamshire boundary. What business have you here?"

"Milord, you hold lands in both shires. Your obligation to King John is to protect these forests from poachers and itinerants."

Whitstowe's face darkened. "You lark about in the road and dare remind me of my duty to His Majesty?"

"I do, milord, on behalf of the sheriff, because you've failed to obey that duty."

Holding his balance, Will flexed his feet. Reputation held Whitstowe to be a man with sense as good as his breeding, but with a history of defying royal edicts regarding quitrents and armies. He deemed a number of royal demands wasteful and, on that excuse, disregarded them.

Hiding in trees usually meant trouble. But perhaps dealing with stubborn nobles required Carlisle's dramatic methods--forcing an audience in the road like a highwayman. A recollection of the wage Will stood to earn smoothed his sudden unease.

The second of the two lead sentries wore a conical steel cap, a nosepiece obscuring his face. He guided his warhorse between Carlisle and the nobleman. "You dare speak to Lord Whitstowe thus? Show respect, man!"

"Settle your temper, Hendon."

"Milord, I will not," said Hendon. "His insolence cannot be borne. You there, clear out of the way!"

Carlisle grinned. "You clear out. I have matters to discuss with your liege, gelding."

"Knave!"

Hendon hoisted his massive sword and charged.

From all around, Carlisle's men jumped from their cover and rushed the procession. Cries and scorns slit the air as the two factions brought to blows. Swords bashed together with force enough to loosen teeth. Horses reared high. Arrows flew. A masterful shot pierced the neck of the first, ruddy-faced guard, dropping him dead at the hooves of the earl's horse.

Will watched in mute horror. Time blurred into a chaos of motion and violence. He should move. He should fight. But motives and meaning escaped him. How could he know which side to take if he hardly understood what sparked the fray?

A scream ripped through the impassive trees.

A woman? By the best!

Before he could deliberate, he leapt from his scrubby cover. No woman deserved to be caught out when men met with flaying swords.

He trained in on the echo of her distress and sped through a tangle of struggling bodies and deadly armaments. When he could evade direct conflict, he parried or ducked. But when he faced one of Lord Whitstowe's men in an unavoidable duel, he lunged.

Fully a hand taller, the challenger pivoted and swung his sword. The long, deadly blade caught Will on the left arm, embedding in muscle and leather-lined mail. Pain surged at his shoulder. He cursed, twisting and setting the other man off kilter.

Despite the torture of his injury at every flex and move, he gripped the sword with both hands. Again he lunged, pushing and attacking. The demand for survival and that ancient need to aid a woman in distress inflamed his assault. His physical responses slowed, but his mental acuity quickened. He waited for any misstep. When the man briefly exposed his neck, Will hacked through flesh with a sickening chop of steel.

The soldier gurgled and paled. Will wrenched his blade free, snaking from under the flaccid corpse as it collapsed. Blood coated his gloves and bile filled his mouth.

He spat, turning to behold another slaying--a slaying that turned his stomach more cruelly than the wound he suffered. Hendon, the earl's guard whose charge had sparked the fight, pulled his liege to the ground and bared his throat. The single slice of a dagger ended Whitstowe's life.

Stance relaxed, weapons lowered, Roger of Carlisle looked on. A grin stretched the weathered skin of his face.

They are in league?

When he met Carlisle's eyes, a cold sluice of understanding slid down Will's back. Treason. A plot. And he was stuck in its midst.

Another scream sprouted goose bumps on his neck.

He wheeled from the duplicitous butchery to find a woman in blue seized by Dawes and Munro, two of Carlisle's men. Dark stains of anonymous blood discolored their hands and tunics. The woman thrashed, whipping her head free of attempts to stifle her hysterics.

Congrat's To This Week's Winners

*LadyVampire2u ~ Book by Eve Silver

*Susan Helen Gottfried ~ Book by Jessica Inclan

*Caffey ~ Book by Jessica Inclan

*Readingissomuchfun ~ Book by Jessica Inclan

Please send your snail mail info to terraontop57 at yahoo dot com. Congrats to all our winners and I hope you enjoy your prizes!

Eve Silver Talks Demons

Thanks for inviting me to guest blog! From the time I first started writing, I’ve heard the adage “write what you know”. Problem is, when creating a world filled with sorcerers and demons, it’s hard to follow that sage advice. Despite all the research I could cram into endless hours, I’ve actually never lived in an alternate world. That part of my December release, DEMON’S HUNGER, had to come strictly from my imagination.

But there was a part of the story that adhered to the “write what you know” trope. The bones. I teach human anatomy, so I know about bones. I know their names and the names of all the little bumps and grooves. I find bones fascinating. And bones are at the core of DEMON’S HUNGER, where forensic anthropologist Vivien Cairn agrees to examine skeletal remains in order to help sexy sorcerer Dain Hawkins hunt a supernatural serial killer before the next brutal murder takes place…only to find herself the most likely suspect.

I adore tortured heroes who are forced to delve deep and face their own secret demons. Dain Hawkins is just such a hero. His character was introduced in the first of my sorcerer stories, DEMON’S KISS. Dain has been betrayed in the past and that has left him guarded, unable to trust. He’s all about honor and duty, until he meets Vivien. But as the bones pile up, he must face the possibility that the woman he is coming to love is in fact linked to the demonic killer leaving a trail of bodies in its wake.

DEMON’S HUNGER was a blast to write, very dark and twisty. But then all my books seem to come out that way: my contemporary paranormals, my historical suspense, and even the speculative romance I write as Eve Kenin.

So here’s a question for you: Do you follow authors across multiple genres? Do you feel their voice changes as the genre changes?

I follow favorite authors. For example: Michelle Rowen writes light and funny paranormals, but her alter ego, Michelle Maddox writes darker and sexier speculative romance. I follow Linda Howard no matter what she writes, suspense, historical, time travel. I follow Kelley Armstrong from her Otherworld paranormals to her YA series to her Nadia Stafford hit-woman series. I followed Karen Marie Moning from her highlanders to her urban-fantasy fever series (definitely a different voice there). And I followed Lori Devoti from her romantic comedies to her dark, sexy Nocturnes.

Interestingly, I’ve heard from readers who follow my work across genres, and others who really enjoy only one of the genres I write. So what about you? Do you cross genres with favorite authors?

Leave a comment and email addy and one person will win a copy of one of Eve's books.

Happy reading!

Eve
For info, excerpts and more, visit http://www.evesilver.net/

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prologue Excerpt

From the shadows, Gavin Johnston watched the play of expressions cross the girl's face as she struggled to stay awake. He knew what thoughts tugged at her through the haze, knew that the alley spun and darkened as she struggled to focus, shape and form dancing beyond her grasp.

He'd tried three of the common drugs on himself first, just so he'd know what it was like. GHB, Rophypnol, ketamine. Rohypnol turned blue when he dropped the pills in liquid, which made it less than ideal for his use.

He liked GHB best. No odor. No color. He'd used it on a dozen women in recent months. The last one had died. Not his fault. She'd choked on her own vomit.

The girl on the ground moaned as her head lolled to the side. Her eyes moved slowly from left to right. He thought she must be wondering what she was doing out here. Or perhaps she was too far gone for that.

Did she remember staggering to the bathroom? Did she remember that he'd looped her arm across his shoulders and half carried her out the back door to the alley, laid her down by the dumpster beneath the dark night sky?

The rancid stink rising from the dumpster slapped him. She must have smelled it, too, because she tried to roll away, but only managed to shift from her side to her back before her body betrayed her.

He smiled, finding humor in her distress. Did she wonder how she'd gotten so drunk on only a single glass of wine? Or did she realize that he had put something in her drink?

Her eyes opened, drifted shut, opened again, focusing on him. She was pretty. Very pretty. Olive skin. Dark hair, sleek and smooth, fanning out against the ground. Great body, encased in a tight little skirt and low-cut top. No bra.

"Are you woozy, pretty girl?" he asked with a nasty laugh, knowing she was. Enjoying the fact that she was weak and vulnerable.

Earlier tonight, he'd been the one who was weak. Vulnerable. He'd been the one tormented.

It had been a mistake, allowing himself to be in that position, but this was his opportunity to remedy that, his chance to be strong.

The bare bulb over the back door of the bar cast a yellow circle of light, and he had no liking for that. Grabbing her under her armpits, he dragged her along the pavement into the shadows. A quick glance up and down the alley confirmed they were completely alone.

Hunkering down beside her, he stroked her hair back from her face. She stared up at him, her eyes wide, and for a moment they looked far too lucid for his taste. Then her lids drifted shut, and he relaxed.

He undid the button of his jeans, then the zipper, metal sliding over metal with a dull rasp.

The girl's eyes flicked open, pinned him with a hard, cold gaze, dark and glittering. Fever bright.

He froze, the first lick of unease touching him like the flicker of a flame.

"Don't stop now," she whispered, her lips curving to reveal animal-white teeth as she dropped her gaze to his crotch.

Whoa. Gavin's thoughts skidded one against the next, slamming into each other. She shouldn't be speaking. The drug...She shouldn't be able to speak-

"I told you not to stop," she murmured.

The air around her shimmered, like heat rising off pavement. He caught glimpses of talons and incredibly long teeth, and he jerked back, suddenly afraid that he'd given the drug to himself by accident.

Unease turned to icy fear, even though he couldn't say why. She was just a girl, a drugged girl, lying on the cold ground. Only...she was something more, something...dark. His heart slammed against his ribs and his blood pounded hard in his ears.

What the hell? What the fucking hell?

He wanted to tell her to fuck herself. He wanted to get up and run. But his muscles wouldn't obey his command and, against his will, his hands stayed on the open fly of his jeans.

All he could do was kneel by her side as she reached for him, escalating fear congealing in his gut. All he could do was gasp as she tore his shirt open from neck to hem, then tore his skin, her nails raking him to leave four deep furrows on his chest.

With a low hum of pleasure, she brought her bloodied fingers to her mouth, licked them clean.

Her teeth...what the hell was with her teeth?

She wasn't human. He could see that now. Oh, God, she wasn't human.

He was going to be sick. The fear inside him kindled and swelled until it grew to a roaring blaze.

He was still on his knees at her side, and he swayed, dizzy with fear and horror, desperate to get up and run, to be anywhere but here. Only, his limbs wouldn't do what he told them, wouldn't obey the commands of his mind.

"Not a very nice feeling, is it?" she asked, her voice so incredibly sexy, making him hard even through his terror. And that frightened him even more until all he knew was the great crashing waves of his panic.

She kept talking, low murmurs of encouragement and reassurance.

With a smile, she struck, her fingers curled like talons. Pain rocked him, sharp and deep.

At first, he thought she'd punched him.

The breath whooshed out of him in a quick exhale. He doubled over, feeling as though not just his breath was dragged from him, but his life in one great, sucking pull.

He looked down. Stared at his belly in mute horror.

She hadn't punched him.

Blood spurted over her wrist, her forearm. His gut was ripped open, her hand inside him. Inside him. His head jerked up and he looked into her eyes, the swirling depths of her too-black eyes.

Wrenching agony exploded inside him.

Rearing up, she cupped her free hand against the base of his skull, pressed her mouth to his and swallowed his agonized screams.

Inside You Already by Jessica Inclan

As a full time college professor and sometime editor, I see how easy it is to mess up the educational path a student or writer is on. Too harsh, too soft, too forceful, too ambiguous, and you can send someone on a journey that is not useful. The truth is, what we want to do is really in us already, and it takes that special touch to bring it out of the student, the poet, the fiction writer.

In the summer of 1976, I was fourteen years old and obsessed with the gymnast Nadia Comaneci. When I was on the blocks at a swim meet readying for the starter's gun, I would impersonate her performance start and end pose. Some of you can probably still see her in your mind, her limber-beyond-belief body, that almost crack of a back arch, her arms thrown up over her head, her smile wide for the crowd. At her perfect ten scores (the board reading 1.0 because the technology could not reflect a perfect score), the crowd went wild.

The crowd didn't go wild for me as I mimicked her, but they laughed a little (the summer before, I'd been into blessing the water before a swim and then crossing myself, though I have no Catholic at my core). I had never received a perfect ten in anything, much less gymnastics, but I'd loved everything about Nadia and her story. She was small and lean and tough. She hadn't been accepted by the greater Romanian team, her coach Bela Karolyi running her around to meets in his van, coaching her on his own. Nadia was cute but not unattainably so. She was a doable hero, and she was less than one month younger than I was, so I could see that in our short years, maybe just about anything was possible.

For all the Olympics I could remember of my childhood, I'd loved watching the Olympics with my father. We’ve just had a summer Olympics and I watched my sports of choice with ease at all times of the day. But things were tougher back in 1976. There was no Tivo or VCR to record anything for later viewing. We were at the mercy of NBC and time zones, but I think our expectations were lower. I remember us sitting in the den, waiting for the events to come on our Sony color TV. While in 1972, Olga Korbut had been mesmerizing to watch, she also elicited sympathetic pain as she bent in half on the balance beam, grimacing so intently, I'd had to turn away from the TV. Olga was a Russian and looked Russian in the ways I had grown up thinking of them. Except when she smiled, her pigtails crooked, she was grim and concentrated and likely was part of a Russian conspiracy of some kind. But in 1976, Nadia made us all feel as though we could fly and bounce and have fun.

My father--a non-athlete--would evaluate every sports performance, telling us what to look for and glorying in all the athletes' successes. For the entire time of the show, we were carried away in his excitement of how people could move. All this flying through the air and streaking through the water was a miracle (of course, in 1976, the German women were streaking through the water fueled by testosterone shots). I'm afraid that his admiration of athletes came at a price for my two sisters and me--he always wanted more and better and higher and faster from our performances--but to watch another with him was lovely and fun. When the Olympics were over, I was always a little sad, just as I was sad when The Wide World of Sports was over on Saturdays, as it meant there would be chores to do now that he wasn't focusing on downhill skiing or swimming or kayaking or soccer.

This past summer during the Beijing Olympics, I have had my father beside me as I've watched the track and field events, the swimming, the gymnastics, even the dressage. He would have loved Tivo, the way we can slide through the commercials, the way we can watch 24 hours of Olympics by sliding up through the hundreds of channels. He would have loved Michael Phelps and his 8 gold medals. He would have been screaming during the relays, and then he would have analyzed that final butterfly stroke, the one that gave Michael the gold in the 100 fly. Maybe he would have turned to me and said, "This is what you have to do in the pool," even though at forty-six, I’m capable of about a half hour of laps and then I need a hot tub.

Now that I am older, I would have nodded, patted his hand, gone back to women's gymnastics instead of feeling the lump in my gut, knowing that we'd have to talk about my new butterfly stroke at the dinner table. Now, I go to the pool at my gym and jump in, no Nadia performance piece, no blessing the water even though this pool is a blessing. I put on my goggles. I push off the wall; I swim for the feel of it. For the way I feel like one fluid piece. Like Nadia, I am having fun in the movement of my body, the way I can slice through the water in one body stroke.

What I can see now at 46 is that I can learn from watching others, but to have someone ride you like a backpack is never a good teaching tool, at least not for me. A coach is beside you. A coach is a coach not a mental tape that says, "You've been doing it wrong. Try it right."

My father was younger than I am now, had no teaching experience, and no good parental role models. He wanted beauty and he loved us, and wanted the two things to go together. He had hope and desire and no way of fulfilling it himself. So he turned to us and told us what to do and how and when and why to do it.

He could have learned from a coach like Bela Karolyi. A coach picks you up, puts you on the mat, says, "Show them what you can do. You know everything. It's inside you already. Do it for yourself and they will watch."

And then you arch your back, lift your arms, smile, and do it.

Jessica will give away a copy of her newest book to one lucky commentor at the end of the day. You must provide an email addy and comment about her book or article to be entered.

Jessica Barksdale Inclan
http://www.jessicabarksdaleinclan.com/
http://www.redroom.com/blog/jessica-barksdale-inclan

~~~~~Excerpt~~~~~

Claire Edwards had just absolutely had it, again, for about the sixth time that day. She wanted to scream and shout and stomp her feet, but since that reaction was exactly what was bothering her in others, she could not do any of that. She didn’t want to roll around on the floor in tempera paint like Annie or pee in her pants like Thomas. She didn’t want to fall into instant and hysterical weeping and cling to pillow in the corner like Sam. Maybe she wanted to stand shocked still in the corner with the rest of them, but theoretically, she was in charge.

She was--Claire finally realized as she picked up the thrown barrel of blocks in order to get to Sam--the adult. She was the one paid for keeping things flowing educationally and psychologically for Annie, Thomas, Sam, and the twelve other children in her charge, all of whom were staring at her right now with wide, frightened eyes. Claire was in charge of “environment” and “attitude.” Claire was in charge of “educational outcomes.”

“Sam,” she said, her voice like the blanket that Sam was missing, the one that his mother insisted he go “cold turkey” with this very morning. “I promise you that when you get home, your mommy will give you your blankie. It’s just that it needs to stay at home for now. While you are at school.”

“I want my blankie!” Sam wailed. “I want it now!”

Annie rolled toward Claire, smearing primary colors everywhere. Thomas clutched his pants, whimpering.

The rest of them chimed in, crying in sympathy for this horrible scene, all of them suddenly wanted their blankies, their mommies, the toilet, an afternoon snack, their pets, anything but this classroom.

Claire knew that she shouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Really, really, mustn’t do it, but she wanted to close her eyes, think of a spot, any spot on the planet. She wanted to focus on the Kelani Resort in Maui or the Mendocino Hotel in Mendocino. She wanted to think about the Tuilerie Gardens in Paris. Frankly, she would be happy at the Starbucks on the corner of Masonic and Fulton. Or the French Laundromat on Stanyan, the air thick with steam and soap. Anywhere but here.

The problem always was, of course, that she could go wherever she wanted to. Anywhere on the planet. Just like that. Just by thinking. By picturing a place, she could be there, and she had performed this trick for herself a hundred times or more since she discovered it when she was six. She could send herself anywhere, but coming back home wasn’t easy. Claire wasn’t sure why she just couldn’t bounce herself back home, but there really wasn’t a resident expert on this kind of thing. There was no Teleportation for Dummies at the local bookstore. There wasn’t anyone she could call up and ask, “Hey, can you tell me why I can’t get home the way I got here? You can’t? Oh, well, could you just explain to me why I can’t get even close?”

Sure, she could triangulate her way around, flinging herself from place to place until she ended up closer to home, but mostly she had to do it the old fashioned way: bike, car, bus, cab, boat, train, plane. Of course, when she decided on a whim to disappear, she hadn’t managed to pack a thing (not that she could take anything with her) and on one sad day when she failed a college exam in statistics, she’d ended up in Hawaii without a bikini or a credit card. She cringed when she thought of the phone call she’d had to make to her mother, though the two days’ wait for her passport at the Oahu Holiday Inn had actually been fun.

But who cared about that now? In less than a second, she could be away from all of this and drinking a Mai-Tai on the veranda of Kelani Inn—assuming, of course, the staff took pity on her credit cardless self. Annie, Thomas, and Sam would think they blinked too long and Claire had just stepped out of the classroom. The children would stop crying, surprised and then excited that they were left all alone, by themselves, no adult in sight. After a moment of exhilaration, they would start crying again, this time even harder. Chaos would ensue. All the children would throw paint, pee in their pants, and sob in the corners. They would be forever marked and ruined by this horrifying abandonment and become troubled, over-pierced drug-addicted teenagers who would look back on this class and all of their education as an abusive waste of time.

What was worse was that—if Claire wanted to—she could dive into their minds, see the patterns of shock and confusion and understanding. As quickly as she could travel to any place on the planet, she could get into the little stream of consciousness that flowed strong through Annie’s mind. What would Claire find there? Images of school and home, friends and pets and siblings? Or something worse, something scary and horrible, images Claire would never recover from. After hearing things meant for no one but the thinker, after seeing grief and despair and sexual positions and partners no one should know about, Claire stopped. She didn’t dip into anyone’s mind but her own, clamping down tight and holding on to her thoughts and her thoughts only.

Childhood was too fraught a place, full of dark forests with evil stepparents, confusing events no one explained, and nightmares that made sleeping with the light on crucial. She didn’t want to do that one last thing that would ruin everything for them. Claire knew how hard it was to overcome something from childhood. She had been trying to overcome her “gifts” since forever.

“Sam,” Claire said, picking him up and cradling him in her arms, knowing that if she were a male kindergarten teacher, she could never do this. “It’s okay. It will be all right.”

Claire looked out at her class, all of them staring at her, even Annie, who glanced up at her with a blue smeared face; even Thomas who stopped his incessant whimpering. “I promise you, it will all be okay.”

They stared at her. The big white clock on the wall moved its long black hands in clicking seconds. Claire stayed in the classroom, held Sam who stopped crying, too.

“Really?” Annie asked, and Claire nodded, wishing she were agreeing to what was true.

“Yes,” she said. “It will all be one hundred percent okay.”

Michele Sinclair Guest Blogs

About Michele

In need of a creative outlet, I began writing novels after my second child was born. A voracious reader of romance books and a constant dreamer of romantic plots, my husband encouraged me to put my ideas to paper. I soon found out I loved it ... all of it!

I am a member of the Romance Writers of America and of the Georgia Romance Writers.

In addition to writing historical and regency romance novels, I also build large-scale HO model trains, love to do huge cross-stitching pieces, relax on our boat, and decorate everything I can during the Christmas season.

Besides romance, I am a heavy science fiction reader and try to read at least two books a month—one science fiction and the other romance even when I am writing. I guess I just secretly desire to live in another place in time!

I really am a Sinclair!! Which during my last visit to the Highlands I learned I was mispronouncing (sink’ clare). As a consultant for 18 years, I have been an editor, have written numerous documents, and received various awards within my firm. I live in Atlanta, Georgia with my three favorite loves—my ever-loving and supportive husband and my two children.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Book Two, To Wed A Highlander, release date July 1, 2008

To Wed a Highlander, focuses on the second McTiernay brother, Colin, who is forced to marry his brazen, impetuous sister-in-law, Makenna, in order to protect the clan of his beloved, gentle dead wife.

Pride and unfamiliar desire guides much of their initial interactions as each wrestle with unexpected and intense feelings for the other. Conor and Laurel (from The Highlander's Bride) come back in this story and add to the lively interplay plaguing the Dunstan keep as Colin and Makenna discover the joy of their hidden, unknown passions.

"What a joy. Michele Sinclair's To Wed a Highlander hits a high note immediately and never lets down. This novel will give you the ride of your life". Romance Junkies – 5 stars

"Don't miss the whirlwind evolution of Colin and Makenna's marriage and leadership. If you read ... Highlander's Bride you will be pleased to meet up with many of the characters you remember from that story." Armchair Interviews

An arranged marriage…Makenna Dunstan has never needed a man’s protection before. But when her father’s failing health places the safety of the clan her hands, she has no choice but to marry Colin McTiernay. Fearing the emotions Colin awakens in her, she finds herself succumbing too easily to his lingering kisses and warm caresses. Yet she wonders if she can truly trust this highlander who is quickly stealing her heart.

Ignites an insatiable desires…
A highlander from birth, Colin McTiernay knows the Dunstan clan dislikes him, especially the laird’s youngest daughter. But he is determined to save the lowlanders from their enemies even if that means marrying the willful and impetuous Makenna. Taming the fierce tigress will be a challenge that Colin is confident he can meet by seducing Makenna—and tantalizing her with a passion that will only leave her begging for more…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Book Three, Highlander’s Promise, release date Fall 2009

Set in the early 14th century Scottish Highlands, it is the story of the third McTiernay brother, Cole, who saves Ellenor Howell, an Englishwoman haunted by a horrible mistake, from a lonely life, only to realize it is she who needs to rescue him.

The Highlander’s Promise, won second place in PASIC 2008 Book of Your Heart Contest


An unwanted rescue…
Ellenor Howell’s perfect world unraveled in one terrifying night and she vows to piece together a new future, one that is safe and far from the reach of any man. Attempts to marry her off have failed and she is weeks away from fleeing England and her nightmares, when a hulking giant arrives, determined to take her to his brother’s home. With each ploy she devises to escape her captor, the infuriating Highlander is one step ahead, and her desire to leave the safety of his arms wanes. For inexplicably, whenever the man is around, her fear of being touched disappears and she remembers what is like to be wild and carefree. She wants her freedom, but with each minute that passes in the scowling Highlander’s presence, Ellenor begins to realize that what she really wants is the one thing she can’t have…his heart.

Bound to a promise…
Cole has good reason to despise Ellenor Howell. She is not only English and someone he is honor bound to hate, but she is proud of it. She is also aggravating, stubborn, and enjoys challenging everything he says or does. It should have made it simple for him to stay away. Instead, he finds himself drawn to her, as she continually understands him in ways no one else does. But as he helps free her from the memories of her past, his desire for the tawny-haired beauty grows, and he rediscovers pieces of his soul he thought forever dead. As their time together draws to an end, he must make a choice…forsake a solemn promise he made long ago committing him to a solitary life, or make a new one to his sworn enemy who has the power to open his heart and heal his wounds with love.

Michele Sinclair
The Highlander's Bride - June 2007
To Wed a Highlander - July 2008
The Highlander's Promise - Early 2009
The Highlander's Kiss- 2010
Twelfth Knight - Christmas 2010
www.michelesinclair.com

Congrat's To This Week's Winners

darbyscloset ~ by Lisabeth Sairi
*Kara ~ by Karen Ranney
*Leslie ~ by Karen Ranney

*Bamabelle ~ The Dangerous Duke by Christine Wells
*Ali ~ The Perils of Pleasure by Julie Anne Long

As soon as I hear from the other authors I will post the winners of their giveaway's.

Awe and Wonder by Lisabet Sarai

Most of my published work falls into the category of contemporary erotic romance. Lately, though, I’ve begun to experiment with the paranormal genre. My first attempt in this realm was my Halloween short, Rendezvous, in which a young woman stranded in a seedy motel room on Halloween discovers that it’s haunted by a very virile and seductive ghost.

“Vampires, Limited”, in the Black Lace collection Lust at First Bite, features a hard-headed business woman trying to make a killing on the vampire fad, and nearly losing herself to the handsome, wholesome blood-drinker who comes to her for a job.

On December 8th, Total-E-Bound will release my M/M paranormal novella, Tomorrow’s Gifts, as part of their Christmas Spirits series. Tomorrow’s Gifts offers a twist on Dicken’s classic Ghost of Christmas Future. Michael loves his burly, powerful partner Neil, but he's too embarrassed to share his secret fantasies of submission and surrender. Then, on Christmas Eve, Michael receives a visit from a sexy Dom who claims to be his lover from the future, and shows Michael scenes from the wild life of sexual excess they'll share if he breaks up with Neil.

Meanwhile, I just completed the first draft of Serpent’s Kiss, a paranormal shape-shifter romance set in Guatemala and based on Mayan mythology. I had a fabulous time working on this. It’s full of prophetic dreams, talismans of power, and apocalyptic battles between supernatural beings. No publisher yet ― it’s not ready to be seen by anyone but my critique partner!

I’ll admit that I decided to try writing paranormal partly because it is so popular. I also wanted to challenge myself, to see if I could do something new and different in the genre. I didn’t want to pen something predictable. Although vampires seem to have eternal appeal, I wanted to ring some changes on the familiar lore. I wanted to create human-animal composite that would be surprising, even a bit shocking.

I’ve come to understand, however, that paranormal is a difficult genre, precisely because it is so popular. It’s not enough to create a world and populate it with magical or supernatural beings. Readers have become blasé. In order to succeed in the paranormal realm, you have to be able to evoke a sense of wonder. Your world needs to be truly marvelous and truly terrible. You have to make your readers believe in the unbelievable, while at the same time recognizing how incredible it is ― to accept your magic, and yet be overcome with awe.

Needless to say, this is a tall order. I don’t know if I’ve been 100% successful. I’m still learning, and enjoying every magical moment.

What do you think? Leave me a comment with your email address, and I'll enter you in a drawing for a free copy of Rendezvous.

== Excerpt from Rendezvous === (Rated PG)

Gradually the hurricane died away. The spasms faded. I found myself crumpled on the carpet, buried among the satin layers of my skirts. My thighs were sticky. My nipples felt rigid and sore. Dazed, I tried to remember. I had been drinking. I had imagined things, disembodied voices, invisible hands. I must have passed out.

I struggled to stand. My legs were wobbly. Then I saw my shoulder, the scarlet tooth marks that were still there. It was no dream, no drunken hallucination.

“Hello?” My voice was a timid squeak. I peered around the room, looking for other evidence of my invisible but definitely substantial visitor. “Are you here? Hello!”

Silence. The silence of the grave. I didn't know whether I was relieved or disappointed.

Gingerly, I removed the costume and hung it up again. It was somewhat the worse for wear, but I thought it would be acceptable by candlelight. Anyway, what did it matter? Something magical had happened, something dark and seductive and inexplicable. The most thrillingly transgressive Halloween party seemed tame by comparison.

I slumped down on the bed, my heart still beating faster than normal. What, exactly, had happened? I remembered the unseen hands, so skilled and confident. I remembered the rich, persuasive voice. I recalled the thrill of being taken, not exactly against my will, but with a strength that had seemed to make escape impossible. All at once I was horny again.

=== Unedited Excerpt from Serpent’s Kiss == (Rated G)

The feather woke her, trembling between her breasts like some trapped wild animal. Her eyes fluttered open. A virid radiance flooded the cave from outside, as if the sun had risen green instead of golden. The wind had risen, too, twining her hair around her face as she sat up and gazed around.

“Jorge?” Her voice sounded tentative. Gusts of air swirled around her, tearing at her clothing.

The cave was clearly still empty. But something was happening outside. Elena crept to the edge of the porch and gazed out at the night.

It was, in fact, still night. The sky was ebony velvet. The glow emanated from nearer the earth. Down in the field of maize, the stalks were whipped into a frenzy by the wind. And amid the stalks, or perhaps on top of them, something―someone―danced.

Hovering in a pool of emerald light, the figure was taller than a man. However, it was not shaped like a man. From above, Elena could barely make out the outline of the creature that swirled and coiled in that core of brilliance. She had a sense of limbs that folded at impossible angles, glittering sparks of red and gold, and plumes of extravagant feathers.

The pinion hung around her neck vibrated with joy.

Elena found that she was humming some wordless tune that she could not place. The creature below seemed to be dancing in time. She slipped on her sandals and headed down the slope, drawn irresistibly to the flashing, leaping form below.

Why I Don't Write Dialect and Other Vagaries by Karen Ranney

My books all have a Scottish setting. However, the minute I mention that fact, some readers’ eyes glaze over and they get that look I have come to know as The Dread of Dialect Look.

I canna tell a lie. Lo, I was once guilty and ‘tis a hideous thing I confess – pages and pages of ing missing from words, paragraphs rife with ken, lass, laddie, and dinna. In other words – Scottish Lite.

After my third book of this (all published by Zebra), something happened to me. Well, four things, actually.

1. I realized that I hated writing that way, that it took too bloody long to write “wrong”.

2. I realized I hated reading it. If I hated reading it, what was the reader feeling?

3. The third revelation was that language cadence can be demonstrated by HOW a character speaks, not dialect.

“How can you say goodbye?” she softly said.

“With my heart. With every drop of my blood. With great care, my love. With the greatest care.”

I can hear a Scottish accent in that speech, and if I’ve done my job right, so will the reader.

4. But the fourth light bulb was probably the most important – the sudden and inescapable knowledge that I’m a 21st century woman and how presumptuous of me to think I know how an 18th century educated Scot spoke. He probably spoke Gaelic prior to 1745, or heavily accented English, or perhaps not heavily accented English at all, but perfectly proper London English.

~~~~~~~~~~

I use Robert Burns as an example all the time. He wrote in English, and ostensibly how people talked at the time (1759-1796). How would you like to try reading a book full of this?

To a Mouse

Robert Burns

On Turning her up in her Nest with the Plough



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

O what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

Uh, no.

I read to lose myself in the story. Every time I have to trip over dialect, I get jolted out of the story. So, my books may be set in Scotland, but you needn’t dread the dialect.

Secondly, I love all parts of Scotland, from Perth to Dundee to Inverness to the border. Scotland has such a rich history that I don’t have to stay in the Highlands. Plus, as nice as a kilt is, there is something to be said for a sexy Scot in a suit. Yum. Or nothing at all. Ahem.

Karen will pick two winners from all who leave a comment about her article. One winner will receive a copy of "The Devil Wears Tartan" and one winner will receive a copy of "The Scottish Companion". Good Luck!

Dangerous Delight by Christine Wells

I'm just back from vacation in New Zealand (heard of it? Country in the Pacific Ocean, somewhere south of Australia? Where they filmed Lord of the Rings?) and let me tell you, there's not much the Kiwis don't know about living dangerously. From the perilous climb of Mt. Cook to the original bungy jump, the entire country seems obsessed with extreme sports.

About every tourist spot has some wild ride on offer, and the thrill of the adrenalin rush is amazingly seductive, even for a dorky homebody writer-type like me. While watching a twenty-something maniac throw herself off a bridge, gliding down a deep crevasse to touch the fast-moving river below, I felt an unaccountable urge to try the bungy jump myself. I didn't, because I figure a mother of two small children can't take risks like that, but oh, I was tempted. However, the jetboating, gondolier and luge rides made up for the lack of neck-breaking thrills.

Max, my hero in THE DANGEROUS DUKE, lives a very dangerous life but not by choice and definitely not for any thrills. He can't wait to leave the secret service but he has one more case to solve before he takes up the reins of the estate he's recently inherited. At the Home Office, they call him "The Fixer". They bring him in when a case is too sensitive to handle through official channels.

This time, there's a troublesome widow threatening to write a tell-all memoir of all she's discovered about members of parliament during her late husband's political career unless her brother is released from jail. A troublesome, very beautiful widow, who Max would dearly like to know better under different circumstances. But when he steals the book he thinks is Lady Kate's memoir, it turns out to be a sizzling diary of a fantasy affair. The ruthless duke exploits his insider knowledge about Kate's sensual desires, but matters don't quite run to plan, and our hero finds the most dangerous thing of all is falling in love...

There's something delicious about danger, isn't there? Even if it's only living vicariously through our favourite fictional thrill-seekers. Who's your favourite dangerous man--in novels, TV, movies? What's the most dangerous thing you've ever done? Christine will give away a signed copy of THE DANGEROUS DUKE to one lucky commentor!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Dangerous Duke


Read An Excerpt
She seeks justice. He, revenge. And they'll never guess what they'll find.

A Daring Diary
Trapped in a loveless marriage, Lady Kate Fairchild found refuge in her diary, scene of her fantasy affair. And now, even though her husband's death has set her free, no suitor can thrill Kate quite like her phantom lover – until a duke with a murky past sears her with his gaze...

A Dangerous Duke
Maxwell Brooke, Duke of Lyle, is hunting the arsonists who killed his family – and Kate's brother knows where they hide. But when jailing him proves futile, Max kidnaps Kate, demanding as ransom her brother's cooperation. Still, Max never counted on Kate's rapier wit and heated kisses – and soon, desire wars with duty, even as real danger stalks his captive lady...

A Delicious Deceit
When Kate threatens to publish a tell-all diary if her brother remains imprisoned, Max hopes to protect her from the powerful men she intends to expose. Stealing the diary, he spirits her off to a country estate. But the diary is nothing like he expected – and when Max discovers Kate's sensual secrets, he can't resist exploiting them in every way...

Julie Anne Long and Spiders

So there I was, barefoot and cross-legged on the floor, laptop propped on a low table in front of a big window, fingers poised to pounce on the keyboard to write this blog, sunlight from a brilliantly clear, cool autumn day feeling delicious between my shoulder blades‑‑when I felt a tickling sensation on my ankle.

In my experience, sudden tickling sensations in the ankle area are generally caused by cat whiskers. I figured my cat was sniffing me in preparation for hopping up to walk across my keyboard, which makes me yell, which he thinks is hilarious, so I glanced down.

A teeny, tiny spider had reached the summit of my anklebone and was charting a rapid course up my pant leg.

As far as I’m concerned, this is the wrong direction for a spider to be going. For its own good I blew it off course with one mighty gust.

It landed a few inches away from my foot, sat motionless for a moment, either indignant or stunned, then zipped off across the room on some sort of spidery business, no worse for wear.

I figured it was a sign of some sort, as I’d planned to write about the critters in Like No Other Lover. Our hero Miles Redmond is a renowned explorer, a naturalist who’s braved tropical fevers and cannibals and all manner of privations in order to satisfy his thirst for discovery. He appreciates animals‑he can’t imagine life without them‑but his specialty is entomology (insects) and in many ways they’re the metaphorical language means through which he and Cynthia come to know and respect and understand each other, and in some ways symbolic of how they ultimately fall in love: he first notices her at a ball because the color of her skirt, out of the corner of his eye, reminds him of Morpho retenor Helena, an exquisite, iridescent blue tropical butterfly. A spider has taken up residence in the corner of Cynthia’s guest room at the Redmond house, and (once Miles explains the spider is harmless and that they make splendid housekeepers) the spider (she names it Susan), because a symbol, a talisman for Cynthia of the simultaneous fragility and strength and resiliency of her own life circumstances. Miles gives Cynthia the best and most indirect compliment of her life by comparing her to a spider (which might have appalled a lot of other women); and then he impulsively surprises her (and himself) by giving her a kitten, a compulsion he scarcely understands‑he just knows for some reason he needs to give her something. It turns out to be pure instinct on his part; it’s the best gift she’s ever received. In so doing, he both manages to remind her that she’s alone, and ensures that she is not.

So anyway, it was a kick to use animals as a means to illustrate aspects of Miles and Cynthia’s characters and the course of their relationship, because I'm an animal lover, and animals are such a big part of my life‑whether they're crawling up my leg or sleeping on my head, which is what my cat, like Cynthia’s kitten, occasionally does.

What about you guys? How do you feel about spiders‑charitably, or do they freak you out a little, or some combination thereof? :) How many animals and what kind of animals do you have in your life? Do any of them sleep on your head at night??

Julie will be giving away a copy of "The Perils of Pleasure", too, as a prize! Just leave a comment and email addy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Like No Other Lover
HarperCollins/Avon
November 2008
978-0061341595

Second book in the Pennyroyal Green series!


Now or Never . . .

It's the last chance for Cynthia Brightly, the ton's most bewitching belle. Driven out of London by a secret scandal, she must find a grand husband at the Redmonds' house party before word of her downfall spreads all over England. Unfortunately, someone at Pennyroyal Green is already privy to the whispers of broken engagements and dueling lovers: Miles Redmond, renowned explorer and—thanks to his brother's disappearance—heir to the family's enormous fortune.

Miles set his sights on Cynthia once, at a time when the ambitious beauty thought herself too good for a second son. But now he's the heir apparent, relishing in his control. He strikes a bargain with her: he'll keep Cynthia's steamy secrets and help her find a husband among the guests—in exchange for a single kiss.

What could be the harm in a simple kiss? Cynthia is about to discover that it's enough to unleash fierce passion-and that Miles Redmond is most certainly like no other lover in the world.

Congrats To This Week's Winners

SusanB~ Romeo, Romeo by Robin Kaye

Jenx67 ~ by Malena Lott

Carol ~ "Dutchess" e-book by Rhonda Lee

Arkiean ~ "Dutchess" e-book by Rhonda Lee

Wrighty ~ Prize Package by Lisa Hendrix

How I found my very own Domestic God! by Robin Kaye

When I was almost twenty-four, my Italian mother informed me that it was about time I thought about getting married. I wasn’t surprised. In our family and neighborhood, that’s the way things were done.

“Robin,” she said, “I bought something for you today.”

“Really?” I thought that was odd, because at the time, I wasn’t on her most beloved daughter list. To tell you the truth, I rarely am.

She gave me her much-practiced and highly perfected ‘what-have-I-ever-done-to-deserve-your-distrust?’ look. I can attest that’s a hard look to come by. As a mother of three almost-teenagers, I’m still trying to perfect mine.

I pasted on a feigned apologetic smile and went to see what she’d bought me. It was a book, so I was thrilled. After I read the title, How To Marry The Man of Your Choice, the thrill diminished considerably.

Mom shot me her I-know-what’s-best-for-you glare and said the six words I’ll never forget. “Twenty-four, wed or dead. Your choice.”

I laughed, because after all, she had to be joking. Right? So, being the good daughter I was, I thanked her skulked away.

I wasn’t looking to get married. Ever. And while I won’t get into the reasons for this decision, let’s just say they were, and still are, valid. But even though I wasn’t looking to get married, that didn’t mean I wasn’t looking for a more serious relationship. Since my taste in men up to that point had sucked—I apologize to all my exes—I decided to use the book to try to date the man of my choice.

The main theme of the first few chapters, if I remember correctly—and that’s questionable, considering it’s been almost 20 years—was for the reader to figure out what she wanted in a man. Specific things. Short, tall, build, income, religion, nationality, etc.

I knew I wanted someone who was easy going; someone who wasn’t a big drinker or partier; someone who got along well with his family and wouldn’t mind my slightly dysfunctional one. I wanted him to be intelligent and kind, employed in a job/career he enjoyed. I wanted someone with a goal in life and the guts to work toward it. I wasn’t looking for a rich man, just one with potential. But my deal breaker, that one thing I just couldn’t tolerate, was a man who was looking for a caretaker. I wanted a man who could cook, clean, do laundry, and take care of himself. If he ended up cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry for me, all the better.

The book said that on the first meeting—you know, the coffee, drink, or lunch to see if you like each other enough to commit to dinner —you should interview the man. Now, it did say to not make it sound like an interview. Since most people like to talk about themselves and love it when someone of the opposite sex takes an interest in them, it wouldn’t be difficult to get the information I needed.

The gist of the method was to expedite the dating process. If you find out the man isn’t what you’re looking for, don’t date him. Don’t waste your time and take the chance of falling for someone wrong for you. That made sense to me.

Within a week, I met someone I was interested in. He worked as a construction manager and was in charge remodeling my office building, a million dollar job. Now remember, this was almost 20 years ago, so a million bucks wasn’t chump change. Not only that, but he was good-looking. He used the phone in my office, so I had the opportunity to watch him conduct business. He was well-spoken, calm, efficient, and like I said, yummy.

I asked him out to lunch. He accepted and answered all my questions. The only problem I saw was his age. He was very young, two years younger than me. I never dated anyone my own age, much less younger, but I decided not to hold it against him and asked him out on a proper date.

When he came to pick me up, he met my mother. Usually my mother didn’t approve of my boyfriends, but she met Stephen and immediately asked if we’d like to come back for dinner. I was tempted to see if she had a high fever—inviting my date over for dinner was unheard of. Stephen looked at me. Unfortunately, I was too shocked to say no, so he accepted. We went off to spend the afternoon together and returned to have a nice five-course Italian dinner. After he helped me with the dishes, mom suggested we rent a movie.

I explained to my mother that it was late and the poor guy lived 60 miles away, but she was unphased and answered, “That’s okay, he can sleep on the couch.”

Stephen did, and spent every weekend thereafter sleeping on my couch. Every Saturday I would clean my house, and Stephen jumped right in to help. The day my mother and I walked out of her room to find Stephen holding the couch up with one hand while he vacuumed underneath, she said, “Marry him.”

For once, my mother really did know what was best for me. Stephen and I were engaged four months after our first date, and married four months after that.

I know, I said I’d never marry. I honestly never wanted to until I met Stephen. He was exactly the man I was looking for. He was my very own domestic god, and he still is. We’ll celebrate our 19th anniversary on the 25th of this month, and the 20th anniversary of our first date on April Fool’s Day. Fitting, isn’t it?



How did you find your domestic, or not so domestic god? Leave a comment and email addy and have a chance to win a book. I will give away one book at the end of the day to one lucky commentor.

Romeo, Romeo by Robin Kaye (Terra's Review)

Romeo, Romeo by Robin Kaye is deliciously decedent. Sizzling hot, funny, romantic and like the best cannoli you've ever had, you lick your fingers sensually grasping each and every last morsel. This book is just like that cannoli, you can't help but lick those fingers and turn those pages wondering not if but when the descriptions of this really hot Italian Stallion are going to make you explode in ecstasy.

Rosalie Ronaldi is tall, full bodied with supple shapes that can drive a man wild. Dark curly hair and olive skin give her that Mediterranean look that most Italian women have. Unlike the tall, skinny, mindless playboy pin-ups that most men would love to use and throw away, Rosalie has what a man can hold onto and enjoy for the rest of his life. Intelligence and independence are a large part of her and her need for control with no strings attached makes her all that much more enticing.

Nick Romeo is the hottest thing to come along since apple pie. Tall, dark and handsome seems to be an understatement where he is concerned and the ladies flock to him like honey bees to a hive. Not only does he have the Italian good looks but he's got more money than he could ever expect to spend in one lifetime.

Nick and Rosalie meet under unusual circumstances and sparks start to fly from the very first moment. Unfortunately for Romeo, Rosalie is not free for the taking. Not yet anyway!

What starts out as an innocent meeting quickly turns into a heart pounding, lip smacking, make me howl sizzling romance.

Talk about love at first sight. They say it happens but what are the odds and why is it that everyone around you can see what's happening but you? Also they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder and you really don't know what you've had until you've lost it. How much of this is true especially in a story that will curl your toes and melt your soul. Guess we'll just have to ask Nick and Rosalie.

This author has given us a touch of old world romance, mind blowing, heart pounding, howl like a coyote sizzling sex, along with family honor and ideals that take you back to the old country life style. This is a story that you can sink your teeth into and feel like you're really a part of the story. It's a story of a chance meeting that could really happen to any one of us. It's a story of possibilities and probabilities that will rock your world like a 9.0 magnitude earthquake leaving you shaken, stunned, off balance, scared, and flat on your ass. A story of two souls meeting and melting into one.