In Over Her Head with Judi Fennell (Terra says A+++)

One of my favorite scenes in In Over Her Head is when Erica Peck, a terrified-of-the-ocean marina owner wakes up under the sea on a soggy mattress with a starfish as a pillow. She remembers being on the wrong end of the gun, in the ocean, with a shark in the water. After that... nothing. So when she wakes up under the sea she thinks she's died and gone to Hell. Or has the bends. Or something. Because humans cannot be under the sea without a scuba tank and live to tell about it, right?

Wrong.

The thing with this scene is, I am as scared of the ocean as Erica was (I saw JAWS at an early age and it left a mark). It's an irrational fear, and I know it, but I can't help it. So, I decided to use it. I put myself in Erica's place and went with it. What would I notice? What would I think? How would I feel about it? What would happen when I found out I wasn't dead. Then I poured all of that "omg!" and ick factor and disbelief into Erica and this is what I came up with:

Erica sat up, pushed off the mattress, and stood. Or actually, floated to a standing position. Floated? Her hair billowed around her like seaweed on the beach after a hurricane, and she brushed it back.
But it drifted forward again.
She really was in water. But how was that possible? She was breathing...
... Breathing?
People couldn't breathe underwater.
She held her hand up to her face. Little puffs exited her nose, but they weren't puffs of air. They were... water...
She was inhaling water?
Panic set in. She was taking in water. She was going to drown. People couldn't suck water into their lungs and expect to live. This was insane.
Erica clamped her hand over her mouth, held her breath, and looked around. There had to be a way out of this place. Preferably up.
She looked up. A ceiling. No hole. Great.
There was a door on one side and a porthole on the other. She swam to the porthole, but the latch was rusted in place, so she one-handed doggy-paddled over to the door and peered out. A long, dark corridor that went... downward.
Her chest hitched. She needed air. Now.
Swimming into that darkness was the last thing she wanted to do. Well, the last thing before drowning, that was. That didn't leave her many choices.
Swallowing her fear and the rest of the water that'd been in her mouth when she'd clamped it shut, Erica swam into the corridor.
A dozen feet in, visibility faded to shadows, and her lungs started protesting.
Another five feet and her nerves were shot.
If she was going to drown, she didn't want to do it in the dark.
Doing a front flip that would've made her swim-team coach proud, Erica returned to the room. Soon to be her mausoleum, apparently. Her brothers would never find her now.
But wait. Wasn't she already dead? In Hell already? Her lungs were burning, so, yeah, that was a possibility. But Hell was supposed to be engulfed in flames yet this water was comfortably warm.
She sat on the edge of the soggy mattress and fought with her lungs. They could keep quiet a bit longer while she tried to figure this out.
No, they couldn't.
And they wouldn't.
Instincts humming, Erica found her brain wouldn't cooperate with her lungs, and all of a sudden, she was choking.
Choking and gulping.
Choking and gulping and... breathing?
And then she was screaming.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod...
How did one suck in enough water to drown a flotilla yet keep breathing?
She screamed again, slithering to the sandy floor as her backbone turned to jelly. But if you scream in hell-water and there's no one around to hear you, does that make you insane?
Or a fish?
Was this some hideous cosmic joke? You turned into what killed you? How would one turn into, say, a crumbling building? A burning car? plane crash?
She hiked herself back onto the bed. Maybe, just maybe, God was kind and she had somehow survived the shark, drifted to the surface, and was merely suffering from the bends. Once her body got the proper oxygen and nitrogen percentages worked out, she'd wake up from this air-deprivation-induced coma with its ridiculous hallucinations.
Yes, that was it. That was what she'd cling to. This delusion was her body's reaction to th e bends. It all made sense. She just needed to be patient. Once her chemistry was back to normal, she'd be back to normal. Stuck four-and-a-half miles from shore in shark-infested waters... but, hey, she could manage that.
And the hallucinations weren't all that bad. Water-breathing lungs, so what? They were doable. Talking starfish, glowing fish lamps? Odd, but interesting.
Yep, she would just sit back and let her body get back to normal. She'd be just fine.
And then a naked man swam into the room.


The thing is, I used to LOVE the ocean. My family has been going down the shore (a pure South Jersey expression for going to the beach) since I was young. I used to swim out past where the waves break, back and forth, floating on my back for hours and my mom and I would float on rafts reading books for hours. Or a bunch of us would link our rafts and chat about whatever it is young girls chat about. It was fun.

Then, along came "the movie." Sigh. I begged to go see it, and Mom, against her better judgment took me. I remember watching it upside down with my ears covered. Oh, how I wish I hadn't begged.

I do take my family down the shore. Like I said, it's an irrational fear. I try to talk myself around it. I do go on the beach, I even go in the water. Last year I was in for a whole 45 minutes boogie-boarding, until my "shark meter" ratcheted up to throat level and I had to get out. I was proud of those 45 minutes. Like I said, it's irrational. And I know it. And I can play mind games with myself to sort-of overcome it because we love our annual vacation to Ocean City.

We love the boardwalk and going on the rides. The Double Shot is a favorite addition in recent years. The Wild Mouse was the first roller coaster I can ever remember riding and I had a blast taking my kids on it their first time. The water park, miniature golf and getting henna tattoos. Then of course there's Mack & Manco's pizza and Shriver's salt water taffy and Steel's fudge. Who can forget the fudge? Especially the samples they hand out at night. Frozen custard, lemonade, soft-serve ice cream, funnel cake and cotton candy. And, of course, one of my favorite haunts (well, two since they have two locations): the Atlantic Book Shop.

Ocean City has changed over the years, but not so much as to alter its charm. You can still get a great breakfast at The Chatterbox, or donuts on the boards during our morning bike ride. Dinner at Obidiah's or pizza delivery. Because Ocean City is such a great destination, I, in conjunction with the Atlantis Inn B&B in Ocean City (www.AtlantisInn.com), am offering a chance to win one of two OC beach getaway weekends - as well as another weekend at the Hibiscus House (www.HibiscusHouse.com) in West Palm Beach Florida. All information is on my website at: www.JudiFennell.com


About The Author:
Judi Fennell has had her nose in a book and her head in some celestial realm all her life, including those early years when her mom would exhort her to "get outside!" instead of watching Bewitched or I Dream of Jeannie on television. So she did--right into Dad's hammock with her Nancy Drew books.

These days she's more likely to have her nose in her laptop and her head (and the rest of her body) at her favorite bookstore, but she's still reading, whether it be her latest manuscript or friends' books.

A three-time finalist in online contests, Judi has enjoyed the reader feedback she's received and would love to hear what you think about her Mer series. Check out her website at www.JudiFennell.com for excerpts, reviews and fun pictures from reader and writer conferences, and the chance to "dive in" to her stories.

Leave a comment/question for Judi and your email addy and you'll be entered to have a chance at winning a copy of In Over Her Head. There will be one winner and contest is only open to those in the US and Canada.

STROKE OF GENIUS CONTEST

Want to see your name on the acknowledgment page of Emily Bryan's next book? Here's your chance! Emily is giving her readers a chance to name an important secondary character in her upcoming STROKE OF GENIUS. The winner will receive signed copies of Emily Bryan's entire backlist (including A CHRISTMAS BALL anthology, due out Sept 29th). PLUS you'll be mentioned on the acknowledgment page of STROKE OF GENIUS. The contest begins June 1st and entries close July 1st. For more information, visit http://www.emilybryan.com/



Grace Makepeace, an American heiress, is determined to marry a titled English gent, but her Back Bay bluntness wins her the title “Least Likely to Succeed.” When she takes flirting advice from the acknowledged artistic genius who’s engaged to sculpt a marble model of her hands, she garners the attentions of a duke.

A cynical, but brilliant artist, Crispin Hawke is a keen observer of the ton and enjoys the challenge of helping Grace beat them at their own game. But he begins to wish he was the object of her passion. The fun and games are just beginning when Grace takes his missing model’s place for a bust of Venus.

Congrat's To This Week's Winners

*Jane ~ HB UK editon of Desperate Duchess by Eloisa James

*booklover1335 ~ HB UK editon of Desperate Duchess by Eloisa James

*Maureen ~ HB UK editon of Desperate Duchess by Eloisa James

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

A Hint of Wicked by Jennifer Haymore

READ AN EXCERPT

The patterned red silk of Sophie’s dressing robe whispered over her skin, light and cool after the warm, heavy brocade she had worn to the party. She’d gone to check on the children, and finding them fast asleep, had kissed them goodnight, returned to her dressing room, and called her maid to undress her. Now she sat, finally alone at her table, drawing the pins from her coiffure one by one, watching in the oval-shaped gilded mirror as the tendrils of honey-brown hair fell away from her tight chignon.

She paused in mid-action as a sudden memory assailed her. Garrett standing behind her, removing her hairpins in the same methodical order, using his fingers to fan her hair over her shoulders. He watched her in the mirror with that stormy look in his blue eyes. The look that reminded her of crashing ocean waves in a storm. The look that said he wanted her.

Sophie curled her toes into the lush ivory strands of the carpet. Dropping the final hairpin on the glossy surface of the mahogany table, she clutched its edge and stared into the mirror, taking deep breaths to regain her composure.

The unbidden memories came less frequently now. She supposed that was natural after so many years.

She didn’t want to forget Garrett. At times, she welcomed the memories, coveted them. But not tonight. Tonight she wished only to think of Tristan, of his long, lean body, his disarming smile, his caresses. The way he’d slid into the mud today to hold her body against his, tight and comforting. The sheer desperation in his expression before he’d realized she was all right.

As if her thoughts summoned him, the door separating her dressing room from their bedchamber swung open. Swiping the back of her hand over her damp eyes, Sophie reached for her hairbrush. She watched in the mirror as Tristan closed the distance between them, sharp as ever in his snug gray trousers and embroidered waistcoat, the gold thread matching the color of his cravat. He’d untied the cravat, and it hung loose about his neck.

“That didn’t take long,” she murmured, smiling at him.

“I came as quickly as I could, love.” He grinned at her, revealing straight white teeth and the single dimple that always had the ability to melt her heart. “Got rid of Billingsly. Even tales of his Egyptian travels can’t entice me when I know you’re in our bedchamber…” a hint of wickedness quirked his lips and sparkled in his eyes in an expression he reserved for her alone, “…waiting.”

As she dragged the brush through her hair, Tristan rested his hands on her shoulders. Long-fingered and elegant, with blunt, clean fingernails, his hands weren’t the only part of him that hinted at his position in society. His face was aristocratic, with clean lines, sharp angles and shrewd, dark eyes. But his refined mannerisms and famed control proved he was of the higher orders. Though he may not have coveted Garrett’s legacy, he suited his new role as the Duke of Callahan.

“How’s your leg?”

She forced a smile. A nasty bruise had bloomed on her leg, but she was thankful. It could have been so much worse. “It’s all right. I scarcely feel it anymore.”

His smile faded as they locked gazes in the mirror. “Ah, Soph…” His voice trailed off, and he must have seen the residual grief in her expression, because the pain in his eyes suddenly reflected her own.

He squeezed her shoulders. “I miss him too, love. Every day.”

Tilting her head to glance up at him, she smiled sadly. Tristan was the one person in the world who understood her loss. He too had lost a spouse. Nancy had died giving birth to their son two years after Waterloo. Though Sophie knew he’d loved her, Tristan rarely spoke of Nancy.

Yet the loss of Garrett was different. Garrett had been gone longer, but he remained a solid presence in their lives—perhaps because they had retained hope for so long.

Tristan was patient with her melancholy. Most men would have despised her for continuing to love a dead man. Most men would have been jealous of her unwillingness to let go of her affection for him. But not Tristan. He knew how much she had loved Garrett, and he never tried to take that away from her.

“It’s just—nights like tonight—” Struggling to order her thoughts, she shrugged helplessly.

She never intended to make Tristan feel inferior, because he wasn’t. He was simply different. When she fell in love with Tristan, it seemed her heart swelled to twice its previous capacity to make room for him.

Still, more than anything, she feared hurting Tristan by clinging so desperately to her feelings for Garrett. If she lost him as she had lost Garrett… The thought was intolerable. If that happened, she wouldn’t be able to endure it.

“I know,” he murmured, as if reading her mind. His lips brushed against her hair. “I understand. I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

He rose to his full height. “Don’t be sorry, Soph.”

She set the brush on the table and stood, twining her arms around his neck. The linen of his cravat brushed against her skin as she pressed her cheek to his solid chest. He smelled like exotic spice, like the eastern countries he was so fond of. “I adore you,” she said. “You mean everything to me.”

His fingers sifted through her hair as he tilted her head to face him. He laughed, but the sound was ragged. “I can’t force you to forget him, Sophie. Hell, I can’t forget him. You know how strongly I cared for him. He was more than a brother to me.”

“Yes.” She tightened her arms around him. “Thank you.”

He nuzzled his face in her hair, his breath hot against her scalp. “We’ve come far, wouldn’t you say?”

Sophie nodded. “Yes.”

They’d come much farther than she ever would have imagined. Their wedding night had been difficult. She’d been shy and awkward, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was betraying Garrett’s memory. It was the first time for her since the day Garrett left with his regiment to fight at Waterloo.

But Garrett was gone. Tristan was her husband now, and in the past months, he’d earned her complete trust. In his arms, she’d exposed everything to him, from her life’s desires to her deepest and darkest fantasies. They shared a level of openness and communication she’d never thought to have with anyone.

“There was no need to rush up,” she said in order to change the subject, her voice muffled against his chest. “I would not have begrudged you talking with Mr. Billingsly. I know how you crave news of Egypt.”

“Not as much as I used to. I find myself perfectly content wherever you and the children are. Egypt seems more of a youthful fancy these days.”

His admission stole the breath from her lungs. Tristan was an adventurer, a traveler. His wanderlust had always been a mystery to her. She felt most comfortable at home, either here in Mayfair or at Callahan House in the north. While she’d waited patiently for Garrett’s infrequent trips home, Tristan had explored half the globe. China, India, Madagascar. Jamaica, Ireland, Italy, and America. When he married Nancy, he didn’t stop. Nancy always said good-naturedly that it was a miracle he’d managed to get her with child, he was gone so often.

He’d never visited Egypt, though. When they were children, an Egyptian adventure had been his dream.

She rubbed her cheek against his chest and sighed. “Perhaps I have domesticated you after all.”

A soft murmur of contentment was his only response. His body pressed against her in all the right places, hinting at the pleasure he could give, making her long for his firm touch. She slipped her hands from his neck to his shoulders. Muscles rippled beneath her fingertips, and keeping her fingers light, she skimmed lower, down his back to curve over his behind.

He stroked the slippery fabric of her robe and pulled her tight against him so his erection prodded her belly. When he spoke, his voice was husky in her ear. “Billingsly’s travels couldn’t hold my attention tonight. I kept thinking of you alone up here. Everything pales beside the promise of having you, love. Seeing you, touching you…taking you…”

The way he talked to her, the way he felt against her…there was nothing like it in the world. The blood ran heavy and slow through Sophie’s veins, warming her, making her muscles languid. Her breaths came in shallow little pants. As hard as pebbles, her nipples pushed against the silk of her dressing gown. She sensed the change inside her body as it heated and opened, eager for his invasion.

Sophie reached between them and untied the belt on her robe. The silk slipped off her shoulders and pooled on the floor, leaving her bare. Cool air brushed over her sensitive skin, raising gooseflesh on her legs and arms.

She ran her lips along his jaw, speaking softly. “Make love to me, Tristan.”




I've got 5 copies to give away, many thanks to Anna at Hatchette for the books!!

So This Is What You Have To Do To Get An Entry!
1. Leave a Comment +1
2. Follow Me +1 already a follower +2
3. Post this contest on your blog (can be on your sidebar or a post) +3

PLEASE put your email in your comments or no entry (no exceptions).
This is for the USA and canada only please and no Po Boxes (publishers rule)!
Winners will be announced on June 7th!

Eloisa James talks about American Idol and her new book "This Duchess of Mine"

I’m writing this blog in the final week of American Idol… and by the time this blog goes up, it will all be decided. For those of you who are skipping this American songfest, the final two are particularly fascinating this year:

Adam is a bad boy, if I ever saw one. On occasion, he wears black fingernail polish and eyeliner. He prowls the stage with an aggressive hip thrust that reminds me of young Elvis, but he sports a dissolute look that’s more along the lines of a young Mick Jagger.

If Adam is a devil, Kris is an angel. He has a tremendously sweet smile and lovely crinkles by his eyes. His voice is pure and clear, and when he sits down on a stool to play the guitar, each girl standing at the edge of the stage believes he’s singing just for her.



And they both have gorgeous voices.

So who will win? I keep thinking of it as the kind of archetypal battle that gets played out in romance all the time. Bad boy versus the kind of boy you’d actually expect to do his share of washing the dishes.

The truth is that just as I’m rooting for Adam, I generally write about bad boys. The whole dissolute look works for me (I can’t help thinking that Adam would play a mean Duke of Villiers). But the world isn’t made up just of young Micks. In my current release, This Duchess of Mine, the Duke of Beaumont is no Mick Jagger. He’s a thoroughly decent, fantastically intelligent, gentleman. In all senses of that word.



All my romance writer alarm bells started ringing when I began writing This Duchess. How was I to make sure readers understood Elijah had that hard driving level of testosterone that must accompany decency in order to create a romance hero?

I tackled the problem head on: by putting my heroine in danger. Elijah has to ride breakneck across London through ferocious rioting to save her. He comes to a barricade, higher than his head. What’s a hero to do?

Ptolemy leapt up, powerful rear legs throwing them into the nigh air. For a moment it seemed as if the snarled furniture was rushing toward them instead of the other way around; Elijah caught sight of a brass pole sticking out at an angel that could impale a horse’s stomach. And then they were clearing the furniture, coming down with a hard jolt, a rush of wine, and a sharp snap of his teeth…

My editor said it was one of the best openings she’d read in a decade. Well – It had to be. The decent hero must transform into the tiger when his wife was in danger.

Think about your favorite heroes for a moment – which one isn’t a bad boy? And how exactly did the author turn Kris into Adam, give the angel a dusting of devilishness?

This Duchess of Mine

Wedding bells celebrating the arranged marriage between the lovely Duchess of Beaumont and her staid, imperturbable duke had scarcely fallen silent when a shocking discovery sent Jemma running from the ducal mansion. For the next nine years she cavorted abroad, creating one delicious scandal after another (if one is to believe the rumors).

Elijah, Duke of Beaumont, did believe those rumors.

But the handsome duke needs an heir, so he summons his seductive wife home. Jemma laughs at Elijah’s cool eyes and icy heart—but to her secret shock, she doesn’t share his feelings. In fact, she wants the impossible: her husband’s heart at her feet.

But what manner of seduction will make a man fall desperately in love…with his own wife?

Leave a comment and your email addy and you'll be entered to have a chance at winning one of 3 signed HB UK editons of Desperate Duchesses being given away.

Congrat's To This Week's Winners

*Book Spot ~ Wondrous Strange by Lesley Livingston

*housemouse88 ~ Not Quite a Husband by Sherry Thomas

*My Blog 2.0 (Dottie) ~ Goodie Bag from Tawny Weber

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

To Beguile A Beast by Elizabeth Hoyt Giveaway

TO BEGUILE A BEAST
By Elizabeth Hoyt

CAN A WOUNDED BEAST . . .
Reclusive Sir Alistair Munroe has hidden in his castle ever since returning from the Colonies, scarred inside and out. But when a mysterious beauty arrives at his door, the passions he's kept suppressed for years begin to awaken.

TRUST A BEAUTY WITH A PAST . . .
Running from past mistakes has taken legendary beauty Helen Fitzwilliam from the luxury of the ton to a crumbling Scottish castle . . . and a job as a housekeeper. Yet Helen is determined to start a new life and she won't let dust-or a beast of a man-scare her away.

TO TAME HIS MOST SECRET DESIRES?
Beneath Helen's beautiful façade, Alistair finds a courageous and sensual woman. A woman who doesn't back away from his surliness-or his scars. But just as he begins to believe in true love, Helen's secret past threatens to tear them apart. Now both Beast and Beauty must fight for the one thing neither believed they could ever find--a happy ever after.

Mass Market Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: Forever (May 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446406937
ISBN-13: 978-0446406932

I've got 5 copies to give away, many thanks to Anna at Hatchette for the books!!

So This Is What You Have To Do To Get An Entry!
1. Leave a Comment +1
2. Follow Me +1 already a follower +2
3. Post this contest on your blog (can be on your sidebar or a post) +3

PLEASE put your email in your comments or no entry (no exceptions).
This is for the USA and canada only please and no Po Boxes (publishers rule)!
Winners will be announced on June 7th!

One Deadly Sin by Annie Solomon Giveaway

ONE DEADLY SIN

by Annie Solomon

COMING HOME IS MURDER...

Revenge. Edie Swann has hungered for it since she fled her hometown as a little girl. Now she's returned, ready for payback. Armed with a list of names, she leaves each one a chilling sign that they have blood on their hands. Her father's blood. What happens next turns her own blood cold: one by one, the men she's targeted start dying.

Sheriff Holt Drennen knows Edie is hiding something. She has a haunted look in her eyes and a defiant spirit, yet he can't believe she's a murderer. As the body count rises and all evidence points to Edie, Holt is torn between the town he's sworn to protect and the woman he's come to desire. But nothing is what it seems. Long buried secrets begin to surface, and a killer won't be satisfied until the sins of the past are paid in full--this time with Edie's blood.

Mass Market Paperback: 416 pages
Publisher: Forever (May 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446178446
ISBN-13: 978-0446178440

I've got 5 copies to give away, many thanks to Anna at Hatchette for the books!!

So This Is What You Have To Do To Get An Entry!
1. Leave a Comment +1
2. Follow Me +1 already a follower +2
3. Post this contest on your blog (can be on your sidebar or a post) +3

PLEASE put your email in your comments or no entry (no exceptions).
This is for the USA and canada only please and no Po Boxes (publishers rule)!
Winners will be announced on June 7th!

Bound to Please by Lilli Feisty Giveaway

BOUND TO PLEASE
By Lilli Feisty

FROM FANTASY TO ECSTASY

Ruby Scott is a beautiful, quiet event planner who leads an oh-so-respectable life. Yet the things that go on in her secret fantasies are anything but. She has every intention of keeping her hidden desires under wraps-until she meets a gorgeous, hard-muscled man ten years her junior. Mark St. Crow is a gifted, up-and-coming musician who collects erotic art and loves to "play" women as much as his piano. After one night of uninhibited passion, Ruby realizes there's no turning back. But as she surrenders to her deepest needs and lets Mark control every forbidden thrill, her passion for him builds. Can the wild, intoxicating nights they share lead to a love that will last forever?

Mass Market Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: Forever (May 1, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0446541923
ISBN-13: 978-0446541923

I've got 5 copies to give away, many thanks to Anna at Hatchette for the books!!

So This Is What You Have To Do To Get An Entry!
1. Leave a Comment +1
2. Follow Me +1 already a follower +2
3. Post this contest on your blog (can be on your sidebar or a post) +3

PLEASE put your email in your comments or no entry (no exceptions).
This is for the USA and canada only please and no Po Boxes (publishers rule)!
Winners will be announced on June 7th!

Wondrous Strange by Lesley Livingston

Thanks so much Lesley for blogging with us today and doing this interview. Your book was truly enchanting.

Terra: What made you choose Shakespeare for a back drop to your story?

Lesley: I’ve always had an affinity for the bard and, being a Shakespearean actor myself, it just seemed sort of a natural fit! Of course, Shakespeare’s characterizations of the Faeries in A Midsummer Night’s Dream is just so interesting – they are at times almost more human than the humans in the play, with their passions and their petty jealousies and mischief-making. And I thought it would be a lot fun to let them loose in a modern setting and see what happens.

Terra: How do you think this story will affect the way teens perceive English Literature and was it your intention to try and create more interest in this genre’ among the teen population?

Lesley: I hope WONDROUS STRANGE will have the effect of maybe driving some readers (teens and adults) to discover the fun in the classics. Because there is a lot of fun in those stories! I’ve already had some readers tell me that they’ve gone and read MSND after reading my book and that is enormously gratifying to me. I’m not sure that it was exactly my primary purpose in telling this story but it’s certainly a nice bit of chain reaction!

Terra: I have to say I found this wonderfully enchanting and it gave me an easier understanding of what Mid Summer Night’s Dream could portray. I know the original story that Shakespeare wrote is supposed to be magical but I think you took it a step further. Would you list the ten most important reasons that would make us want to run out and grab this book!

Lesley: Aw – thank you!! That’s really lovely of you to say! Let’s see… ten reasons… okay – number one is my heroine Kelley. I kind of adore her – she’s feisty and funny and, even in the face of impossibilities, she’s not willing to give up or give in. Number 2 is my hero, Sonny. I definitely adore him – not only is he handsome and gallant, he’s also thrown into a situation where he’s really forced to face a vulnerability that he’s never allowed himself to acknowledge before. He’s also pretty kick-butt in a fight! Okay so – number three would be the action scenes (I love a good action scene!). Number four would be the romance element (I’m a sucker for unexpected romantic moments!). Number five would be Bob (you’ll just have to read the book to find out about Bob!). Number six has to do with a bathtub with an unexpected occupant. Number 7 is, as you say, the magic – I love taking a familiar setting or situation and turning it into something that shimmers if you look at it in just the right light. Number eight is Maddox (Sonny’s best friend) and the Janus Guard, all of whom are pretty kick-butt in their own right. Number eight is Tyff, Kelley’s high-strung roommate – I loved writing her scenes because she’s funny and sarcastic and surprising. Number nine is the theatrical backdrop, because theatre has its own special kind of magic – as Kelley discovers. Number ten… Central Park – definitely one of the most magical, romantic places on Earth.

Terra: What would you say is your number one main profession and what influence does that have on your writing “Wondrous Strange”?

Lesley: Well, I’d have to say that my number one profession is that of a storyteller! Being an actor, especially a stage actor – and one that gets to work on a regular basis with some of the greatest material ever written – has really infused my own sense of story and language. You can’t study Shakespeare for as long as I have and not be affected by it. And, of course, even the title of WONDROUS STRANGE is a phrase used twice by Shakespeare – once in Hamlet and once in Midsummer – and it just so perfectly describes the situation that Kelley and Sonny find themselves in.

Terra: With the way the economy is heading today how important do you think it is to make sure drama, music and the arts are kept in our school systems for teens and young adults? Not only is it important for teens/young adults to learn to express themselves but to also teach them more of what was and is important in so many cultures, don‘t you think?

Lesley: I think it’s enormously important. Teens need creative outlets so that they can develop the faculties that make them a driving force in creating positive change in the world as they become adults. Societies stagnate without the arts. Human beings are, by our very nature, artists. We’ve – essentially – been telling stories around campfires and painting pictures on cave walls for our entire history. To quash those impulses rather than nurture them is not only self-defeating but, I think perilous. A bored human is a dangerous human. And also, as you say, the keys to creating richer, more rewarding societies lie in the stories of our past.

Terra: What would you say to that shy teen, young adult or adult to encourage them to follow their dreams in the field of the arts?

Lesley: I would say – I was that shy teen. And I managed to get to this place. You don’t have to be an extrovert, you don’t have to be the life of the party, you don’t need to scream at the world to look at you. What you do need to do is – as a very close friend of mine is always saying – “Stick to your knitting”. Whatever you want out of life, out of your art, give yourself to it wholly and completely. Learn. Be open. Be willing. Face the tiny, fearful voice inside and tell it to shut up (it won’t always agree or obey, but eventually – if you do it often enough – it will start to keep its mouth shut). Find out everything you can about the field you want to commit yourself to – and then do it. Commit.

Terra: Kelley our heroine has no idea of who or what she is even though she is pulled to the theatre with a magical allure that is almost overpowering. How much of this is because of her age and need to prove herself in comparison to her birthright pulling her?

Lesley: I think the two things dovetail in Kelley’s situation. She’s at the age where stuff – external stuff – does start to really have an impact on your life. And with all that she’s got going on internally as well, she really is at the point where magic is a definite possibility for her.

Terra: Okay this is killing me, will there be a second book to accompany this one and will we ever find out what happens between Kelley and Sonny? Will they ever be able to unite or will they be left forever longing?

Lesley: Hee! Well… Book 2 is actually done and gone to copy-edits! It will be out late this year. It is called DARKLIGHT and, I have to say, I’m very excited about it! I’m now working on Book 3. Both books are the direct continuation of Sonny and Kelley’s story. As to how things wind up? You’ll just have to read on to find out! *evil grin*

Terra: True love always has strength, always wins out over evil, has an allure that is overpowering and pure. Do you think this is what Shakespeare is trying to convey to us with his tales of love and woe? Is this what you want to convey to teens and young adults with your story of Wondrous Strange?

Lesley: I think that true love does really have enormous strength. I’m not so sure that it always wins out over evil in the end – but I do think that what Shakespeare (and me too, I guess) tries to convey is that it’s always worth a shot. Always – even in the face of overwhelming odds. Love is such a pure, potent force. It can both create and destroy and should be handled and nurtured with great care because it is something very precious and unique to the human condition.

Terra: How important do you think Literature is to us as a human race?

Lesley: Well, as I said, I think we’re born storytellers. I think literature is a great gift. It is the sum of who we are as a species. It’s also, at its most basic level, just plain fun! That’s one thing that I do wish people would remember sometimes a little more often. Literature is storytelling and stories are entertainment. Sure, they can teach and enlighten and enrich, but they should always – first and foremost – entertain. That’s what I try to do. Anything else… is gravy.

Thank you SO much for this. These were terrific questions and I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.




Kelley Winslow is living her dream. Seventeen years old, she has moved to New York City and started work with a theatre company. Sure, she's an understudy for the Avalon Players, a third-tier repertory company so far off-Broadway it might as well be in Hoboken, but things are looking up—the lead has broken her ankle and Kelley's about to step into the role of Titania the Fairy Queen in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Faeries are far more real than Kelley thinks, though, and a chance encounter in Central Park with a handsome young man will plunge her into an adventure she could never have imagined.

For Sonny Flannery, one of the Janus Guards charged by Auberon, the King of Winter, with watching over the gate into the lands of Faerie that lies within Central Park, the pretty young actress presents an enigma. Strong and willful, she sparks against his senses like a firecracker and he can't get her out of his mind. As Hallowe'en approaches and the Samhain Gate opens, Sonny and Kelley find themselves drawn to each other—and into a terrible plot that could spell disaster for both New York and Faerie alike.

This debut novel that puts a fresh new spin on classic fairy lore. Wondrous Strange blends a gripping plot with fully-believable characters, fascinating ideas and just the right amount of romance to create a story that is vivid, thrilling and engaging. Readers of Herbie Brennan, Holly Black and Melissa Marr will find a new favorite in Lesley Livingston.

I have a copy here of Wondrous Strange by Lesley Livingston that will be given away to one lucky commentor who leaves Lesley a comment/question and your email addy. (No email addy, no chance to win!)

Not Quite a Husband by Sherry Thomas

The original inspiration for Not Quite a Husband comes from the 2007 movie The Painted Veil, starring Naomi Watts and Edward Norton. The story of The Painted Veil is that of a marriage in real trouble, a couple very much estranged who travel to the dangerous interior of China at a time of cholera outbreaks. It is one of the best romantic dramas I have ever seen—with complex characters, dark emotional conflict, great sexual tension, and a gorgeous backdrop. And I loved, loved, loved it up until the very end when SPOILER....the hero dies!....END SPOILER. I came out of the movie theater completely shattered, and on the spot decided that I would write my own version of the story and give it the happy ending it so deeply merited.

My version tells the story of Leo Marsden and Bryony Asquith, a couple whose marriage was in so much trouble it has already been annulled. It is summer 1897, three years after the dissolution of their marriage. Bryony is living in the most rugged, remote part of British India. And one day, without any warning, Leo turns up at her doorstep: Her father is gravely ill; Leo will escort her back to England.

Thus begins the most perilous journey of their lives. And not just because unbeknownst to them, a rebellion brews, an uprising that would take the British Empire entirely by surprise, but because many, many secrets of the heart will be revealed as they fight their way out of the mountains. And in the end, there is nothing quite so dangerous as secrets of the heart.

Sherry will give away a copy of her new book, "Not Quite a Husband", to one lucky commentor. Make sure and leave your email addy or you will not be eligible!



Excerpt

Bryony felt it in her stomach, the keen pitch of interest around the table, including her own—she had no idea what he could possibly say. But he was in no hurry to gratify the collective curiosity. With great leisure, he finished the remainder of the cake on his plate.

He reached for his glass of whiskey. Instead of lifting it, however, he only turned it a few degrees by its base. For the first time, she noticed the condition of his hands. When they'd been married, he'd had very fine, gentlemanly hands. Today his fingers were rough and chapped, with faint cuts and bruises along his knuckles.

But then he smiled at his audience and she forgot all about his hands, for it was a smile that conquered, as sweet as it was merciless. With that smile came a light in his eyes, an irresistible light: This was the Leo who had taken London by storm.

“It's a long story,” he said, taking a sip of Mr. Braeburn's whiskey, “so I will tell only a very condensed version of it.

“Mrs. Marsden and I grew up on adjacent properties in the Cotswold. But the Cotswold, as fair as it is, plays almost no part in this tale. Because it was not in green, unpolluted countryside that we fell in love, but in gray, sooty London. Love at first sight, of course, a hunger of the soul that could not be denied.”

Bryony trembled somewhere inside. This was not their story, but her story, the determined spinster felled by the magnificence and charm of the gorgeous young thing.

He glanced at her. “You were the moon of my existence; your moods dictated the tides of my heart.”

The tides of her own heart surged at his words, even though they were nothing but lies.

“I don't believe I had moods,” she said severely.

“No, of course not. ‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate’—and the tides of my heart only rose ever higher to crash against the levee of my self-possession. For I loved you most intemperately, my dear Mrs. Marsden.”

Beside her Mrs. Braeburn blushed, her eyes bright. Bryony was furious at Leo, for his facile words, and even more so at herself, for the painful pleasure that trickled into her drop by drop.

“Our wedding was the happiest hour of my life, that we would belong to each other always. The church was filled with hyacinths and camellias, and the crowd overflowed to the steps, for the whole world wanted to see who had at last captured your lofty heart.

“But alas, I had not truly captured your lofty heart, had I? I but held it for a moment. And soon there was trouble in Paradise. One day, you said to me, 'My hair has turned white. It is a sign I must wander far and away. Find me then, if you can. Then and only then will I be yours again.'”

Her heart pounded. How did he know that she had indeed taken her hair turning white as a sign that the time had come for her to leave? No, he did not know. He'd made it up out of whole cloth. But even Mr. Braeburn was now spellbound by this ridiculous tale. She had forgotten how hypnotic Leo could be, when he wished to beguile a crowd.

“And so I have searched. From the poles to the tropics, from the shores of China to the shores of Nova Scotia. Our wedding photograph in hand, I have asked crowds pale, red, brown, and black, 'I seek an English lady doctor, my lost beloved. Have you seen her?’”

He looked into her eyes, and she could not look away, as mesmerized as the hapless Braeburns.

“And now I have found you at last.” He raised his glass. “To the beginning of the rest of our lives.”

Going Down Hard by Tawny Weber

I recently blogged on the Romance Bandits about the fun and infamy of the bridesmaids dress. You know the one, that costs-more-than-a-car-payment? The only wear once because, no, even if you alter it to cocktail length, it’s still a generic and often unflattering dress. So, really, one would think that being a bridesmaid meant the worst you walked away with was a questionable dress and a lighter wallet, right?

Except in GOING DOWN HARD, Sierra Donovan ended up with a lot more that, thanks to her best friend’s wedding. Or should I say, wedding that wasn’t. Sierra was willing to do anything for Belle... even wear bubble gum pink and flirt with the sexiest cowboy who’d ever made her crazy-aware of her own femininity. But when Belle’s wedding fell apart, Sierra stuck by her friend’s side, even though it meant turning her back on Reece Carter.

Then, six years later, Belle and her abandoned groom, Mitch Carter, reconnected, bringing the groom’s cowboy cousin back into Sierra’s life. This time, though, she’s smart enough to know that he’s the worst guy in the world for her. Well, almost the worst – given that she’s currently being stalked by some pervert via photo shopped pictures. When the stalking threatens not only Sierra’s life, but also her business, she finally gives in to Belle’s urging and agrees to let Reece step in as bodyguard. But she’s not sure which is worse... the threat to her life. Or the threat to her heart.

Tawny will be giving out a Goody bag filled with fun stuff to one lucky commenter who comments on her article or excerpt and leaves their email addy. (No Email Addy, No Entry!!!)


GOING DOWN HARD Except:

Reece Carter.

Long, lean and sexy.

Heat flashed in Sierra’s belly as she faced the only guy to scare the hell out of her.

Not only because he was the sexiest man on earth and made her want to strip him naked, then lick her way up his body. That she could deal with.

What scared her was that she was a savvy, strong and opinionated woman. But when she saw Reece, she instantly wanted to become sweet, timid and compliant.

So she spent all her time around him being a hard-ass bitch, just to prove she could.
Pathetic.

Her breath quickened as she took in the delicious width of his shoulders encased in a black tee-shirt. She wanted to trace her palm over the fabric where it curved lovingly over his big, muscled biceps. She wanted to press her cheek to the hard lines of his torso and run her fingers down the slim, denim covered hips. The man had a body like a swimmer, with the tightest ass she’d ever seen grace denim.
He made her mouth water.

He had ever since she’d seen him for the first time six years ago at Belle and Mitch’s first wedding rehearsal dinner and fell into instant lust. Then he’d opened his mouth and they’d fallen into instant verbal foreplay. Nobody could turn her on with a few words like Reece could. Unfortunately, nobody could make her lose control with just a few words like he could, either. Because it hadn’t taken more than a half-dozen exchanges for her to realize he was too much of a threat to her. To her independence, to her self-control. That hadn’t stopped her from getting hot and wild with him on the dance floor, though.

Pitiful that she’d been saved from the biggest mistake of her life by her friend dumping Mitch at the altar. She’d used loyalty as her reason to turn down all of Reece’s advances after that. Not that there’d been too many. A few weeks of phone calls, one or two in-person date requests. Then poof, he went away. Just like she’d wanted.

A shame, really. He was so delicious to look at. His white Stetson cast a shadow over wavy black hair, midnight-blue eyes and a chiseled jaw. All-masculine hotness.
Their gazes met. In his eyes she saw both desire and assessment. The unspoken message that he wanted her like hell, but he didn’t like it.

Sierra’s shoulders stiffened at the judgment. But that didn’t stop her body from going into instant lust mode. For one brief second she wished the picture of her face pasted on the woman using the sex swing could be real if Reece was the guy she’d been swinging with.

Then he opened his mouth and, as usual, ruined it all.

“I hear you’re doing a little modeling on the side,” he teased in his slow, easy drawl.

Telling herself it was fury and not embarrassment, Sierra swung around on the stool to glare at Belle. Unrepentant, her friend just shrugged and topped off her half-full margarita. “I thought we could ask Reece’s thoughts. You know, get a little advice. Maybe some help.”

“I don’t need help,” Sierra claimed, her teeth gritted together as she stretched her mouth into a fake smile.

“If you need the police, you need help,” Reece said easily.

“I didn’t need the police,” Sierra returned precisely. She hated that whenever she was around Reece she felt the need to argue. And win. The need to win was almost overwhelming. But their verbal sparring was like an addictive foreplay to her. Every time they went up against each other, she got turned on, insanely hot for him. No. Not smart. She needed to stay away from the arguing.

“If you wanted to do a sex pictorial you should have given me a call,” Reece said, patting her shoulder to let her know he was teasing before reaching across her to snag himself a chip and a scoop of guacamole. Sierra’s first reaction was to pull back so she couldn’t feel the heat of his arm across her shoulder. But she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Even if the look in his eyes told her he knew.
“There is the one shot with a goat,” she returned, determined to hold her own. “It did remind me of you.”

“Horny?”

“Knock-kneed,” Sierra delivered with a wicked smile.

The Scot and I by Elizabeth Thornton

“A change is as good as a holiday.” Scottish Proverb

After publishing twenty-four novels and two novellas in the Regency era, I decided I needed a change, something to energize my muse. So I moved over to the age of Queen Victoria. What a difference! The people in my stories can now travel by train, use telephones, send telegrams, take photographs. Things are changing rapidly. Women are beginning to come into their own.

And just to keep me on my toes, I added another element, a touch of the paranormal.

The Scot and I is the second book in my three part series on Scottish psychics and was a sheer indulgence to write because it’s set in my own back yard, Aberdeen and the Highlands of Deeside. It is here that Queen Victoria and her husband bought an estate and turned Balmoral Castle into their summer residence. The royals still use it to this day.

I was there, in the ballroom, last summer—along with a horde of other tourists—and my imagination saw a different scene entirely. In my mind’s eye, I saw Queen Victoria descending the stairs from the gallery at a reception for the local gentry. I heard a gun going off, felt the panic of the queen’s guests as they dashed for the exits, and saw one of the queen’s bodyguards, special agent, Alex Hepburn, chase down a blond woman who, he thinks, has tried to assassinate the queen.

And from that one scene, I constructed my book, scene by scene, character by character, line by line. Then I had to find a plot.

It’s not the plot that captures my interest, though. It’s the romance that turns me on. Mahri, the blond, and Alex begin as enemies. Their loyalties divide them. Besides all that, they’re both lone wolves, both afraid of the pain that loving another can bring. Scene by scene, their prejudices are gradually demolished.

The Scot and I will be in stores June 2/09. Log onto my website to read more about Alex and Mahri (and Deeside) and enter my The Scot and I contest (http://www.elizabeththornton.com/contest.html).

The Runaway McBride, the first book in the series, is still available and is a love story about second chances. It is set in the London of Queen Victoria. I love London almost as much as I love Deeside. You’ll find more about London on my website, too.

So, over to you. When you feel the need for a change in what you are reading, what do you reach for? What turns you on—the plot or the romance? Any suggestions?



EXCERPT FROM:
The Scot and I
by Elizabeth Thornton
ISBN: 978-0-425-22832-6
Publisher: Berkley Publishing
Pub. date: June 2009

Balmoral Castle, July 1885

The moment he set eyes on her, Alex knew that this woman was going to be trouble. Though she was pretty enough and trim enough to catch the eye of any red-blooded male, that was not the kind of trouble he had in mind. He was thinking about the case he was working on, wondering if she could be the one.

It was the blond hair that made her stand out. In this corner of the Highlands of Deeside, the natives were mostly dark haired Celts like himself. This young woman had the look of an English rose. He was sure that her eyes would be blue.

She turned her head quickly, as though she realized that someone was studying her, and their eyes brushed and held. In the split second before she tore her gaze from his, he felt it, a ripple of recognition, like a tiny electric current passing through his brain. Strange when he knew that he had never met the woman.

Watch her, Hepburn, he told himself.

After watching her wander among the assembled guests as though she were looking for a friend, Alex dismissed her from his mind. She seemed harmless enough. Besides, it wasn’t a woman he was looking for but a man. Ca bheil sibh, Mac an diaboil? Where are you, son of the devil?

A voice at his elbow said softly, “Her Majesty is about to make her entrance. What happens now?” The speaker was Alex’s brother, Gavin. Though the resemblance between them was striking, Gavin’s manner and expression possessed a charm that was entirely lacking in Alex.

“Now we wait,” Alex responded.

His gaze traveled the crush of guests in the castle’s ballroom, noting that the cream of Scotland’s Highland society had come to pay its respects to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. There would be no dancing at this reception. Since her husband’s death, the queen had retired into semi-obscurity. Frivolity was now frowned upon.

A silence fell as the doors to the queen’s gallery opened and Her Majesty entered, flanked by her kilted guard of honor. Alex had positioned himself to watch the guests. He was scanning faces, seeking out anything and everything that struck him as odd. He hoped that his counterpart on the other side was not as vigilant because he’d soon deduce that this trumped-up drama was a lie, a carefully choreographed trap to ensnare a traitor.

The “queen” was not the queen but only someone who resembled her; the ‘footmen” in their dark green coats and tartan sashes were not footmen but police officers. He was not part of the official operation, but worked alone and reported only to his section chief, Commander Durward, and in his absence, as now, to Dickens, the local man in charge of security.

Gavin had no part in the operation. He was one of the guests, but he’d known that something was up when his elder brother had arrived at the family’s fishing and hunting lodge the week before. They expected trouble at the queen’s reception, Alex had told him. He’d also told Gavin to keep his mouth shut and his eyes open, and that was the only part Alex would allow him to play. At the moment, Gavin was weaving in and out of the guests, doing much the same as Alex was.

As the queen and her escort began to process slowly down the aisle that her aides had cleared for her, every head was lowered. The ladies skirts rustled as they made their curtsies. Alex’s bow was perfunctory. When he looked up he saw the blond haired woman moving quickly toward him. The thought had hardly registered when she raised a revolver that had been concealed in the folds of her skirts and pulled the trigger. He heard the deafening report of the gun going off, felt the whizz of the bullet as it missed him by a hair, heard the groan of someone behind him who had been hit, then he braced himself as the crush of screaming guests surged and ebbed like waves on an angry sea. It was a relief to see that the queen’s guard had closed ranks around “Her Majesty” and were hustling her look-alike up the gallery stairs and out of the reception area. When a second shot rang out, however, and hit the chandelier overhead, making it teeter alarmingly, the panicked crowd rushed for the set of French doors giving on to the gardens. The “footmen” could do nothing to hold them back.

Alex scanned the pulsating wave of people forcing their way out. There was nary a sign of the woman with blond hair.

“Gavin,” he shouted above the din, “look for a woman with blond hair. Don’t let her get away.” He gestured to the exit he thought she would have made for.

Gavin nodded and pushed his way through the crowd.

Muttering a furious curse, Alex went down on bended knee to tend to the wounded man. He was younger than Gavin by a year or two and his face was vivid with color. “Did you see that?” the young man demanded. “Someone tried to murder me!”

The bullet had lodged in his arm, just below the elbow, and though the wound was bleeding profusely, he did not appear to be in any danger. After fishing in his pocket for his handkerchief, Alex folded it into a pad and told the young man to use it to stem the flow of blood.

He was beside himself with fury. He’d misjudged the scheming bitch. He’d been confident that, even if she were the assassin—and it didn’t seem likely that a woman would be up to the job—she wasn’t in a position to get off a clear shot at the queen. It had never occurred to him that he would be her target. And he had no doubt that it was he and not the man whom she’d accidentally shot. With him out of the way, she’d have a clear shot at her real target. That bullet had missed him by a hair. It was a miracle he was still breathing.

A moment or two later, breathless from his exertions, Gavin returned. In his hand, he held a blond wig. “I found this on the terrace,” he said. “It’s possible that she’s one of the guests the footmen are rounding up for questioning, or she may be panicked and making for the river.”

“She won’t be.” She was too cool and too clever not to have a well thought out escape route in place. He got up, helped the wounded man to rise and, taking the wig from Gavin, stuffed it into his pocket. “Get this gentleman—what is your name, by the way?”

“Ramsey.” The young man grimaced in pain. “Ronald Ramsey.”

“Get Mr. Ramsey medical attention, then meet me in the courtyard.”

“Lean on my arm, Mr. Ramsey,” said Gavin soothingly. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Gavin Hepburn and the gentleman you just met, he of few words, and all of them orders, is my brother, Alex. We are the Hepburns of Feughside. Are you visiting in the area? I ask because I don’t recognize your face.”

As Gavin led Ramsey away, Alex strode for the exit. He admired his brother’s tactics. Gavin might appear to be engaged in a casual conversation, but he was, in effect, getting the man’s statement. There would be many statements taken tonight, and many frayed tempers before these exalted guests could get to their beds.

On the terrace, he cleared his mind and took a moment to study the lie of the land. In the Highlands, the sun set early. Off to his left, he could see the sun’s rosy rim as it disappeared behind the peaks of the Cairngorms. In front of him was the path to the river. A forest of trees obscured the view as did the forest of guests who were now being herded back into the castle.

He closed his eyes and shut off the active part of his brain.

All his senses were humming, but the one sense that might be of use to him, his sixth sense, had obviously dozed off.

His sixth sense. It wasn’t a joke. It was a legacy from his granny, the celebrated Witch of Drumore, as the superstitious country folk called her. Much good it had done him. He couldn’t read minds or hear voices. The best he could say about it was that it sometimes pointed him in the right direction. But when he needed it most, such as now, it would desert him like a fickle woman.

Where was the wench? How did she know that he was the one to take down before trying for the queen? He was supposed to be a secret service agent, for God’s sake. He was supposed to blend in with the crowd. But more important than any of that was where was the woman now?

He dug in his coat pocket, produced the blond wig and crushed it between his fingers. He felt it again, a ripple of recognition, like a tiny electric current, passing through his brain. He rubbed it against his cheek and the current became stronger, more compelling.

His dark brows snapped together as he tried to recall every small detail of the woman who had bested him at his own game.

Average height. Delicately sculpted features. A slender figure set off by a gown that wasn’t showy but was suitable for the occasion, a gray-blue silk, as he remembered. Her eyes were blue . . . no, not blue, but gray, as gray and clear as the waters of the river Dee on a fine day. She baffled him and intrigued him. Why had he singled her out? Was it his training as an agent? Was it his sixth sense? Or was it something else? And why hadn’t he acted on his first impression, that this woman was going to be trouble?

He put the wig to his face and inhaled.

A picture formed in his mind. He saw a young man, a boy really, in tartan trews and bonnet, kneeling beside a spring of crystal clear water. The boy scooped some water into his cupped hands and drank greedily. Behind him rose the peaks of the Cairngorms.

That was better. His sixth sense was working just as it should. He couldn’t read minds or get premonitions from his dreams as others with his gift were able to do. His gift was most potent when he touched objects that belonged to his quarry. And that was what the blond woman was now, his quarry. The boy in his vision was surely her accomplice.

“So there you are.” Gavin’s voice came to him as though from a great distance. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

The picture in Alex’s mind instantly dissolved. He thrust the wig into his pocket. “I was lost in thought. Did you find anything out from Mr. Ramsey?”

“Damn little. He says that he didn’t see anything. He’s quite shaken up. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? All he wants is to go home and forget the whole thing.”:

“He must have seen the woman with the gun.”

“He insists that he didn’t see anything. One moment he was looking at the queen and the next, a bullet slammed into his arm.” Gavin propped one elbow on the parapet and peered up at Alex. “Are you sure it was a woman?” When Alex turned his head and gave his brother a straight look, Gavin shrugged. “Sorry I asked. Of course, you’re sure. It’s just that it seems criminal to me to involve a woman in this kind of dirty work.”

“Gavin, ” Alex’s voice was pleasantly modulated, “they are criminals, traitors, in fact, and the woman must be one of their prime operators. She is bold, brave and resourceful. I’ll tell you something else. She meant to kill me, not Mr. Ramsey. With me out of the way, she’d have a clear shot at the queen.”

Gavin stood stock still. Finally, he said irritably, “What’s going on, Alex? You’ve told me very little. I’m picking things up in dribs and drabs.”

“I’ve told you as much as you need to know and only because you’re my brother and I trust you implicitly.”

“You’re not acting as though you trust me.”

Their eyes met, one seer of Grampian to another. Gavin’s gift was to put ideas into his subjects’ minds. Alex knew that if he wasn’t careful, he would be blabbing like a baby, telling Gavin all his secrets.

Smiling a little, Alex replied, “I’m up to all your tricks, brother, so don’t even think of meddling with my mind. I trust you more than I trust anyone. Let that suffice.”

“Don’t you trust your colleagues?”

“Up to a point.” He was becoming irritable, and when Gavin opened his mouth to say more, Alex cut him off. “Look I shouldn’t be telling you anything. You’re not in the game. All I’ll say is that someone took a pot shot at me tonight and I mean to find her.”

These somber words were followed by a long, reflective silence. At length, Gavin said, “I don’t suppose that erratic muse of yours can show us which way she went?”

“That depends.” Alex looked toward the peaks. “Tell me, Gavin, where are we most likely to find a spring of ice-cold water?”

“In the mountains.” Gavin took one look at Alex’s expression and said slowly, “Where did that idea come from? Your muse?”

“Where else would I get a damn fool idea like that? We’d best get a move on.”

“Are you joking? It will soon be as black as pitch out there and it gets damn cold in these mountains. Why can’t we wait till morning?”

“And give her a headstart? Not on your life.”

A slow grin creased Gavin’s face.

“What?” Alex demanded.

“In spite of your words, brother, I think I’ve just been invited into the game.”

Alex grunted.

A little later, Gavin observed, “The castle is locked up like a prison. They’re not likely to give us horses. We’re supposed to be guests, remember? They’ll want to question us.”

“They’ll give us horses,” said Alex, “or Her Majesty will want to know the reason why.” He held up his hand. “Watch me, little brother, and see how it’s done.”

“The last time you said that to me,” replied Gavin moodily, “I broke my arm when I fell out of our tree house.”

Alex’s only response was a grin, but it soon faded. As they struck out toward the stable, he was thinking of the woman, remembering another time and place, when another pretty woman, a blond, no less, had led him and three of his agents into a deadly trap.

Congrat's To This Week's Winner

quelleheure4 ~ a book from Jennifer’s backlist (under any name: Jennifer Ashley; Allyson James; Ashley Gardner)

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

Contest for Desire Untamed ARC's by Pamela Palmer

And the winner's are..............drum roll............

*PJ

*ann_marie

*gaby 317

*My Blog 2.0 (Dottie)

*Kitten88

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

Unusual Heroes: Why We Love Them by Jennifer Ashley

It’s probably no secret that I like an usual hero. The hero in the recent release of The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie, features a hero with Asperger’s Syndrome, which is considered to be high-functioning autism. (I never state this in the book, but the syndrome wasn’t given a name until the mid-20th century, and the story is set in 1881).

Traits include the inability to make eye contact, trouble with nonverbal cues and subtext, obsession with detail (but missing the “big picture”), and others. Not everyone who has AS exhibits the same traits, and the syndrome tends to present differently in men than women.

Why did I decide to write Ian the way I did? The number one reason was: I thought he’d be interesting. I like to write about interesting people, places, times, problems. I’m not supposed to; I’m supposed to write romance to the “rules,” but I’ve never been one to follow the rules.

The book is a romance, of course, with a HEA ending, and it’s about Beth teaching Ian that he really can love (and already does), despite his problems relating to other people.

Ian Mackenzie isn’t the only unusual hero I’ve written. If you’re an Allyson James fan (me in disguise), you might have read the Tales of the Shareem books I wrote for EC. Futuristics about men created in a genetics factory, bred for one purpose and one purpose only—to pleasure women. Now they’re outlawed, the factory shut down, and women come to them in secret for sensuality that is forbidden in their society.

When I started writing the series, I thought, “What am I doing? No one will want to read about these guys because they’re not powerful, rich, in-charge men. They’re little better than slaves with no rights and no money.” But the characters had grabbed me, and I wanted to write about them. Result: The Shareem is my most popular EC series, and copies have continually sold since early 2005. (Fans: I’m just submitted TOTS: Calder.)

I’m also working on a new paranormal called Pride Mates. It’s a shape shifter romance, but I decided to forgo the ultra-rich, ultra-powerful males story. Instead, my Shifters are outcasts, shunted by human society into enclaves, forced to wear collars that suppress their violent tendencies. The hero is Liam, who is the liaison between the humans and the Shifters, and Kim Fraser, a defense attorney put into the position of defending a Shifter accused of murder. When worlds collide… That’s coming up in Feb. 2010.

Over to you blog readers: Who are some of your favorite unusual romance heroes? Not necessarily disabled heroes—just different from the norm. Or whoever? What about heroines? Any standouts? Or—why don’t you like them?

Jennifer Ashley
http://www.jennifersromances.com

Jennifer will give away winner's choice of a book from her backlist (under any name: Jennifer Ashley; Allyson James; Ashley Gardner). Answer Jennifer's question and don't forget your email addy to be entered.




Excerpt

Chapter One
London, 1881

“I find that a Ming bowl is like a woman’s breast,” Sir Lyndon Mather said to Ian Mackenzie, who held the bowl in question between his fingertips. “The swelling curve, the creamy pallor. Don’t you agree?”

Ian couldn’t think of a woman who would be flattered to have her breast compared to a bowl, so he didn’t bother to nod.

The delicate vessel was from the early Ming period, the porcelain barely flushed with green, the sides so thin Ian could see light through them. Three gray-green dragons chased one another across the outside, and four chrysanthemums seemed to float across the bottom.

The little vessel might just cup a small rounded breast, but that was as far as Ian was willing to go.

“One thousand guineas,” he said.

Mather’s smile turned sickly. “Now, my lord, I thought we were friends.”

Ian wondered where Mather had got that idea. “The bowl is worth one thousand guineas.” He fingered the slightly chipped rim, the base worn from centuries of handling.

Mather looked taken aback, blue eyes glittering in his overly handsome face.

“I paid fifteen hundred for it. Explain yourself.”

There was nothing to explain. Ian’s rapidly calculating mind had taken in every asset and flaw in ten seconds flat. If Mather couldn’t tell the value of his pieces, he had no business collecting porcelain. There were at least five fakes in the glass case on the other side of Mather’s collection room, and Ian wagered Mather had no idea.

Ian put his nose to the glaze, liking the clean scent that had survived the heavy cigar smoke of Mather’s house. The bowl was genuine, it was beautiful, and he wanted it.

“At least give me what I paid for it,” Mather said in a panicked voice. “The man told me I had it at a bargain.”

“One thousand guineas,” Ian repeated.

“Damn it, man, I’m getting married.”

Ian recalled the announcement in the Times——verbatim, because he recalled everything verbatim: Sir Lyndon Mather of St. Aubrey’s, Suffolk, announces his betrothal to Mrs. Thomas Ackerley, a widow. The wedding to be held on the twenty-seventh of June of this year in St. Aubrey’s at ten o’clock in the morning.

“My felicitations,” Ian said.

“I wish to buy my beloved a gift with what I get for the bowl.”

Ian kept his gaze on the vessel. “Why not give her the bowl itself?”

Mather’s hearty laugh filled the room. “My dear fellow, women don’t know the first thing about porcelain. She’ll want a carriage and a matched team and a string of servants to carry all the fripperies she buys. I’ll give her that. She’s a fine-looking woman, daughter of some froggie aristo, for all she’s long in the tooth and a widow.”

Ian didn’t answer. He touched the tip of his tongue to the bowl, reflecting that it was far better than ten carriages with matched teams. Any woman who didn’t see the poetry in it was a fool.

Mather wrinkled his nose as Ian tasted the bowl, but Ian had learned to test the genuineness of the glaze that way. Mather wouldn’t be able to tell a genuine glaze if someone painted him with it.

“She’s got a bloody fortune of her own,” Mather went on, “inherited from that Barrington woman, a rich old lady who didn’t keep her opinions to herself. Mrs. Ackerley, her quiet companion, copped the lot.”

Then why is she marrying you? Ian turned the bowl over in his hands as he speculated, but if Mrs. Ackerley wanted to make her bed with Lyndon Mather, she could lie in it. Of course, she might find the bed a little crowded. Mather kept a secret house for his mistress and several other women to cater to his needs, which he loved to boast about to Ian’s brothers. I’m as decadent as you lot, he was trying to say. But in Ian’s opinion, Mather understood pleasures of the flesh about as well as he understood Ming porcelain.

“Bet you’re surprised a dedicated bachelor like myself is for the chop, eh?” Mather went on. “If you’re wondering whether I’m giving up my bit of the other, the answer is no. You are welcome to come ’round and join in anytime, you know. I’ve extended the invitation to you, and your brothers as well.”

Ian had met Mather’s ladies, vacant-eyed women willing to put up with Mather’s proclivities for the money he gave them.

Mather reached for a cigar. “I say, we’re at Covent Garden Opera tonight. Come meet my fiancée. I’d like your opinion. Everyone knows you have as exquisite taste in females as you do in porcelain.” He chuckled.

Ian didn’t answer. He had to rescue the bowl from this philistine. “One thousand guineas.”

“You’re a hard man, Mackenzie.”

“One thousand guineas, and I’ll see you at the opera.”

“Oh, very well, though you’re ruining me.”

He’d ruined himself. “Your widow has a fortune. You’ll recover.”

Mather laughed, his handsome face lighting. Ian had seen women of every age blush or flutter fans when Mather smiled. Mather was the master of the double life.

“True, and she’s lovely to boot. I’m a lucky man.”

Mather rang for his butler and Ian’s valet, Curry. Curry produced a wooden box lined with straw, into which Ian carefully placed the dragon bowl.

Ian hated to cover up such beauty. He touched it one last time, his gaze fixed on it until Curry broke his concentration by placing the lid on the box.

He looked up to find that Mather had ordered the butler to pour brandy. Ian accepted a glass and sat down in front of the bankbook Curry had placed on Mather’s desk for him.

Ian set aside the brandy and dipped his pen in the ink. He bent down to write and caught sight of the droplet of black ink hanging on the nib in a perfect, round sphere.

He stared at the droplet, something inside him singing at the perfection of the ball of ink, the glistening viscosity that held it suspended from the nib. The sphere was perfect, shining, a wonder.

He wished he could savor its perfection forever, but he knew that in a second it would fall from the pen and be lost. If his brother Mac could paint something this exquisite, this beautiful, Ian would treasure it.

He had no idea how long he’d sat there studying the droplet of ink until he heard Mather say, “Damnation, he really is mad, isn’t he?”

The droplet fell down, down, down to splash on the page, gone to its death in a splatter of black ink.

“I’ll write it out for you, then, m’lord?”

Ian looked into the homely face of his manservant, a young Cockney who’d spent his boyhood pickpocketing his way across London.

Ian nodded and relinquished the pen. Curry turned the bankbook toward him and wrote the draft in careful capitals. He dipped the pen again and handed it back to Ian, holding the nib down so Ian wouldn’t see the ink.

Ian signed his name painstakingly, feeling the weight of Mather’s stare.

“Does he do that often?” Mather asked as Ian rose, leaving Curry to blot the paper.

Curry’s cheekbones stained red. “No ’arm done, sir.”

Ian lifted his glass and swiftly drank down the brandy, then took up the box. “I will see you at the opera.”

He didn’t shake hands on his way out. Mather frowned, but gave Ian a nod. Lord Ian Mackenzie, brother to the Duke of Kilmorgan, socially outranked him, and Mather was acutely aware of social rank.

Once in his carriage, Ian set the box beside him. He could feel the bowl inside, round and perfect, filling a niche in himself.

“I know it ain’t me place to say,” Curry said from the opposite seat as the carriage jerked forward into the rainy streets. “But the man’s a right bastard. Not fit for you to wipe your boots on. Why even have truck with him?”

Ian caressed the box. “I wanted this piece.”

“You do have a way of getting what you want, no mistake, m’lord. Are we really meeting him at the opera?”

“I’ll sit in Hart’s box.” Ian flicked his gaze over Curry’s baby-innocent face and focused safely on the carriage’s velvet wall. “Find out everything you can about a Mrs. Ackerley, a widow now betrothed to Sir Lyndon Mather. Tell me about it tonight.”

“Oh, aye? Why are we so interested in the right bastard’s fiancée?”

Ian ran his fingertips lightly over the box again. “I want to know if she’s exquisite porcelain or a fake.”

Curry winked. “Right ye are, guv. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Desire Untamed by Pamela Palmer (5 ARC Copy Giveaway)

Read An Excerpt

Kara MacAllister paced the floor of her mother’s blue-sprigged bedroom, frustration and grief shredding her insides as rain slashed at the windows.

“Kara, honey.” Her mom’s words sounded pained and slurred as she eased out of another drug-induced nap. “Why don’t you hire a nurse?” The same question every day.

“No nurse, Mom.” Kara’s heart shriveled as she met her mother’s pain-filled gaze. Propped up on thick pillows stuffed into white, lace-trimmed pillowcases, her mother looked twenty years older than she had just a few months ago. Her once full cheeks lay sunken in a pool of skin, the pasty gray of the terminally ill. The doctors had opened her up to remove a tumor on her left lung only to close her back up and send her home to die. A few weeks, they’d said. Maybe a month. That was two weeks ago.

It felt like two lifetimes.

“But your job, honey. You’ll lose your job.”

Kara squeezed her mother’s thin hand. “It’s okay, Mom. I found someone to cover my class until I get back.” If she went back. For nine years, ever since high school, she’d been content to stay in tiny Spearsville, Missouri, to share the old farm house with her mom, and teach preschool in the basement of the local church. Maybe it wasn’t the most exciting life, but her mom had begged her to stay and she’d been okay with it. Even happy.

Until three months ago. Two days after Christmas, she’d woken up a frustrated bundle of restlessness as if overnight she’d developed a chronic, severe case of PMS. Everything annoyed her all of a sudden. Her boyfriend, her friends, her life, even the preschoolers she adored. She’d felt as if she needed something, but didn’t have a clue what.

The only thing she knew for certain was her mother’s dying wasn’t it.

Her mom squeezed her hand, her grip weaker even than yesterday. “I want you to…have fun, honey. Not watch me die.”

Fun. As if she could possibly enjoy herself doing anything under these circumstances. Kara leaned down and kissed a fragile cheek. “I love you, Mom. I’m right where I want to be.” For now.

Her mother was all the family she had, all the family she’d ever had, and her cancer was killing them both. If only Kara could share with her a bit of her own remarkable health. It was so unfair. Kara was never sick. And her mom lay dying.

She rose, unable to remain still a moment longer. “I’m going to heat some soup and make a batch of blueberry muffins. After dinner we can watch a movie. How’s that?”

“Lovely.”

On her way out of the room, Kara reached for the television on the dresser and flipped on the local news. Glancing back, she caught her mother’s sad smile twisting in pain.

It wasn’t fair. She slammed the heel of her fist against the blue painted wall as she started down the stairs. Her mom didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve this.

Kara blinked back the film of moisture that suddenly clouded her eyes. In a few weeks time, she’d be all alone. Orphaned.

Could you call it orphaned at twenty-seven?

The sun had set while Kara was upstairs and the main level of the old farmhouse was shadowed with dusk. But she’d grown up in this house, lived here all her life, and could find her way blindfolded.

She slipped into the dark kitchen…and froze.

Silhouetted against the thin gray light coming through the back window was the dark form of a man inside the house.

Her heart rushed to her throat. Her stomach buckled beneath the slam of fear even as her logical mind screeched, It’s just a neighbor. But when she flipped the light switch, the sight that met her gaze beneath the fluorescent strips did nothing to dispel her terror.

He was huge, well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and thick, bulging biceps. Tawny hair hung in waves to his shoulders framing a hard face and cold amber-colored eyes. With his dress pants and expensive-looking shirt, he could never pass as one of the local farmers even if she hadn’t known everyone within a ten mile radius of town. This man was a total, and frightening, stranger.

“What do you want?” Her words came out breathy, forced around the constriction in her throat.

Her mind screamed, Run! But she couldn’t. Not with her mother upstairs and helpless. Heart thundering, she gathered every last scrap of her courage, rose to her full five foot five and lifted her chin.

“Get out of my house.”

A single, tawny eyebrow rose. “Bare your right breast.”

Kara gaped at him as the full realization of his intent sent her pulse into a grinding thud in her ears.

As if reading her mind, the man rolled his eyes with an exasperated grunt. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Kara choked out a laugh. “Right. You just want to see my breast, then you’ll go.”

“Something like that.”

She stared at him, her terrified mind grasping for a plan. Any plan.

He started toward her. Kara lunged for the knife rack, but as her fingers curled around the handle of a small paring knife, the stranger closed the distance between them. He hauled her against his chest, face to pecs, his large hand clamping around her wrist, immobilizing her.

Swallowing a scream, she struggled against his iron-like hold, but she might as well have been a fly in a spider web for all the good it did her. He was too strong. Kara tried to kick him, to knee him, but he only pressed her against the counter, his hips tight against hers as he towered over her.

Terror flashed in her mind like an explosion of light. He was going to rape her. Murder her.

Her pulse began to slow, the terror slipping away as if someone had opened a drain in her head. Even her shallow, desperate breathing evened out as if she’d suddenly, inexplicably, lost her fear of the huge man.

He eased the knife from her hand and returned it to the knife block. “I’m calming you.”

And that’s exactly what it felt like, she realized. A strange, unnatural calm settling over her as if an invisible hand were squashing her fear.

“How?” Though the word rang incredulous in her head, her tone, as it left her lips, was one of simple curiosity.

This wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have this kind of control over her. Her pulse tried to leap fearfully, but was instantly stroked into complaisance.

“Stop it.” She needed to be afraid of him. He overpowered her. Overwhelmed her. Her senses swam in his nearness, in the elemental scent of wind and earth and pure, raw male. The intoxicating blend teased and tantalized, sending the blood rushing to the surface of her skin in a hot flush of awareness. An awareness that horrified her.

“Let me go.”

“I’m not going to harm you. I need to know that you’re the one I’m looking for.”

“I’m not.”

He stepped back, putting a slight distance between them even as he kept tight hold of her wrist. Feeling utterly detached, she watched him reach for her with his free hand, felt the pad of his finger slide down her upper chest to hook into the top of her scoop-neck tee and tug downward.

His eyes flared, those well-sculpted lips compressing as his thumb brushed over the flesh rising above the lace of her bra, tracing the odd stretch marks she’d noticed for the first time around Christmas.

Her gaze caught on his lips, mesmerized by their perfect fullness as a single, disturbing emotion finally broke free of his unnatural control to sweep her imprisoned body. Lust. Delicious fire skimmed over her skin, burrowing deep into her bones and blood, rushing straight down to her core.

He released her shirt as if he’d been burned and met her gaze, his own cool and shuttered. “You are the Radiant.”

“I’m the what?” She stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. Of any of this. “What do you want?”

Those amber eyes glowed with a dark determination that would have made her heart pound if he weren’t tamping her emotions. He slid his free hand over her jaw, his palm rough and calloused, his touch not ungentle as his forefinger hooked around the back of her jaw, coming to rest beneath her ear.

“What do you want?”

“You.”

The sudden, sharp pressure at the base of her ear stole her thoughts and vision, sending Kara tumbling into a dark, unconscious abyss.

Okay everyone, I have 5 ARC copies to giveaway thanks to our author Pamela Palmer.

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