Appraised-FREE from hot author Liz Crowe
Saturday, November 28th, 2015


A Real Estate Romance

By Liz Crowe

100% free to subscribers of Liz’s monthly newsletter.

How to get a copy:

Sign up! All new subscribers to the once-a-month Liz Newz-letter get a link to download it. It will never be offered for sale anywhere.

Goodreads Link to leave your thoughts and recommendations:


Sawyer Callahan is a former cop turned accounting instructor, part time real estate appraiser and handy man, and single dad to a teenaged girl. He keeps his once-chaotic life now firmly under his strict, somewhat OCD control. Until he decides to sell the house that reminds him too much of his late wife.

Miranda Landon is hot-shot real estate agent with a relationship-sized chip on her shoulder that she exorcises, frequently, with the help of as many men as possible.

These two meet, of course. But what happens may surprise you.


APPRAISED is the first in a series of 100% FREE Liz Crowe novels told in a unique back-and-forth point of view style. Real Estate Romance with humor and spice available to subscribers to Liz’s once-a-month newsletter.



Excerpt #2 (rated R for language/situations):

Sawyer pressed the young man up against the closed side of the double doors, lifting him by his neck. Sawyer knew how to scare without really hurting. And it all came rushing back to him now. “Get out of my house,” he said, keeping his tone conversational. “Don’t ever come near my house again. If I see you here, or smell your muskrat breath anywhere near me or my house or my daughter you will need a doctor, not a lawyer. We clear?” He put a bit more pressure on the kid’s throat, knowing it for effect and nothing more, getting a twinge of regret for giving up his old life for one at a desk, helping prosecutors build cases against fraternity punks like this one before being forced out of that job thanks to…no. Not tonight.

He let go. The kid crumpled the floor, coughing, staring up at Sawyer with the sort of fear that made him feel whole again. Standing, arms crossed, putting the full effect of his six foot five, broad shouldered, ex-cop’s body into his “get the hell out and stay out” message, Sawyer watched as the no-doubt future politician, or perhaps smarmy English professor with a penchant for fucking other men’s wives, scrabbled for the door knob and threw himself out into the dark front lawn.

He sighed and turned. Kelly lingered on the bottom step, tears standing in her eyes. “Are you…hurt?”

She glared at him. “No, Dad. I told you. I’m still pure as the driven fucking snow. Christ.”

“Get a shower,” he barked, unable to stand it another minute. “Then come downstairs. I want to show you some houses we’re gonna go look at together.”

“I don’t give half a rat’s ass where we move.”

He swallowed the ugly retort, horrified that he would even think such mean things about his own daughter. But she was like some kind of possessed evil demon anymore. And it got worse every day. Times like this he hated his dead wife even more for leaving him with this mess. Among other things. He took a long, shuddery breath. “Get a shower. Come back downstairs. I got drumsticks.”

Her eyes flickered. The corner of her chapped, swollen looking lips lifted. He crossed his arms over his chest, thinking, “point to dad.”

“Fine,” she said, flouncing up the steps and giving the bathroom door a solid slam for good measure. He sat, flipping through the options on his computer, his appraiser’s mind already evaluating and tsk-tsking over how grossly overpriced everything was. Figures. He should have made this move last year.

When Kelly appeared, her face scrubbed clean and healthily pink, her dark brown hair scraped back in a ponytail, her eyes bright he felt something loosen in his chest. Still seated, he held out an arm, willing her to come to him, to let him hang onto her a minute or two. She did, lingering nearly fifteen entire seconds before pulling away and rubbing her eyes, hiding her emotion from him. He let himself have the outsized sensation of victory.

“I’ll take a vanilla one,” he said, pointing to the freezer. She pulled out the box of her all time favorite, disgustingly processed frozen desserts. “Sit. Look with me.”

She handed him one and they spent a few minutes thumbing through the listings he’d picked out, smaller houses, smaller lawns, real start-over attempts to let go of the horror of the past few years. When they’d eaten the last bit of chocolate-filled, over-sweet cones, she poured them each a glass of water. He drank his, waiting until she finished to ask The Question.

“So, what did I interrupt earlier?”

She rolled her eyes and got up for a refill. “Nothing. He wanted me to give him a blowjob. I wasn’t about to do that, but then you showed up while he was trying to convince me.” She shrugged, the gorgeous future woman in her shining through so brightly it made Sawyer’s teeth ache. “Gross,” she muttered around the rim of the water glass.

He cleared his throat, trying to find words, or even thoughts that might turn into words for this moment.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’ve done it before. He’s gross. Not giving a blow job.”

“Oh, uh…” He clenched his fist around the drumstick wrapper. “Well…”

She grinned, then kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair. “I’m kidding. God, you should see your face right now, Daddy-o.”

“But he was…uh… had his…um…”

“Yeah. I was giving him a hand job. But it was mutual. It’s what teenagers do. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

Her extreme bluntness was like someone stabbing him between the eyes and turning the knife. He hesitated. “Okay, well. It’s why we got you on the pill.” His voice was hoarse. He thought he might very well puke beer and ice cream all over the floor.

“Yep. And don’t think I didn’t notice the box of condoms you stashed in my panty drawer, Dad.”

“Yes, well…um…” He wiped a hand down his face. She cupped his lightly bearded cheek. “I…”

“It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. And when I do want to, I have that Cosco sized supply of rubbers thanks to you.” She yawned and stretched. Sawyer closed his eyes, willing the images of her with some boy’s hand down her pants out of his head. It made him want to put his fist through the wall despite his self-satisfied feelings about buying her rubbers. “’Night,” she said, blowing him a kiss and heading upstairs in her ratty blue robe and thick socks.

Sawyer sat a long time, staring at his tightly clenched fists and cursing his life, before hauling himself up and over to the couch where he’d been sleeping since Helen had died. He pretended he didn’t, always getting up well before Kelly did. It was but one of the many reasons he had to get the hell out of this house for good. Right before passing out, his gut churning with the unwelcome frozen preservatives, he touched his left ring finger with his thumb. Finding the new nothing there, when it had taken him thirteen years to get used to the something, he rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut.


Liz Bio:

Amazon best-selling author, mom of three, Realtor, beer blogger, brewery marketing expert, and soccer fan, Liz Crowe is a Kentucky native and graduate of the University of Louisville currently living in Ann Arbor. She has decades of experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as a three-continent, ex-pat trailing spouse.

With stories set in the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch, in successful real estate offices and at times in exotic locales like Istanbul, Turkey, her books are unique and told with a fresh voice. The Liz Crowe backlist has something for any reader seeking complex storylines with humor and complete casts of characters that will delight, frustrate and linger in the imagination long after the book is finished.

Don’t ever ask her for anything “like a Budweiser” or risk bodily injury.

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The wolf is howling…and he’s hot!
Friday, November 27th, 2015

The Wolves Are Howling

I have a longtime love affair with the wolf. Yes, he’s a predator. Yes, he kills. But he is such a majestic, magnificent animal that I am drawn to him again and again. Today launches a new wolf shifter series for me­.


Hot Moon Rising


A new wolf pack gathers…

Survivors of the devastation wrought by developers and a more savage pack, the Moonlight Wolf Pack struggles to find a new home for itself in the heat of Central Florida. Here you will meet Jesse and Charlie, the sheriff’s deputies who are their liaison to the human world; Alexa and Liana, the women they married; Derek Sawyer and Rand Molina, leader and lieutenant of the Moonlight Pack; and all those who make up their wolf family as well as those who will join them in the future.


It starts with Wolf Moon…

Shapeshifter Alexa Morgan fled her home in the north when her relationship with a human ended in disaster and the clan alpha shunned her. Now living in Florida, against all her better judgment she finds herself in a hot relationship with Jesse Farrell, the cop next door.  Despite her knowledge that the relationship is doomed, she cannot stay away from him. When Jesse, a gang task force member, is hurt one night on the job, Alexa begins to spend her nights tracking him, keeping him in her line of sight, determined to protect him. But she’s terrified of his reaction when he discovers her true nature. Will he accept her or bolt as her other lover did, leaving her destroyed once again.

And continues with Venus Moon and Blood Moon


Catch the special flash sale!

For three days only, beginning today, Wolf Moon will be on sale for 99 cents.



The sound of the doorbell startled her. On tiptoe she peered through the peephole. She was stunned to see Jesse on her porch, dripping wet and shifting from one foot to the other.

She yanked the door open. “What’s wrong? It’s pouring rain. Why aren’t you inside?”

“Can I come in, please?”

“Oh, sure. Come on.” Yes, bring your fantastic body into my house.

“Sorry to bother you. I left my key on the counter this morning.” He raked his wet hair back from his forehead. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Jesse always carried his car keys separately.

“In case I’m ever attacked,” he explained, “I don’t want anyone having a key to my house. I can keep an extra one of yours too, if you want.”

Another link to him she should have avoided.

“I’ll get it,” she told him now, “but come into the kitchen. You look like a drowned rat and you must be freezing. At least get that wet shirt off and let me make you some coffee.”

“I’ll drip all over your place,” he protested.

“Tile floors are easy to mop.” She took his hand. “Come on. I’d feel terrible if you got pneumonia and I could have prevented it.”

In the kitchen, she flipped the switch on the coffeemaker while he took off his shirt. Then she handed him a large towel from the stack in the laundry room.

“You look exhausted. Bad night?” Her heart pinched at the weary sight of him.

Jesse scrubbed a hand over his face. “Every night’s bad with the gangs. We’ve got a couple of new ones out there ramping up their so-called initiation requirements. That makes it pretty tense on the streets.”

He was a member of the sheriff’s gang task force, a thankless and dangerous job. On the night streets, he was a shadowy figure in jeans and t-shirt looking to stop trouble before it started. Even in a county as small as Palmetto, gangs were a big problem, many of them migrating south from Tampa.

She’d taken to waiting up for him, reassuring herself that once again he was home safely. If only she could find a way to protect him. Well, there was one if she transformed. But she had no idea how he’d feel about a giant redwolf following him around the county.

She ran a critical eye over him, noting his soaked jeans and pulled out another towel. “You’d better take off the rest of those clothes and let me put everything in the dryer. Coffee should be ready in a minute.”

“I’m all right, Alexa. Honest. I just need to get some sleep.”

How about in my bed?


Here is where you can get Wolf Moon:

Joy. Period. Don’t miss this.
Tuesday, November 24th, 2015

Joy. Period.

By Liz Crowe

There is a lot of dissention in the indie author ranks these days, directly connected to the State of the Industry. Which is, arguably, a bit messy. It’s not that surprising. When Amazon opened its virtual doors, followed closely by Barnes & Noble and ITunes and the others, it created an outlet for plenty of eager writers seeking fame and fortune who’d either been bypassed by traditional publishing or were not willing to “go there” with the synopses, the queries, the rejections, et al.


The titans of the self-publishing world were created in these early, heady days. They were the crafty, savvy, early adopters. They made it look easy, which (again, arguably) it was. It’s an issue of “volume” and “market saturation” in ebooks. Neither existed then, and these folks were able to carve out serious niches for themselves on their own. When you are first to colonize, you get the pick of the land, so to speak.


Since then, many more of us, myself included have jumped onto this train. In 2013 there were, approximately, a million (that’s 1,000,000,000) books published every year. It is estimated that over half of these were of the self-published variety. That means somewhere around 500,000 other folks flailing around alongside you to find readers outside their immediate family. If you pay any attention at all to the industry these days, you’re probably with me in guessing that the number is significantly higher as the “quick bucks in self publishing” myth has abounded in the past couple of years.


Entire industries are built on it. A quick check of my twitter feed proves that. “Hire me to tweet for you!” “We promise you a million sales!” “Our promo services have a money-back guarantee!” “Join our community (for a fee)!” And of course the infamous “Want instant best seller status? Just pay us for hundreds of reviews!” scam.


It’s a real rat race. Not terribly far removed from other types of creative industries, but ramped up, thanks to the easy access we all have to calling ourselves authors. Even blogging is oversubscribed and potentially obsolete thanks to platforms like Facebook, twitter, reddit and others. It seems as though there is no new way to be heard above the cacophony of “buy my best selling vampire zombie dinosaur erotica and I’ll send you a swag bag of goodies” with your simple message of “Hey, I wrote a book, had it professionally edited and covered and would appreciate it if you’d, you know, buy it and review it. By the way did I mention it’s only three bucks?”


Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against this in principal. Flattening out the playing field was overdue. Letting a few lofty folks in Manhattan skyscrapers determine the books we got to read was a system begging for adjustment.


But I can tell you without hesitation that it is an uphill battle. The one or two out of a million success stories are exactly that: one or two out of a million. I get it. I understand it. And I am slowly coming to accept it.


First of all, it’s an expensive endeavor. Self publishing is a business. Writing the book is the easiest bit. Once that’s done you owe it to your craft and reputation to pay for edits. You also shell out for a great cover. My one self published series, The Love Brothers went one step beyond that—a custom photo shoot using my choice of model so that I got exactly the shots I wanted, which I then turned over to a top-notch graphic/cover artist. All of this cost a fair bit of pesos, no lie.


Okay so assume you can cover that by eating ramen a few nights a month. You’ll just push that publish button (after you’ve paid to have the book properly formatted of course) and the money shall pour forth from Amazon’s coffers into your dwindling bank account. Uh, no. Because remember if you divide that million (number of books published a year) by “365” you get 273,972. That would be the number of books about to compete directly with your soul’s outpouring, your baby, your creation just on the day you release it—the next day there’ll be another 273,972 of ‘em ready for readers and their disposable income.


You have your third job ahead of you, the most daunting, and potentially the most expensive one of all: the marketing and promotion of your book.


If I had a buck for every email, Facebook message and tweet I get every single day telling me I WILL BE A BEST SELLER if I would only send the sender some money, I’d be rich enough not to be having this conversation with you, kind and gentle fellow scribbler. I’ll confess: I have paid for ads on various platforms including the expensive/selective ones. I have bought “virtual book tours.” I have purchased placements on something like a zillion daily “book bargain” emails. I have contracted with publishers who’ve promised me promotions as part of the bargain. I have paid for a publicist. I’ve hosted my own Facebook parties and filled in on other authors’ events just for the shot at a fresh reader or two. I have made a few trips out of town, out of pocket on table fees, gas, hotels, and food plus swag just for the opportunity to get face time with new readers. I am in seven (7) multi author anthologies and I promoted the living hell out of all of them alongside the other authors participating.


I don’t believe that there is a single gimmick or previously super successful for someone else effort that I haven’t tried. But that was all right because sales of The Love Brothers were gang busters right out of the gate. All I had to do? Finish the series with the longest, most heartfelt book of them all (Family Love) and then I could be the CEO/Marketing VP of my own Liz Self Publishes And Rocks It Multi National Corporation. And that ultimate crown: The New York Times Best Selling Author set of letters I am dying to plaster across the fronts of my books were obviously well within my grasp.


I’m an industry junkie. I make it a point in all my many lives (real estate, books, craft beer) to remain abreast of trends and happenings, successes and failures. And if you kept up with things this summer you know that “summer of 2015” in “publishing” was akin to “virtual Armageddon.”


If you missed it or were lucky enough not to be affected, allow me to summarize: sales slipped, slumped, and slid for (almost) everyone, even those best selling authors making “surprise releases.” It was, in short a crappy set of months for everyone, yours truly included.


And I have this “thing” about reality: I need my existing self published books to support the next set. If I don’t make enough off of The Love Brothers I cannot dip into “household funds” such as they are to support a new book or series of books. Income needs to exceed Outgo when at all possible.


I got super mad. I bitched and moaned (but in private, of course because you know I do not condone online bitching about crappy sales). I ragged and railed and sulked and cried some too. “I have never,” I would say, a lot, usually to myself. “Never, ever worked so bleeping hard and failed so utterly at something. Ever.” And I have “tried” a lot of things and succeeded at them. I am no stranger or averse to hard word. Somewhere in the middle of all this pity-partying, I lost the joy.


That’s right. Because writing, like singing or sculpting or painting or playing the piano, is a JOY first and foremost. I caught myself scowling at a half finished manuscript (I have lots of these now) and saying “screw it. No one’s gonna read it. What’s the point? Who cares?”


Well, I’m here to tell you that I know for a stone cold fact that I will likely never be able to use that NYTBSA set of letters after my name. And I honestly do not think, after a long hard study of the industry and my place in it, that the LSPARIMNCorp will ever come to fruition. But I will be damned if that keeps me from writing. Because I, for one, CARE about what I’m doing.


In September, I wrote what most people would consider a near full length novel at 46,000 words. I had such fun writing it, it poured out of me in something like two weeks. I paid for proofreading and a cover… and I have decided that it, and its follow up that is currently percolating along as my first ever NaNoWriMo project will be 100% Free. To everyone. And not via any retailing platform either. So you know I’m dead serious about not trying to game my way onto a best seller list.


APPRAISED is now available only to subscribers of my monthly, spam-free newsletter. It releases to those lucky folks this fine evening (11/17) but I’ll make the link available again in December’s issue, on my “29+20 birthday edition” 12/17/15 when I unveil something even cooler that will show my dedication to taking my hat out of the unwinnable Amazon rat race. The follow up (NaNo) novel CONTINGENT will release free on January 1, 2016. Sign up for the newsletter if you like but do me a favor, and never lose the joy.

Happy Freebie New Year. Because, why not?

Appraised Blurb:

Sawyer Callahan is a former cop turned accounting instructor, part time real estate appraiser and handy man, and single dad to a teenaged girl. He keeps his once-chaotic life now firmly under his strict, somewhat OCD control. Until he decides to sell the house that reminds him too much of his late wife.

Miranda Landon is hot-shot real estate agent with a relationship-sized chip on her shoulder that she exorcises, frequently, with the help of as many men as possible.

These two meet, of course. But what happens may surprise you.

APPRAISED is the first in a series of 100% FREE Liz Crowe novels told in a unique back-and-forth point of view style. Real Estate Romance with humor and spice available to subscribers to Liz’s once-a-month newsletter.

How to get a copy:

Sign up! On  December 17 you will receive a link to download this book in your preferred format, plus the sequel CONTINGENT in early January.


Goodreads Link to leave your thoughts and recommendations:


Meet Liz Crowe:

Author, mom of three, Realtor, beer blogger, brewery marketing expert, and soccer fan, Liz Crowe is a Kentucky native and graduate of the University of Louisville currently living in Ann Arbor. She has decades of experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as a three-continent, ex-pat trailing spouse.

With stories set in the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch, in successful real estate offices and at times in exotic locales like Istanbul, Turkey, her books are unique and told with a fresh voice. The Liz Crowe backlist has something for any reader seeking complex storylines with humor and complete casts of characters that will delight, frustrate and linger in the imagination long after the book is finished.

Don’t ever ask her for anything “like a Budweiser” or risk bodily injury.















A best seller anniversary-win a prize!
Tuesday, November 17th, 2015

THE STANHOPE CHALLENGE, 4 brothers, 4 love affairs, 1 family curse, 12 months a Bestselling Regency! PRIZES!

Cerise DeLand's Cherry

Dear Readers, Celebrating 12 solid months on 3 Regency bestseller lists, I am proud to be here at my friend, Desiree Holt’s site with this giveaway!


For one lucky person who comments BELOW, a $20 gift card! For everyone who sends me the receipt for purchase of HER BEGUILING BUTLER on any vendor site, I will send you THE STANHOPE CHALLENGE free! BUY LINK for STANHOPE on Amazon

Be sure to send that RECEIPT to me at!


THANK YOU to my wonderful readers!

There is nothing like a book to calm your mind, ease your worries and make your day sublime.

BUY LINKS for HER BEGUILING BUTLER:HER BEGUILING BUTLER Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent series 1 by Cerise DeLand

AMAZON   ARe   NOOK   KOBO   iTunes

And now a nibble of THE STANHOPE CHALLENGE, Book 3, the story of Jack and Emma, MISS DARLING’S INDECENT OFFER!

London, March 1810


Emma Darling snuggled down into her coat, the winter chill like daggers in her bones. Squinting, she tried to see through the foggy window of her carriage. Where was the man? Drinking, carousing most likely.

She had no delusions about the precarious nature of her indecent offer to Jack Stanhope. He had an inglorious reputation as a rake and would be no coy boy falling over himself to accept her odd proposal. Despite all the marks against his person—the mistresses, the gambling, the aggressiveness in business matters—Jack Stanhope had one fine trait. And that Emma meant to tap. His honor, she dared to hope, would rise up to meet his reason and agree to aid her. Either that, or the man would scoff, then throw her out of his carriage and into the rain like so much rubbish.

She sniffed, pulled herself up to her own imperious reputation as the bane of her step-father’s existence and willed some iron in her spine. “You will smile. You will not simper. You will entice him, Emma. With logic.”

“Miss Darling?” Her coachman rapped on the bottom of his seat and she jumped.

The Stanhope Challenge“Yes, yes?”

“The gentleman you wanted?”

“Arrogant Jack?”

“Aye, Miss,” said her kindly servant who’d defied his master to assist her this horrid night. “In the street coming out the door.”

She wiped the moisture from her carriage window and spied the male figure emerging from the entrance to White’s. She peered through her window and wiped fog from its expanse. “You think that man is he?”

“Aye, Miss, blue covered brougham with the Stanhope crest waiting for him. Must be ‘im.”

Must be.

“Thank you, Harris.” She lifted her hood and draped it over her hastily set mop of hair. Rain or no, now is the time, Emma. She waited a heartbeat as her servant climbed down from his box, opened the door for her and let down the steps for her to alight. She gave him her hand and a smile. Watery thing that it was, the expression was one he did not return for he feared for his position should her step-father learn of his part in her escape tonight. “Please do not worry, Harris. I promise I will speak on your behalf.”

“I know, Miss. But I fret for your safety. The Viscount Durham is a bad sort.” He handed her out into the pouring rain.

“Not completely so,” she told him. Then she scampered across the cobbles. Deuced bad luck that the heavens opened at that hideous moment. She squealed and picked up her pace through the torrent of rain. Catching her balance time and again, she fought for clear vision as she slipped on one stone and slid across another. She heard Jack Stanhope shouting to his own coachman as she lifted her arm to beckon him.

“My lord!” Don’t leave, Jack! “My lord!”

The coachman slammed the door of Jack’s carriage. She scurried along. The driver climbed up into his box. He’d soon be picking up the reins and hurrying on. She panicked that if she did not do something rash, all her plans would be lost.

She swerved, stepped in front of the coach, and slipped, slid and lost her footing. Her bottom met hard, hurtful cobbles. Her heart met despair. She splashed about in a freezing puddle.

“Ohhhhh, damn!” She beat the cobbles with one fist, wild at her clumsiness.

The coachman yelled. The horses neighed.

“Stop! Please stop!” She pushed up, hands wrist deep in pools of rain, her pelisse soaked. Her hair plastered to her cheeks. She gasped in pain.

Hands grabbed her under the armpits and hoisted her from the stones. “Get her up, Rawley.”

She swayed. Before her stood a tall, lean striking man who scowled at her and hooked his arm around her waist.

“Can you stand? What the hell is wrong with you?” He brushed a hand over her cheek. “A beauty out in this rain? Running into my horses? Are you mad?”

Mad? “I’m wet,” she said like a ninny, mesmerized by the might of him, the sharpness of his features and the fragrance of his cologne.

His coachman strode around them. “Good god, milord! She’s a fright!”

“Can’t stand out here all night. Let’s get her in the coach, Rawley.”

She smiled. Yes, let’s.

“Oh. She finds this amusing. Wonderful,” Jack muttered as he snatched her up in strong arms like a sack of potatoes, took two steps and shoved her, like so much dross, into a coach. To the floor, in fact. “Here you go.”

She glanced up at that incomparable face, all brooding angles and intensity. He grabbed her with iron-like hands and unceremoniously dragged her up and over the squabs. He picked at her hood with deft fingers, undid her ties and threw back the wool to lift her chin.

“Christ, you are soaked! What in hell are you doing out on a night like this?”

She stared at him. Delighted. Dismayed now that she was here and of all the ways, of all the times that she had to meet the heir of the Stanhope family, she met the glorious, notorious Viscount Durham looking like a ragamuffin.

Aye, this was Jack Stanhope, no other. Eyes like lightning. Hair like midnight. Jaw like iron.

Collect yourself. “I had to come out.” Of course you did, you idiot. He’s not all that handsome that his mere looks can rattle you.

He frowned at her, pushed her wet curls back from her cheeks, and hauled her up higher. By the light of the interior lamp, she saw him better now. Close as a lover. And the clarity of her first hard look at the Pride of the Stanhopes made her admire the family traits all the more.

He was a luscious specimen of manhood, imperial and imposing. The broadest of shoulders. The squarest of chins. The dimple there, dead center. She’d glimpsed him twice before, years ago at his racing box in Harton. She’d been drawn to his brash demeanor, his open laugh and booming voice. She’d been drawn by his magnetism. A daring rake of magnificent proportions, Jack Stanhope was not so much handsome as overwhelming. Not so much refined as damned perfect. For her. Her needs.

“What in god’s good name is a lady doing out at this hour of the night? And falling in front of my carriage, no less?” His striking eyes went wide as he examined her. He seemed sober, though she could smell faint traces of liquor on his breath. His fingers dug into her upper arms. “Answer me!”

“I need to talk to you.”

“The devil, you say. Who are you?” He lifted her higher, nearer, his silver-blue eyes searing her face as he scanned her features with a curious hunger.

“Emma Darling.”

“Darling…” He caught her cheeks in both hands and turned her more fully toward the light. With his thumbs, he brushed rain drops from her skin and then drew her, inch by inch toward him until her torso was flush against him.

Fires of delight ran through her blood. He was interested. He might be intrigued. She needed that. Needed more from him.

He sank his fingers into her newly cropped cap of Grecian curls and turned her face to the left and right. “What the hell? Joan Darling’s girl?”

“Yes, Frank’s and Joan’s.” Did he know her mother?

“You’re shivering. Wet as a cat. Sit here.” He pushed her back into the luxury of the squabs, both hands to her shoulders in a move that was mostly a shove. “Take off that cloak.” He worked at a fastening to her wrap. “You’ll die of cold. Your mother will have me for breakfast.”

“No!” Emma wrapped her hand around his forearm and noted that he was so large she could only partially succeeded. “No, she won’t. Can’t.”

“What?” He shook his head as he tried to undo the fastening of her wrap. She sat helpless as a child letting him undress her, marvelling at the arch of his cheeks and the perfect sculpt of his sensuous mouth. “This damn thing is too wet. Can’t get it open.” His hands fumbled. “Why can’t your mother help you?”

“She’s ill. In the country.” Dying from her husband’s cruelty and neglect.

“Since when?”

“November, December.”

He scowled. “That’s why I have not seen her about town.”

“Listen to me, Jack.”

If her hands on his hadn’t brought him up short, the use of his given name by a stranger did. He paused, curious now and perhaps even insulted. “You have my attention. What is it you want, Miss Darling?”

“I need your help.”

“At three in the morning? A very inclement morning?” He wiggled his black brows in mirth and surprise.

In the lamplight, his features mellowed with amusement. His brows were long and precise, his eyes large and luminous, his lips full and supple. Generous. Oh, god. Please let him be generous.

“This was the best time to find you, my lord. You would never have seen me at home. Not mine certainly.”

“You did not invite me,” he told her, his words a bit slurred, an impish grin gracing his mouth. “I accept all invitations from beautiful women.”

“So I understand, but—” I am not beautiful. “You would not have come.”

“You’re certain, eh? Why not?”

“You do not really know me.”

He narrowed his starry eyes and let them roam from her lips to her eyes to her hair and back again. “I daresay I should.”

“Yes, you should.” She leaned forward now, comforted by his humor and the kindness of him to take her in his carriage and have such care of her. But she must look a fright, coming out as she did so quickly, taking the chance she could catch him. “You will. If you accept my offer.”

“An offer? Pardon me, Miss Darling. It’s late and my manners are as short as my penchant for games.” Bursting into a chuckle, he fell back to the plush leather upholstery. Sobering, he ran a hand over his face. He knit his brows and surveyed her state of cold, wet dishabille. “And you are not amused either. Are you?”

She shook her head once, her lips pressed together.

He slapped a hand to his knee. “Very well. I must take you home. Isn’t it Park Lane? Opposite the street from my Aunt Amaryllis Stanhope?”

She folded her arms, the rain seeping through her cloak to her thin cotton gown and making her shiver. “I will not return there.”

He cocked his head. “Why ever not?”

He is there.”

Jack scowled. “Who?”

“Daniel.” She murmured the name of the man who meant to ruin her life, keep her in rags and deny her her due.

“Your mother’s husband? Pinrose?”

“The same.”

He muttered beneath his breath. “Your stepfather.”

“The same.” Her teeth began to clatter. She clenched her jaw. Wrapped her arms more tightly about her. “He is a tyrant. I have come to you to escape him.”

Jack winced, glanced out the window and focused on her again. “Escape Pinrose?”

“Precisely.” She sneezed.

He picked up the plaid woolen blanket on the seat next to her and tucked it around her body and under her chin. “Christ, you’re cold as ice. How long have you been out in this?”

“Since ten or so,” she told him.

“Good god. Must be a damned good reason to chill yourself to the quick. What is it?”

She shot forward and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Jack, please help me. I have waited for you because I need you. Only you can help me.”

He arched a long black brow at her. “I am honored, Miss Darling, but—”


“Emma, my dear young woman, I have no idea what you wish. I barely know who you are, let alone what I might do to assist—”

“Marry me.”

He stilled. “Did you say…?”

“Marry me.”


Timeless Passion, a time travel erotic romance by Kayden Clermont
Friday, November 13th, 2015

Timeless Passion is a time travel erotic romance set around a Scottish New Year’s demonstration, Hogmanay, being done at Barkersville Pioneer Village. Tasha Banner is the director of the museum and did the demonstration that brought Dougal MacBride to the future.


Read her interview by author Kyden Clermont

Tasha, what did you think the first time you saw Dougal MacBride?

The first thought in my head was what a hunk. He had shaggy, dark brown hair eyes that gleamed with life and a muscular body. Then he started to talk and I loved his brogue. I honestly thought he was a reinactor who had dressed up for the demonstration. He really looked the part and sounded the part. Little did I know he was authentic to the time period we were demonstrating and I had ruined his life.

What was your second thought?

That he was crazy. I mean really, he believed the log cabin was his home and ordered us out so he could eat his supper. Not the thoughts of a rational man.

Did you feel it was love at first sight?TimelessPassion_w9565_300

Certainly not, but he was very attractive. There was a ruggedness about him that was appealing.

Earlier you said you had ruined his life. What do you mean?

Mac and I did a Hogmanay demonstration and we all wished on the faery berries for a miracle to save the pioneer village and Dougal walked into the log cabin.

What do you like most about Dougal?

He is a genuine person. Once I got to know him, he was a truly caring person. He has a great work ethic, and he believes in putting his all into the job. He’s funny and charming. What’s not to like?

How would he describe you?

At first a very bossy woman, then he realized that I was only doing my job. It’s funny that we are both workaholics, but that is one reason we get along.

What made you choose being a pioneer village director?

It chose me. I love history and loved being able to preserve it. My family settle on the farm I live on back in 1824 and it is my heritage that I’m teaching every day at the working museum.

What is your biggest fear, Tasha?

Losing the village. It take a lot of money to keep the museum open. The building have to be maintained, the taxes on the grounds are high and I can’t tell you how many developers what to buy us out and put in housing development. It’s a struggle every day to keep the village open. If I fail we’ve all lose because our history will be lost.

What is the best piece of advice you ever received?

Live every day as if it was your last and do your best.

Thanks so much, Tasha, for spending time with us. Now it’s time to chat with Kayden.

What event in your private life were you able to bring to this story and how do you feel it impacted the novel?

I’m a history buff so I actually went to a local pioneer village that was doing a demonstration of the Christmas season. When I walked into a log cabin they were doing a Hogmanay demo and I just felt I was living the experience. I hope readers feel the same way when they read Timeless Passion.

What projects are you working on now?

I have another book coming out January 13, titled Red Hot. It’s part of the candy hearts series and I’m really excited about it. I have another book waiting for their approval and of course I’m writing another. This time it’s a ghost story and I’m excited about that too.

Thanks for inviting us to be here with you today.

Blurb: Museum director Tasha Banner needs a miracle. Without a great deal of luck and even more money, the pioneer museum will close. But when they demonstrate Hogmanay, a Scottish New Year’s tradition, a tall, dark, and yummy stranger walks through the door. Have the faeries sent her a miracle wrapped around the man of her dreams or will altering time bring disaster to them all?

Blacksmith Dougal MacBride walks into his home after a long day and finds strangers celebrating Hogmanay when it’s just days before Christmas. Confused beyond belief and incredibly aroused by the curvaceous bundle in front of his hearth, he is torn between the need to return to his time or remain in the present with the woman who may be his soul mate.

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