Wednesday, September 19th, 2012
Tuesday, September 18th, 2012
The Soul Within
Got Nancy “Under My Hat” today with a hot new book.
Alex’s body is in a coma. His soul, however, is not. Desperate to become whole, he must first convince stubborn beauty Evening Sinclair that he is not dead.
For generations, the Sinclairs have been healers. Using a gentle touch to heal the body and a soothing word to heal the soul, Evening Sinclair is no different. Yet despite her secret abilities, Eve has a somewhat normal existence. She enjoys her small physiotherapy practice, dotes on her eight-year-old daughter and occasionally helps souls get back into their bodies-that is until Alex, with his brooding good looks and glowing eyes, appears in her kitchen.
Alex is desperate to get back into his body-two innocent lives depend on it. His only obstacle is Eve and her stubborn fear. Unfortunately for Eve, Alex is ruthless and just as stubborn. He will do whatever it takes to get what he wants. He will not ‘go away’ and no matter how much Eve tortures him with her lush body and perfect mouth, he will not change his mind. Eve will merge him, and if it takes him haunting her day and night, she will merge him back with a body-any body.
“I can feel you touch me.” Alex raised his head, a half smile on his face.
Her eyes met his. “You do?”
This time, she started at his shoulders and ran her hands down the entire length of his arms to his hands, where she made an attempt to clasp them in her own.
“How are you doing this?”
“I don’t know? How can you feel me?”
He chuckled. “I don’t know?”
Staring down at their hands she asked. “What do you feel?”
“It’s like when your foot falls asleep and you get that ‘pins and needles’ sensation, mixed with a warm tingling.”
Eve met Alex’s stare. “You’re really not dead.”
He studied her intently. “Is that why you won’t help me, because you think I’m dead?”
Embarrassed, she turned away. “I thought you might be and that you were having trouble…moving on.”
“Moving on?” he repeated. She heard him exhale in a huff but didn’t want to face him yet. “Eve?” He used her name to get her attention but she didn’t budge. “Evening.” This time her name was said with more force.
Her cheeks were warm when she faced him. She expected him to be annoyed but he only showed concern. “Do you see the dead too?”
“No. Never, just medians. My mother did, I thought maybe it had started for me too. It was the only explanation I could come up with as to why you were still hanging around me.” Her throat felt like it was beginning to close up with the thought of it, but she asked him anyway. “Have you seen…them…out there?”
Nancy’s addiction for a good trash novel began in her late-teens when her grandmother gave her a bag of Harlequin Romance books. She was hooked and spent the next few years lurking in the dark corners of used bookstores searching for her next fix. Until, one marriage and two kids later, her own ideas had her jumping up at 3 am (much to her husband’s annoyance) and typing them into her laptop. Beside her husband and children, Nancy has three passions, rearranging furniture, buying bed linens and, of course, writing. Nancy lives in Eastern Ontario with her family and two over sized lap dogs.
Website, blog, Twitter, Facebook, etc
Email address: Fancyfirstname.lastname@example.org
Website: to come – will let you know if it is up and running before tours start
Monday, September 17th, 2012
He’s discovered that his boss, international businessman Charles Bennett, is actually dealing in drugs and illegal arms. Killers are on his trail and Tate Buchanan needs a place to hide and use his hacking skills to get the evidence he needs. He finds it in tiny Connelly, Texas, where he also finds hotter than hot Casey McIntyre. After six years with the F.B.I. and four years in Afghanistan marked by a disastrous love affair, Casey is trying to put both her life and her shattered heart back together. Her instincts tell her that the stranger in the family restaurant has trouble on his back but her common sense tells her to stay as far away from him as possible. Of course, common sense never paid attention to combustible chemistry and it’s not long before Casey and T.J. (as he now calls himself) are spending every minute together day and night. Can he find the proof he needs before the killers track him down? And when they do, can Casey use all her skills to protect him and keep him safe?
A man-in-jeopardy story for a change, where a kickass woman uses all her skills to protect the man she’s come to love.
Casey McIntyre fired the last three bullets in her Glock 17G thirteen-round clip, hitting dead in the middle. No center mass for her. All her shots went straight to the head of the silhouette with one hundred percent accuracy. She nodded her head in satisfaction.
Since she’d left the service and come home, she started most of her days the same way. She tried to tell herself it was to keep her skills sharp but in reality, anger drove her. She still had so much of it stored up inside her, along with a world of hurt.
She trudged to the backstop, nailed up another target and took a black Magic Marker from her jeans pocket. In big letters she wrote a P and an M on the head, making them as bold as possible. At the shooting table again, she reloaded her Glock and checked to verify her H&K P30 had a full clip. The two guns were her personal weapons, much like the ones she’d been issued when she’d been attached to the Special Ops unit in Afghanistan.
She adjusted her ball cap, yanking at the ponytail poking out through the opening in back. Putting on her ear protectors and safety glasses, she picked up the Glock and sighted.
Again the first shot drilled a hole in the center of the head.
Die, Paul Marsden. You asshole. Rat bastard. User.
The next three shots, in rapid succession, stitched a straight line down the torso. With defiant satisfaction, she emptied the rest of the clip into the genital area, blowing a nice round hole in his package. The act gave her the first real sense of wiping away the past and taking control of her life since she’d come home. She had to suppress an urge to lift the gun and blow on the barrel the way old-time gunfighters did.
Reloading the clip, she fired again. By the time she’d finished, she’d gone through two more and the silhouette hung in shreds and tatters. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she tore the target down and replaced it with another. Again she marked it with initials—A.A.S.—and drew a circle around them with a vicious stroke. Then she picked up the Heckler & Koch, settling the familiar grip into the palm of her hand.
This time when she sighted, she aimed for center mass and unloaded the entire clip without pausing between shots. Reloading with rapid speed, she fired in the same pattern, over and over again, until she’d used all the .45mm ammo and left a hole in the silhouette big enough to drive a small car through. By then her arms were quivering, her body covered with sweat. Sitting on the bench at the loading table she forced herself to slow her breathing and her racing pulse before policing her brass and packing away her gear.
Shooting the ghost of her former lover had been cathartic but not half as satisfying as destroying the target marked A.S.S.—Col. Aaron Sherman Smart.
Good initials for him. They suited bastard that he turned out to be. A sanctimonious son of a bitch.
Collision Course is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords and All Romance ebooks for ONLY 99 Cents until October 15.
Saturday, September 15th, 2012
What absolutely yummy heroes Cerise Deland writes. I want to be Coco in this story. She has all the fun.
Siren Bookstrand said:
Carried Away is a great suspense story with the right amount of romance and hot sexual tension and the suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Cerise Deland has a hit on her hands with suspense filled story. It is one you will enjoy.
And gave it Five Siren Stones, the top rating.
Grant Warwick has never scoured luscious, funny Coco Dalton from his brain. She was heaven to hold, hot as hell in bed—and for four scintillating months, totally his. So why she left him one morning without the courtesy of a call is one damn big mystery he’s never solved.
When she reappears one day in Venice, he’s stunned she wants to apologize. Heartbroken she had to desert him years ago, Coco asks his help to find a terrorist who’s tracking her. Resisting her isn’t possible—Grant sweeps her up into his arms and savors her sweet body with kisses so torrid and lovemaking so mind-bending, she’ll never again want to leave him.
But Grant must also find time to track down the terrorist, before Coco is taken from him forever.
Grant Warwick took another sip of espresso and pushed his Ray-Bans up his nose. He leaned his elbows on the café table and narrowed his eyes. Yes. The woman in the tissue-thin white cotton dress was still yakking with the Venetian guy on the stalled vaporetto. Grant told himself it was the June sun’s refractions off the murky water of the Grand Canal that hurt his eyes. But he knew it was the sight of Coco Dalton that assaulted him.
You’d think after three years of searching for another woman to replace her in his bed, he’d have replaced her in his mind. Forgotten her. The fire in his belly. The instant concrete in his cock. The idiotic dreams in his head.
One look at that gamin body, the cap of platinum curls, the up-turned breasts that didn’t need a bra, the legs that went on forever right down into her latest ugly pair of shoe leather—yeah, and he’d been hooked. Like a fish. And after the way she’d dumped him long ago, he knew his heartache smelled like an oldfish.
Christ. What a waste you are, Warwick. A hulking Scots-Irish loner who never got hooked on any woman.
Except to graceful, reckless award-winning photojournalist, Coco Dalton.
What was she doing here? Though he could see she had her camera bag slung over her shoulder and one tiny piece of luggage, she never took a vacation. He scanned the hordes of tourists streaming past him toward St. Mark’s Square, noting that no wise person traveled here after May unless they wanted to be trampled to death by the crowds.
Coco suddenly frowned at whatever her companion was saying. Odd. You used to laugh. Often. With me. In bed. Out. On kitchen counters. Floors. His eyes drifted shut as he recalled how she felt like hot satin in his arms, sinuous and artless, the ballerina who gave up the quest for pro. The way her lush lips would spread over her teeth when she grinned. The way her plump nether lips would swell when she wanted Grant to lick her and fill her. The way she’d cream for him, coming just in anticipation of his cock sliding into her juicy little cunt.
He ran a hand over his cleanly shaven bald head. Time to go, Warwick. He downed his coffee, gave the high sign to his waiter and plunked twenty euro on the table for his lunch. Buttoning his suit coat, he stood and headed for the meeting for which he’d flown to Venice.
He worked his way from the Grand Canal back into the winding calle of the ancient city. Last night, after he arrived on his private jet at the small metro airport, he’d checked into his hotel and promptly gone out to find the building. Venice always confused the hell out of him but he got off on knowing all the details of any event and prepared. That research, that caution made him and his company one of the fastest growing and better known among international security firms. The reputation that gave him had guaranteed him this new contract with the government of Dubai for their new government historical museum.
Grant arrived within minutes at the pale buttery concrete building which housed the commercial offices of the Emirate. A palazzo built in the fourteenth century by one of the Electors of Venice, the structure reflected the intrigues of the city’s politics with an ornate door of rose and green inlaid tiles. Inside, the tiny hall spoke of age–old schemes and secrets. He took the hairpin stairway up to the first floor, bending low to avoid the ceiling that was unfit for an American of six foot four.
“Buon giorno,” he greeted the receptionist, a lovely white-veiled Arab woman with a king’s ransom of gold dripping from her fingers, her wrists and hanging around her neck. “Grant Warwick to see Sheik Khalid Nasar.”
“Welcome, Mr. Warwick,” the lady responded with a crisp British accent and a blazing set of perfect white teeth. She rose from her chair and inclined her head in deference. “Please wait here a moment and I will announce you. May I offer you refreshment as you wait? Tea, perhaps, or coffee?”
Grant wanted neither but he knew from his years in the Middle East, it was an insult to refuse. “Tea, thank you.” He took a seat in one of the huge, sumptuously upholstered chairs which reminded him of those he’d seen in the Doge’s private residence. He’d heard the emir of Dubai was a very forward-looking man and favored modern furniture. This medieval look amused Grant. Ah, well. When in Venice, do as the Venetians.
The receptionist appeared with a tray with one thimble-sized cup of steaming liquid. The aroma of anise and fennel met his nostrils and he decided the brew might soothe his irritation at seeing Coco again. He took a sip—heard the door open, looked up—and promptly realized no relief was possible.
Struggling in the front door, Coco dragged her little red suitcase behind her and smiled tentatively at the receptionist. “Buon giorno, Signora. I am Coco Dalton,” she said as she parked her suitcase and let her camera bag slide to the floor. In the stilted movements of her body, Grant detected a change from the grace she normally possessed. “You are expecting me.”
The woman nodded, her lashes fluttering and descending with wide-eyed dismay to the thin, almost transparent dress Coco wore. “Yes, of course, Ms. Dalton. May I offer you tea or coffee?”
“Thank you,” Coco smiled, kneading her hands, whether out of numbness or nerves Grant couldn’t tell. Where are the remnants of the teenager who wanted to become a professional ballerina? “Tea. Yes, tea.” Her back was ramrod straight and she never turned to face him but chatted on.
Good thing, because his eyes drilled through the cotton to the curve of her hips and the straps of the white thong. His shaft twitched, taking note of the scrap of fabric that nestled between the two sweet cheeks of her ass.
Coco bent, fiddling with one of the zippers on her suitcase. “May I ask if you have a room free so that I might change my clothes?”
Grant’s cock didn’t want her to change a thing.
“My plane was late and I had no time to go to my hotel,” she told the woman.
Grant forced his gaze lower and winced at the sight of Coco’s latest outrage. Clunky neon pink running shoes.
“Forgive me,” she said, “but I do not want to meet the Sheik in my traveling attire.”
She’s here to meet the same man I am?
“Yes, Ms. Dalton.” The receptionist breathed a sigh of relief and smiled broadly at the scantily-dressed visitor. “Allow me to show you. Do you also have a scarf for your hair?” she asked Coco, as she turned and ushered Coco back through the hall.
What the hell did the sheik need with a war-zone photographer? Certainly not to open a private historical museum in Dubai.
Grant scrubbed his jaw in anger. Why hadn’t his VP of Research told him about this? Todd Cummings usually knew all. But if Coco Dalton was involved in this new job, Grant was pulling out now. He had no desire to meet her or talk with her. She’d made it plain to him three years ago when she’d failed to meet him at the airport for a romantic vacation that she was not and could never be devoted to him. And he had no intention of looking at her now and gnawing out his guts any more than he already had.
The receptionist rounded the corner of the hall and paused, casting stunned eyes on him. “Sir? You are—”
“Leaving. Give my apologies to Sheik Nasar, will you please? I must—”
“Mr. Warwick,” came a baritone from the far end of the corridor. The petite, olive- skinned man in a hand-tailored dark gray Italian silk suit. “Please, sir, you cannot leave.”
“Your Highness,” Grant inclined his head in respect to the emir’s cousin, a noted businessman who had his own private collection of Middle Eastern artifacts. “I am most pleased to meet you. We should have done so years ago.” For Grant to make a hasty exit now was impossible. Hell, it hadn’t been possible before, but he was obviously brain dead! You can’t run from a planned meeting with a man who has agreed to sign a contract with you for two million dollars a year for ten years.
When Grant got hold of Todd again, he was going to put his feet to the fire for his failure here this afternoon. Now all Grant had to do was just keep away from the cute blonde trick in bad shoe leather.
“Come,” said Nasar. “We will discuss our matters at length. Naila?” He turned to his receptionist. “Please see we have privacy.”
“I will.” She averted her eyes, smiling at the floor in feminine courtesy to her superior.
Nasar led the way into a large office with a floor-to-ceiling view of the red and ochre rooftops of Venice. Inside, a blinding Carrara marble conference table stretched to a size capable of seating ten or more. Shown to the prince’s left hand side, Grant pulled out a rolling chair and waited for Nasar to sit first. He heard another door open in the hall outside, and then another. Odds were, from one of those came a woman he had never wanted to see again.
The first person to appear in the doorway was a man. Taller than the prince, darker than he and younger by a decade, this man strode forward, all grins. “Mr. Warwick! Jamal Husseini. How wonderful to welcome you here finally. We have written often! I am the curator of the new museum.”
Grant nodded, took his hand in the western way and shook. Husseini, too, had a British accent and Grant knew from what information Todd Cummings had gleaned on this job, that the curator’s mother was British and his father from Dubai. With degrees from Oxford and Harvard in ancient texts and archeology, the man was renowned for his doctoral thesis on the works of early Islamic poets. A distant cousin of Sheik Nasar, Husseini’s credentials and connections ensured that he had been appointed curator of Nasar’s lavish new private museum.
Grant and Jamal took their cue from Nasar when he sat down, then navigated the formalities of getting to know each other. As they spoke, Grant listened not to the man but for signs of the woman whom he knew was somewhere in this office.
Finally, he heard it. Clip, clop. Clip, clop. Clattering down the hall was a woman wearing high heels. Grant had sworn Coco owned only one pair, so the odds that it might be she who appeared in the doorway were few. But so was what he saw her wearing as she came into view. Here, in all her svelte glory, stood Coco Dalton, all five foot six inches of her in a sleek white linen suit that cupped her lush breasts and flowed down her hips like a fresh coat of paint. And, yes—Grant knew his brows rose in shock—on her feet were ivory stilettos, six inches high. He let the other two men greet her first. Grant rose to his feet last.
She put a smile on her face and gave it to them all, not pausing at him any longer than the others, but sliding like the diplomat’s daughter she was, back to her host. “Forgive me, for being late. My plane.” She flourished a hand in explanation. “One can never count on schedules these days.” She stepped forward to shake hands with Nasar and Jamal. Then she turned to him. “Hello, Grant,” she said in an impartial but friendly tone that held no fear he might reject her. What’s more, she was not at all surprised at his presence. Why not?
He shook her hand. Warm, elegant, her fingers withdrew from his with a jerk. So. You are nervous about seeing me again.
She took the chair across from him. Without briefcase, computer or pen and paper, the four of them began the preliminaries of their first face-to-face meeting. The weather, their health, the adequacies of their hotel accommodations were each reviewed and found pleasant.
Nasar folded his meaty hands before him. “Ms. Dalton, Mr. Warwick, I am grateful to you both for meeting me here earlier than we planned. Thank you for altering your plans to go straight to Dubai, but I needed to see you here as my own plans were recently changed.”
Jamal leaned forward. “We have a problem we did not anticipate.”
Grant frowned. If some hitch meant they were now going to withdraw the contract for his firm to supply security to their buildings, he wouldn’t be happy, but he wouldn’t starve, either. “I assure you both it was no problem for me to come here.”
Coco agreed. “I am at your disposal. And knowing how well Mr. Warwick works, I know he maintains his supremacy in his business because he is always flexible.”
I’m flexible? He stared at her. Her violet gaze slid over his in a nanosecond. You’ve got some nerve, babe, to speak for me. And yeah, I’m flexible except when you ripped out my heart and left it in two goddamn pieces.
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Friday, September 14th, 2012
Tanith Davenport lives in Yorkshire with her long-suffering husband and pampered cats. Her interests range wildly between rock music and modern cinema to medieval literature and the language of flowers. She loves to travel and dreams of one day taking a driving tour of the United States, preferably in a classic 1950s pink Cadillac Eldorado.
Tanith’s idea of heaven is an Indian head massage with a Mojito at her side.
I’ve always loved writing campus-based stories. Maybe it’s from having fond memories of my time as a student, living in a student hall right in the middle of everything, where you could have as much fun as you want.
Or maybe it’s because I always wished we’d had the Greek system over here. I don’t know if I’d have made a good sorority girl, but I always liked the idea, and the image of a house full of cute girls floating around in babydoll nighties lends itself nicely to erotica, if not to real life. Instead I lived in hall for three years and a student house for my Masters year, and as far as I can remember I did all my floating around in jeans and T-shirts, changing at night into a football shirt my boyfriend had got me.
And that’s another thing. Students are expected to be experimental in all things. I can still remember my first week as a fresher, buying inspirational posters and a tie-dyed rug and feeling ever so adventurous. Yeah, right. Students are supposed to go out every night and bring a different bedmate home, or do the entire rugby team, or hook up at frat parties.
I won’t say I didn’t have fun, but I was a serial monogamist. I arrived with a boyfriend, dumped him fairly early for another man, was unceremoniously dumped for another woman, and then met the man who eventually became my husband. Not especially daring, unless compared with my friend who arrived, studied, left with and eventually married the same man, or another friend who moved in with her new boyfriend a month into her freshman year and never left his side.
My across-the-hall neighbour, on the other hand, could be heard screaming “Ooh, babe!” every night of the week, and dragged me out of many a bar because she’d spotted someone she’d slept with and didn’t want to bump into him. Her bedpost wasn’t notched, it was disintegrating.
But you’re young, and what the hell, it’s fun. And I love that attitude.
So my debut novel was set at a US university, and my new short Assume the Position involves two sorority sisters drinking lots of wine and demonstrating naked yoga positions. You can’t lose, can you?
Tamar Brennan is depressed. Instead of going to a party at Delta Phi with her girlfriend, she’s freshly dumped and stuck indoors with only her roommate for company – her very hot, also gay roommate Elyse, on whom Tamar has been nursing a secret crush for months. Elyse has always kept their relationship strictly friends – apart from one drunken kiss which Tamar has never forgotten.
Alone in their room drinking wine, the conversation turns to Elyse’s yoga training. The sight of Elyse’s slender body moving through yoga poses is too exciting for Tamar to resist, and Elyse is willing… but can Tamar convince her to break her just-friends rule in the cold light of day?
“And then five seconds of downward dog.” Keeping her palms flat on the floor, Elyse pushed her body upwards, lowering her head, legs close together and ass pointing straight at the ceiling.
Elyse’s jeans were impossibly tight, the red lace of Elyse’s thong underwear exposed above the waistband, and Tamar gripped the edge of the bed as desire flooded through her body. Barely aware of what she was doing, she slid to the edge of the bed, staring greedily at Elyse’s denim-clad ass as she held the pose, three seconds, four seconds, five –
And then, unable to resist, she leaned forward and smacked one cheek.
Elyse let out an outraged squeal and dropped to her knees. She looked back over her shoulder at Tamar, dark tendrils of hair falling over her eyes, which had narrowed wickedly.
“Okay. Let’s see you do it then.”
A small part of Tamar’s alcohol-fogged brain suggested this was a bad idea in a short skirt, but Tamar found herself rolling off the bed join Elyse on the floor. Remembering what Elyse had done, she laid herself flat as Elyse sat up alongside her and watched, her skin tingling under her friend’s intent stare.
Elyse’s hand slid under her stomach, and Tamar suppressed a gasp.
Tamar pushed down with her hands and lifted, guided by Elyse’s hand, until her bottom was as high as it could go.
“Now hold. Five seconds.”
There was motion beside her, and she sensed that Elyse had stood up. A thrill ran over her skin as footsteps slowly moved to pause behind her.
Elyse was right behind her, and Tamar was suddenly conscious of her position; ass in the air, covered only by a short skirt and panties which were growing increasingly moist.
Her gut clenched at the picture she must be making. Elyse hadn’t moved, and she could hear short, staccato breaths behind her, which must mean that Elyse was –
Without warning, hands abruptly jerked to her bottom, pushing her skirt up over her hips, and before she could speak they had hooked into her panties and yanked them down to her knees.