Lynne Connolly - author of Dark-Edged Romance

New Release - Red Alert

2009-03-27T15:56:00.003Z

Red Alert - the first in a new series of paranormal romantica.

When a dragon flies over Central Park, he jolts the world into awareness. Shape-shifters and vampires finally reveal their existence, and people show their fangs, wings and claws to their neighbors. But exposure doesn’t deter old enemies.
Megan meets Sandro at the lowest time of her life – when she thinks her crazy nightmares are symptoms of the tumor that is killing her. But the sexy dragon shape-shifter tells her the dreams are telepathic messages from his missing brother Ricardo. More than telepathy flares between them. Megan and Sandro burn up the night with sizzling passion, but Sandro won’t commit, and Megan wants more than a fling.
When Sandro rescues Megan from Ricardo’s captors she gives him the key to locate his brother, but he wants far more from the sexy archivist. He wants her body, all ways, all day, all night.
But this is his last case for the STORM agency and he knows he can’t promise Megan any kind of forever.

(Cover art by Seneca)

Excerpt:

A blast of bright light made Megan open her eyes.

The dragon soared up toward the higher buildings before straightening out his flight. Then it grew larger, just as it said it would. She found herself sitting between the great wings of a beast that until a few months ago was supposed to be only a legend. Well here it was. A real live dragon.

It was maybe ten feet from head to tail, covered in blue-green scales, dry and warm, not slimy as she’d imagined when she’d seen one on the TV. Its broad back gave her good purchase, if she lowered her body so she lay on her bag, the remnants of his jacket and the manila envelope holding her scan results. Wind whipped past them and she spread her hands over the thick neck, clutching the folds of skin she found there. “Holy shit!”

Hold on tight. We’re not going far.

“Yeah.”

And by the way, dragon or man, I’m always masculine. Never an “it”. Amusement rather than irritation colored his inner voice. Dark, smoky, sexy. And yes, very masculine.

That’s better.

Can you tell everything I’m thinking?

No. Only your outer thoughts. I could go deeper but it would hurt you. We try not to pry.

My, you are civilized.

You have no idea, was his bitingly sarcastic reply.

This was a hell of a way to find out she wasn’t afraid of heights.

They were higher now. He kept to about thirtieth-floor level, as far as she could guess. He headed for the heart of Manhattan. The oasis of Central Park sprawled below them, the lush green punctuated by sharp flashes as people took photos. Despite her fatigue, a sense of elation rose in her, purely from the flight. “We’ll be on the news. Will they be able to make out my face?”

Try to speak telepathically. I can hear you better like that when we’re airborne. No they won’t make out your face, my body should obscure it. I’ll just make sure.

A warm, soft feeling enveloped them, enclosing her in an unseen envelope, like atmospheric pressure around a plane. “What did you do?”

Fuzzed. Put a mental shield around us, so people see what they expect to see, not what’s really here. How do you think we kept ourselves secret for so long?

New York looked different from the air but it was still the city Megan had fallen in love with the minute she stepped off the shuttle bus from the airport. Today was a cold, fresh spring day with a crisp blue sky, one of the best.

Where are you taking me?

To a parking garage. Then home.

My home?

Mine.

He descended so smoothly she hardly noticed until the flat, car-strewn rooftop loomed up under his great clawed feet. He extended them and landed as gently as an experienced pilot. Smoother.

She stayed on his back. The roof appeared to waver, and only then did vertigo hit. Closing her eyes, Megan willed her stomach to behave until she felt the movement cease.

You can get off me now.

Megan opened her eyes and found the ground a mere three feet away. After grabbing the jacket, bag and folder, she extended her legs down one side of the scaly body and slid down to the blessedly solid ground. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, sheer relief pouring through her.

“You did well.”

The deep, masculine voice sounded just like the one in her head. And a little like the one that cried out to her in her dreams. Shivering a little, she opened her eyes and confronted a tall, strong man. A tall, strong, completely nude man with a ripped body.

Although she tried really hard not to look down for, oh, perhaps a whole second, she couldn’t resist any longer than that. Her gaze traveled down the broad chest, liberally sprinkled with curly black hair, the join-the-dots line from navel down to—oh yes.

Long, strong and semi-erect. Semi-erect? Startled, she jerked her attention up to his face, blinking.

He gave her a devastatingly wicked smile and took the two steps that separated them. “I can’t lie to you when I’m naked, can I?”

“What, the violence turns you on? Or is it the transformation?” she managed, weak but still fighting. She badly wanted to go to him and just be held, be told it was all right, this was all a dream. But it wasn’t.

“No, it was the lush brunette who’s just spent the last twenty minutes snuggled against my back.” He smiled wryly, a warm, genuine smile, so very different from the ones Dr. Jones had flashed at her a short time before. “I felt your body against my back, the way your breasts pressed against me and your crotch pushed me. That’ll do it every time.”

“You don’t even know my name. It’s Megan. Megan Armstrong.”

“Well, Megan Armstrong, let me claim my reward for rescuing you.”

Before she could step back, his arms went around her, pressing her close, and his mouth settled on hers.

Oh but he tasted delicious. Of warmth and strength and pure, rampant male. She relaxed and let him support her weight. She hadn’t allowed herself any weaknesses for years but at the end of her rope, it felt so good to be held. This man took what he wanted and what he wanted, she gave.

Red Alert from Ellora's Cave
Dragons save the World!
Order Page: http://www.jasminejade.com/p-7065-red-alert.aspx
ISBN: 9781419920639

Newsletter, March 2009

2009-03-05T00:39:00.000Z

Newsletter, March 2009

News
The snow has gone, and spring is tentatively pushing new shoots out of the ground. Today, on March the first, we have a bright, slightly chilly day. Perfect for spring.
I know I'm in a minority, but I love winter, love it when it gets darker early, so I can close the curtains and put the fire on. Having a cat to happily curl up in front of that fire helps. Nothing as cosy as a fire and a cat dozing on the mat in front of it. Of course, if you have a carpet with a lot of cream in it and a black cat, there are drawbacks, but I can cope!

News this month is all ongoing. I'm about to start the third STORM book and looking forward to the release of the first one. Moving Talents on just that little bit has given me a whole new set of conflicts to cope with. Many authors have written of the world that has vampires and shape-shifters in it, but they are already established, and they're more fantasies. But what of the transition, the time when mortals are made to realise that they're not the only kind of human on the planet? I'm doing the Red sequence at the moment, the search for one of the people who exploited Talents in the old days, but I want to go on to different sequences, where the changing world is explored, with all its ramifications and possibilities.

I've also seen the release of what was originally planned as the last Secrets book, Tantalizing Secrets. Part of the historical side of my work, I've had thoughts about the other characters, like Antonia, and even Elizabeth Wisheart, and I've had ideas. So it looks as if Tantalizing won't be the last in the series! I'd love your opinions on that. Who would you like to hear more about? Or do you think I should stop it, and just get on with writing the Richard and Rose series?

I have two more books planned for Richard and Rose, but there are two more that have never seen the light of day. I've now revised and sent in all the previously published books, and two have come out. Two more, this year, then the new ones. It's so different, writing a series about an established couple, and I found, as I revised and thought about the new plots, that they came back to me just as vividly as they always did. I'm so glad the first two in the series got such a good reception when Samhain brought them out, and I think Richard and Rose have found their home.

I'm getting geared up for Romantic Times now. I'm bringing a bunch of really pretty postcards, and some other bits and pieces with me, but I'm really looking forward to meeting my friends, publishers, writers and readers. If you're there, do search me out. I tend to go around in blinkers, heading for the next event, and I'm not a natural extrovert, but I'd love to meet you and put faces to the names I know and have known for years.
I will be tired. My health, as some of you know, isn't always good, but I'm doing my best to ensure that everything works for me at the end of April. I just had what the doctor called "a minor procedure" that turned into something a bit bigger, but we're past that now, and I go to have the stitches out tomorrow. After that, a bit of healthy eating and exercise and I should be ready for that long flight and a great break in Orlando! I shall probably sleep for a week when I get home, but it is so worth it. I'm arriving a few days beforehand so I can get over jetlag and acclimatize a bit, so if you're around, let me know!

Excerpt
So - this month's excerpt is from March's new release, Red Alert, the first STORM book. I'm very excited about this, the first book in what I plan as a series, with new characters and conflicts. But they're still Talents, still struggling against injustice and prejudice. And still burning up the sheets at night!

How about the first chapter from Red Alert?

When a dragon flies over Central Park, he jolts the world into awareness. Shape-shifters and vampires finally reveal their existence, and people show their fangs, wings and claws to their neighbors. But exposure doesn’t deter old enemies.
Megan meets Sandro at the lowest time of her life – when she thinks her crazy nightmares are symptoms of the tumor that is killing her. But the sexy dragon shape-shifter tells her the dreams are telepathic messages from his missing brother Ricardo. More than telepathy flares between them. Megan and Sandro burn up the night with sizzling passion, but Sandro won’t commit, and Megan wants more than a fling.
When Sandro rescues Megan from Ricardo’s captors she gives him the key to locate his brother, but he wants far more from the sexy archivist. He wants her body, all ways, all day, all night.
But this is his last case for the STORM agency and he knows he can’t promise Megan any kind of forever.

Tomorrow…

Megan stood when the nurse called her name, steeling herself for the ordeal ahead. The entrance doors to the unit opened with a click and cool air touched her cheek. She paused to look around, glad of any distraction.

A man entered the hospital ward. The breeze ruffled his dark hair and he turned back to close the door, unconsciously displaying the strength of his powerful body in the stacked muscle rippling the t-shirt under his worn leather jacket. Just how she liked her men, tall and strong.

Normally, that was. Today, all she could think about was sleep and getting some—soon. Even the results of today’s test gave way to that desperate need. She hadn’t slept the night through for weeks. She was about to hear that she was in for long bouts of painful treatment with a death sentence at the end—the fate she’d been dreading for weeks, but in her current state of exhaustion even that took second place to sleep. She dismissed the sexy stranger with a weary shrug and turned her attention to the nurse.

The nurse led her past a line of curtained cubicles into a private room. “The doctor will be with you in a moment,” she snapped before exiting briskly.

What was her problem? Megan couldn’t help her busy day. For her information, Megan’s day would be much worse and she hadn’t snapped at anybody. Yet.

The quiet in the room assaulted her senses after the bustle of the ward. Humanity, in all its shuffling, smelly reality lay out there but here Megan felt sequestered, almost as if the room was soundproofed. Anxiety tightened her throat and she looked around for a distraction. Worry wouldn’t help her now. She’d taken the tests, and once she had her results, she’d know what would happen next.

But here, in a room with a steel hospital bed, reality hit with sickening impact. They must have brought her here because they wanted her to stay, not just give her the results and tell her to come back later. That meant whatever was wrong with her was urgent, needing immediate treatment.

She said the words “Brain tumor” aloud a few times, trying to get used to the idea. It still sent a shudder through her every time.

Biting her lip, Megan glanced up at the TV bolted to the wall above her head. Pictures flashed across the screen, an internal hospital channel showing reminders to eat your five portions of vegetables a day, images of a well-manicured hand slicing carrots into sticks, then green peppers into appetizing slices. She watched the silent images then glanced away. Food was the last thing on her mind.

Usually a patient was stuck with the hospital information channel but not here. A remote lay on the windowsill. Megan picked it up, flicked off the mute and turned to the next channel. CNN News.

“Can New York take this new pressure on its infrastructure?” the commentator said. “How long will it be before there’s a collision in the sky and a bloody mess in the street?”

The camera switched to a view of a dragon in full flight. The creature must have a twenty-foot wingspan. Its great blue-green body gleamed in the weak spring sunshine, the hue shining iridescently as it beat its wings against the wind currents. So beautiful. So impossible, until yesterday.

Damn but she wished she could see one. The existence of people calling themselves Talents had blasted shock waves around the world. She’d seen the footage of the dragon in flight a dozen times since yesterday, when it was the central part of a documentary devoted to the subject. An amateur cameraman—if there such a thing in New York where everybody seemed to be selling their private photos to one agency or another—shot the dragon in flight over Central Park. Other corroborative film and evidence followed, with the strong suggestion that these “creatures” were urban terrorists and spies.

So far, Talents hadn’t spoken, although a spokesman said they would break their long silence later today. That kind of confirmed it. One solitary documentary couldn’t persuade the world but when they came out and said they existed and they’d prove it, that would send the networks into orgasms of delight.

If Megan hadn’t been dreaming about a particular dragon for the past couple of months, it might have come as more of a shock to her but she had her own concerns now, and they overshadowed everything else. The commentator continued. “A representative from STORM will be speaking to the public later today. The Society of Talented Officers Resisting Mistreatment has been with us for some time but until recently nobody knew the specific definition of Talents. It means dragons, vampires and other creatures who have lived among us for centuries. Little is yet known of these Talented beings although they have promised to reveal more in the interest of public awareness.”

Megan slumped bonelessly to the bed, remote in hand.

She blinked and sat up when the door opened and a short, bespectacled doctor strode in, followed closely by two assistants, or maybe they were students. One big, red-haired man whose muscles bulged in a white jacket two sizes too small for him and an even bigger African-American, his head shaved aggressively bald.

My, they make students big these days. A note of alarm sounded in her head. Something was wrong here, though in her current state she couldn’t begin to imagine what it was.

The doctor carried a brown folder that he handed off to one of his assistants without taking his attention away from her. “Miss Armstrong,” he said, his professional smile revealing gleaming white teeth. “I’m Dr. Jones.”

She didn’t like his smile. Unctuous, she’d call it. Smarmy described it even better. His hair looked as if he hadn’t spared the wet-look gel and his chiseled, handsome face didn’t dispel her initial repulsion. “I understand you’ve been having bad dreams, Miss Armstrong.”

“A bit more than that.” She glanced up at the TV and remembered she held the remote in her hand. She muted it. “Sorry.”

The doctor glanced at the screen . “Seeing if any more dragons have appeared?”

“I guess so.” She shrugged. “Seen any in the ER?”

“Not that I know about.” The doctor flashed her another smile, a wintry one this time. He placed his cool fingers on her temples. “Hmm. You feel a little warm.” He reached over her head for the in-ear thermometer. “We’ve had the results of your CT scan and we’re concerned about some abnormalities.”

Here it came. Megan braced herself.

“You have a shadow at the back of your brain, Miss Armstrong.” That explained the presence of the students. An interesting case, he would tell them. Very unusual, worth studying. They could cut her up afterward to examine what killed her. At least she wouldn’t be there to see the blood. She’d never liked blood.

Shock flooded her body, tightening her throat and limbs. She fought it down. She needed information, a clear picture of what was happening inside her body. She fought out the word while she still could. “C-Cancer?”

The doctor gave her a smile. God, she hated his smiles. She wanted to slap that smug grin off his face. “Not necessarily. Many of these abnormalities are benign. But it’s pressing against your brain and probably causing the sleep difficulties. You’re having nightmares, aren’t you?”

“Vivid ones. Always the same.”

“Tell me. There might be some clues there.”

Megan opened her mind to the memories, allowed herself to see the picture that haunted her every night. “But enough about them. Tell me about your dreams.”

“More dragons, I’m afraid.” She flashed him an uncertain smile. “My dreams are always the same. A dragon shape-shifter, or that’s what he says he is. He’s restrained, tied down to a bed in a room with no windows. It’s full of instruments. He’s been tortured. Once I saw him with his arm laid open, the blood throbbing through his veins. He told me not to worry, he’d mend. But they did horrible things to him. He said for me to get in touch with his brother but it’s a dream, so I knew that must be wrong.”

“What was his brother’s name?”

She hesitated, a warning note sounding in her head. Don’t tell them. The voice sounded velvety, rough. Her imagination. It had to be. Sleep deprivation did some weird things. “You think it could be a reflection of my life? Wishful thinking? Only it isn’t, is it?” She waved a hand at the TV screen. “I’ve been having these dreams for a long time, long before the news of STORM and the shape-shifters broke. Now I’m beginning to wonder. Is it real, or is it me? They’re normal except for one thing, so this Ricardo could be telling the truth. ”

Dr. Jones’s eyes opened wide and glanced at the African-American student. “Ricardo. That’s his name?”

She mentally chastised herself for letting it slip. “Yes. He says he’s a dragon but I never saw him change or shape-shift or whatever they call it. He says he can’t.”

Dr. Jones tsked. “They appear perfectly human until they change, then they become perfectly dragon, or whatever shape they have. It’s disgusting when you see them shape-shift.” He paused and glanced at one of the students, who moved a little further away from him to stand in front of the door. “Mutants, you could call them.”

She wouldn’t call them “mutants”. Different, yes but “mutant” made them sound perverted and she didn’t think they were. A new minority, sure but no more “mutant” than any other minority.

Didn’t this doctor know a little too much about creatures who’d only revealed themselves in public yesterday? Her spine prickled in warning. There was definitely something wrong here. She wanted out of this quiet little room. She blinked and glanced at the door, past the beefy student who blocked her way.

“What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing. I just got a weird feeling—you know, like somebody’s walked over my grave.”

Dr. Jones shot a glance over his shoulder and the student nearest the door, the red-haired one, left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

Something crawled over her senses, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. This whole situation didn’t feel right. “Why is it so important? If there’s something in my brain causing these dreams, Ricardo doesn’t exist, does he?” She should be glad. If the swelling in her brain caused the dreams, a shape-shifting dragon called Ricardo Gianetti wasn’t lying on a table somewhere, tortured and suffering.

He exists.

She looked around for the source of the deep, night-dark voice, sure she didn’t imagine it this time. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“No.” Dr. Jones fixed her with a bland stare. “But I will now. We need you to stay in the hospital for a while. We’ll do another scan and operate as soon as possible, then we’ll know more.”

“What will you do?”

“We’ll schedule you for exploratory surgery, probably tomorrow.” He checked his watch. “It’s eleven a.m. now, which means we can operate any time from eleven tonight onward, after we’ve starved you and done the blood tests. I’ll make sure you’re on the list as a priority.” He looked back up at her, blue eyes assessing, professional smile firmly in place. “It’s too early to jump to conclusions, so try not to worry.”

“Like you try not to think about elephants, once somebody’s put the idea in your head?” What a stupid thing to say. Of course she’d worry. “And although I’m British, my work permits and health insurance are in order. In case you were wondering.” Most medics would, once they realized she wasn’t an American citizen but Dr. Jones hadn’t even asked. Nor had the nurse who’d brought her here.

The doctor’s smile didn’t waver, neither did it broaden or become more natural. That was about as fake a smile as she’d ever seen. “Get some rest and take your mind off things. Think about dragons.” With a jerk of his head he indicated the TV screen. It still flashed out pictures of that damn dragon flying across the screen.

“Would it be possible for me to make a phone call?” She’d switched her cell phone off, as instructed on her visit to the CT room. “Just to a friend to say where I am and ask him to bring some things in for me.”

For the first time since he’d entered the room, the African-American spoke. “We’d rather you didn’t use a cell phone. We’ll arrange for a phone to be brought to you.”

Her hackles rose a little more. Something was wrong here. All her instincts told her so. The doctor had been interested in her dream, which should be a symptom, a figment of her tumor-induced imagination and he knew more about shape-shifters than he could have picked up from one sensation-seeking documentary.

You want out?

That voice again, in her head. No one could hear it but her. She was looking right at Dr. Jones and no trace of awareness crossed his face. Who are you?

A Talent. I know Ricardo. Don’t listen to them. I can get you out of here.

He knew Ricardo? Ricardo wasn’t a figment of her tortured imagination? I don’t understand.

Choose. Now. Them or me?

Her skin, now prickling in goosebumps despite the stuffy heat in this room, told her the danger lay here, not with him. You.

Get out of the room. I’m just outside.

She slid off the bed, measuring the distance between her and the door. “Listen, the sleep clinic at the university only sent me here for a CT scan. How about I go back and show them the results and see what they think?”

“There’s no need for that. Time is of the essence here, Miss Armstrong. You should rest.”

The med student took a step toward her and she saw the syringe in his hand, its tip glinting wickedly in the weak sunlight filtering through the blinds.

Her goosebumps and prickling hairs became all-out terror. The two men who came in with Dr. Jones weren’t students at all. They were muscle.

A scuffle outside the door made Dr. Jones turn his head toward the sound. Megan took the opportunity and lashed out with her foot. It struck with a satisfyingly solid whump, right in his solar plexus.

Dr. Jones doubled up, gasping for air. Well the first step to getting out had been easy. But facing the “student” standing between her and the door, Megan knew he wouldn’t be such a pushover. He stood, feet planted wide apart, knees slightly bent in a position she recognized from her weekly karate class.

Fuck.

She had to hurry, before Jones regained his breath. When she kicked up toward the guy’s balls, intending the kick to be a feint for an upward hand jab, the bastard grabbed her ankle and threw her to the hard floor. The very hard floor. Her head hit the ground with a solidity Megan felt in every bone of her body, intensifying her ever-present headache, and she kicked back with her free foot, only to find it caught in the same meaty fist.

Pressure on the side of her pants alerted her to the syringe pressing into her flesh.

The door burst open, propelled by the heavy body of the red-haired “student”. He fell next to her, already unconscious, his big body completely relaxed. One massive arm dropped over her body, dislodging the needle’s trajectory.

A whirlwind followed the student, or what seemed like one to Megan. Dark, unruly hair was the only feature she was absolutely sure of topping a tall, powerful body with excellent reactions, because the intruder spun around on his heel, his arm already whipping out to take her attacker full across his face.

The open-handed slap knocked the African-American aside but he came back, one blow too superficial to cause any real damage. Just in time to receive the jackhammer punch under his chin that knocked his head back with a crunch that sounded fatal.

The student fell back against the room’s only chair, collapsing it with the sound of breaking wood and the fleshier crunch of breaking bone.

It was the man she’d glimpsed earlier entering the main ward. Closer up he was even more lethally sexy. Arousal, totally unexpected, purred through her veins. “There are more outside, so the only way we’re going to get out of here is through that window.” He swept the room with an appraising glance and picked up the metal bedside table as if it weighed nothing at all, ignoring the clatter as the drawer fell out. “Close your eyes if you’re scared of heights and hold on tight.”

Lifting the table over his head, he swung it at the window. The sound of shattering glass rewarded him and he stepped forward to knock out the remaining jagged shards and drag the wrecked blind aside.

Was that a hand or a claw? A claw, she realized, as fingernails lengthened into talons and blue-green scales clustered over his hand and arm.

She gasped in shock. “Holy fuck!”

He turned to face her, scales gathering on his neck, his voice throaty and raw. “Climb up and hold on. Or stay here and face them.”

Feet pounded up the hallway outside and at the same time, her rescuer completed his transformation into a man-sized dragon. Clothes ripped and tore, falling from his body and she felt a sense of irritation in her mind that came from him. Irritation?

Yeah, I liked that jacket. Grab the pieces and let’s go. Pick up your stuff too. Then put your arms around my neck. Or stay here and let them kill you.

His neck was much longer and greener than it had been a minute ago. When she heard the shout “In here!” from outside the room she knew this was decision time.

She grabbed her purse, pausing to sling it over her head so the strap crossed her body, and picked up the remains of the leather jacket, only remembering the folder containing her scan results at the last minute, then she obeyed him—it—and put her arms around his—its—neck.

When we’re through the window, I’m going full size. Be prepared to hang on ‘cuz we ain’t coming down for a while.

I must be mad.

If you are, I am too. Ready?

As I’ll ever be.

Her feet lifted off the ground just as she was beginning to wonder how the hell she could talk to somebody mind to mind. She closed her eyes and hung on.

Red Alert - coming on March 7th from Ellora's Cave
www.lynneconnolly.com/RedAlert.html

Where to find Lynne Connolly and her Books

My website
The hub of everything I do. It's updated regularly, with excerpts, short stories and other goodies:
http://www.lynneconnolly.com

My newsletter and yahoo group.
Members get a monthly newsletter, where the news ALWAYS breaks first, and new excerpts are aired. There is also a free book, currently being serialised, but it will be available in the Files for new members, when we've finished.
To join, go here:
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UK Historical romance blog:
http://historicalromanceuk.blogspot.com/

My personal blog, which is shamefully out of date:
http://lynneconnolly.blogspot.com/

The Mavens of the Pen blog:
http://mavensofthepen.blogspot.com/

I currently write for Samhain Publishing, Ellora's Cave and Loose-Id. So you can find me on their loops and on their websites.

I write columns for Sybil at The Good, The Bad and The Unread:
http://tinyurl.com/6j42ut

And my email is lynneconnollyuk@yahoo.co.uk

Lynne Connolly, author of Dark and Provocative Romance
http://www.lynneconnolly.com

February newsletter

2009-02-02T16:28:00.001Z

Newsletter, February 2009

News

February seems to have brought in the snow. Britain is shrouded in the stuff, we’re told the worst snowstorm for 18 years. But where I live, we’re sheltered by the Pennines, so it’s going already. And this time, the South got it worst. London is disrupted. Again. Definitely a month to stay in and keep warm!

Well first and foremost, I have an agent! I went down to London last month and met her at the British Library, a perfect place to meet an agent. We had a discussion and shook hands on the deal. A lovely lady, Isabel White, who is setting up her own agency after a number of years with Brie Burkeman. You can see her website here:

http://www.isabelwhite.co.uk/

She has a new paranormal, “A Talented Man,” which we’re working on right now, ready to submit to several publishers. So exciting, and scary too.

I’ve been frantically busy with new releases. I love that “Thunderfire” is out, bringing the Pure Wildfire series to a close, but it was a wrench to say goodbye to the band and their partners. It was my introduction to Ellora’s Cave, and I have to say that so far the experience has been overwhelmingly positive. I love being there, and I’m delighted they accepted a new story, “Red Alert,” which is, hopefully, the start of a new series, featuring the STORM agency.

But also this month, there’s a brand new Department 57 book, “Crystal Captive,” featuring one of the heroes that people have contacted me about, saying they want his story. Dominici Serafino, dragon shape-shifter, meets his match in “Crystal Captive,” and learns that sometimes he just has to let go.

Then, at the end of February, “Tantalizing Secrets” comes out at Samhain. This is the third Secrets story and features gorgeous Peter Worsley, whose life is turned inside out when he visits the bustling market town of Leicester. As it happens, Leicester is my home town, and the house where Arabella lives is based on Belgrave House, notorious in recent years as the scene of a haunting, but when I knew it, it was a perfectly recreated Georgian manor house.

The Secrets series was originally conceived as a trilogy, but I’ve received so many emails about one or two of the characters that I’m thinking of extending it, and writing about Antonia and one or two others. Where to find the time, that’s the problem!

So there are three excerpts for you this month, for the paranormal lovers and for the history lovers. Interesting to compare the two styles side by side. I’m told there is a difference, but I’ve never seen it, myself. Can you see the difference between the two styles?

Excerpts and blurb:

The first two excerpts contain matter that isn't suitable for the under 18's.

Hot sex and high living was all Chris Keys needed to complete his life as the thunderous heart of rock band Pure Wildfire. Now he wants something else. He wants Ashley Westfall.
Ashley has a secret—she doesn’t want to sing, she doesn’t want to go onstage, she doesn’t even want fame anymore. She wants a normal life with a normal man. Whatever that is. But when she finds the normal man, it’s not him but the sexy drummer for Pure Wildfire who captures her heart. And Chris is far from normal. He’s sex on legs and a shape-shifting firebird.
Unwittingly, Ashley thrusts Chris into lethal danger. Apart, they have no chance of defeating the the secret society that threatens them and the band with extinction. Together, they might have a chance.
Ashley has to find the strength to stop Chris sacrificing everything he loves for her sake. Before it’s too late.

She went through the door, not altogether unsurprised to find a big, luxurious bathroom on the other side. The shower stall could hold two, maybe three people comfortably and four if they wanted to move over. However, Chris was one big Texan and he might find it a squeeze. It might be the sort of squeeze he enjoyed if he let anybody else in here.
She stripped, knowing he’d seen her naked before but unaccountably shy. The rustle of clothing told her he was undressing too. Bare-chested, he walked to the shower and turned it on but reached under it to feel the temperature. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “This is supposed to be a luxury apartment but the heating system isn’t luxurious.”
Although the water might be cold, suddenly Ashley wasn’t. Flushing with unaccountable embarrassment, she crossed her arms over her breasts and then, realizing the gesture was silly, forced herself to lower her hands to her sides. She smiled but she felt the tremble at the corner of her lips.
He came to her and slid his arms around her waist. “It’s been a hard day for you, Ashley, hasn’t it?”
She nodded and allowed her forehead to rest on his broad chest. It felt so good.
“Come on, the water’s warm now. Don’t do anything, I’ll take care of you.”
He led her to the shower, currently exuding steam and herded her inside the ivory-tiled space. The click signaled the moment he closed the glass door. The fitments were brass, not deliberately old-fashioned but not aggressively modern, either. She liked them. He reached for a bottle and steered her under the main stream of water, although three heads currently spurted down on them.
“What are those?” she asked when she lowered her head so he could rub shampoo into her hair. Several openings adorned the walls, about a foot from the bottom of the shower.
He grinned at her. “Toys.”
He flipped a button on the panel just above the toiletry shelf and water sprayed from the lower openings, hitting her at the top of the thighs. He watched her, his fingers busy delivering a wonderful scalp massage. She opened her legs and he drew her forward until she gasped. The spray hit her pussy, massaging her clit and opening with delicious warmth. She groaned. “I’ve got to get one of these.”
His hands worked up the lather and then drew her back under the shower to rinse. She moaned when the shower spraying between her legs moved away from her clit and he chuckled. “Want to go back?”
“Does a cat love heat?”
She moved back and sighed in pleasure. “This feels so wrong, in such a good way.”
“Good.” He leaned over her to pick up another bottle and she managed to catch his nipple between her teeth. It was his turn to groan. “Very nice.”
She liked this gentle, playful side of Chris. Liked it a lot. He stayed where he was but the scent of lemons told her he’d opened the bottle and his hands moved lower on her body, rubbing the sweet-scented gel against her back and shoulders. “Mmm. So good.”
She licked and he rewarded her with a groan and a moaned, “Oh I like that.”
The tickling between her legs was becoming—not enough. She moved back, releasing his nipple, and admired her handiwork. It stood proud, reddened by her attentions, so she moved on to the other one in the interests of symmetry.
Chris pulled away but only to work the gel around her breasts. His touch, firmly cupping and rubbing, soothed and excited her at the same time. She lifted her head for his kiss.
He didn’t disappoint. When he bent to her, she felt heat radiating off him and moved closer to rub her body against his. He chuckled against her lips. “You feel like a cat.”

Thunderfire from Ellora's Cave
Shapeshifters rock!
Order Page: http://Thunderfire.notlong.com
ISBN: 9781419920219

Crystal Captive
Nicole is a gossip columnist. All she wants is a good story, but when she confronts Dominici Serafino at his luxury Italian villa, she get far more than that.
An afternoon of sizzling passion leads to danger, when they are kidnapped by an organization intent on revealing Dominici as a shape-shifting dragon. And he is, he really is that mythical creature, who sometimes shape-shifts during sex. It makes Nicole wet even to think about it.
Their captors want Dominici and Nicole to perform for the cameras. And that turns Nicole on like she never imagined before.
What's a dragon to do? Dominici is finding sex with the gorgeous journalist turning to something far more intense. He has to protect Nicole from their enemies, and he doesn't even know if he can trust her. In a position that gives him access to juicy stories from the world's most talked-about celebrities, he needs to keep their secrets and his own if he wants to survive.
He still wants her, any way, every day. For keeps.

He hooked his thumbs inside her bikini bottoms and tugged them down, following them to the floor and urging her to step out of them by nudging her ankles. He took a moment to caress the slender shape, bones prominent against lightly tanned skin. Any part of a woman could be sensitive, and he loved searching out the less obvious ones.
She shivered when he stroked her ankles, and he wished he had more time to explore. But if his cock could talk, it would be screaming at him. It always did. He’d just gotten better at forcing it to do what he wanted.
This time it was a damned close-run thing. He wanted this woman with an urgency that reminded him of the thirst after a fast.
Domenici had to bend to reach her. He tapped the inside of her leg, and she opened. He liked that. “Hands against the wall, sweetheart.”
She lifted her hands and braced them against the wall in front of her. He’d chosen this part of the bathroom because a section of mirrored tile faced them. He saw her face, the way she took her bottom lip between her teeth, the way her eyes, wide with apprehension, met his reflected there.
“I shouldn’t --”
“Neither should I.” His voice rumbled through his body, and he felt his fingers tremble as he slid them up her thighs into the paradise waiting for him at their apex. “Don’t think about it. Don’t spoil it. Whatever happens next, we have this.”
She made to turn her head, but he nudged her so she turned back to face the mirror. “Look at me that way.”
He bent his knees, took his cock in hand, and guided it to the wet, soft depths shadowed by her ass. He brought his other hand around the front, slid it into her cleft. He didn’t have to search hard to find her clit. It pulsed against his fingers. She was so ready.
So was he. He slid his cock against her and met sweet resistance. Enough to show her he was there, but her juices soaked him, dripped against his cock, already damp from his precum.
With a moan of surrender, he pushed inside.

Crystal Captive is out at Loose-Id Publishing, on 3rd February 2009

Tantalizing Secrets

Arabella Mason is too busy investigating her brother-in-law’s “accidental” death to entertain thoughts of love. She’ll go to any lengths to ease her sister’s grief, even accept the help of the distressingly attractive Viscount Bredon, Peter Worsley. Instead of answers, the trail of clues only leads to more questions. Who was her brother-in-law, really…and why does Peter, who poses as her brother in public, make mincemeat of her resistance in private?

A successful politician and confirmed bachelor, Peter has bedded the loveliest women in society. He never imagined he’d wind up in a Leicester backwater, helping a pretty widow investigate his brother’s untimely death. As his suspicions of foul play grow stronger, the danger rises—and so does his desire for Arabella. One kiss, and she snatches away all his resolve, leaving him wondering which he wants more…

To find his brother’s killer? Or keep Arabella safe—and make her his?

the coach lurched to a halt and they were flung forward. Peter flung out a hand to stop Arabella hurting herself, and was rewarded by a handful of fabric and a brief contact with one soft breast. He took her arm and hauled her back on to the seat as the carriage pulled to a halt.
Breathlessly she stared at him and they both heard a gruff voice. “Stand and deliver!”
“Good Lord!” The gleam of battle sparked in him. Cautiously he settled the pistol in his pocket so it came easily to hand.
The door of the carriage was wrenched open. A heavily muffled figure stood outside. “Out,” the man commanded.
Peter descended and held his hand out to help Arabella. To his surprise, she wasn’t looking in the least shocked. If he didn’t know her better, he would have thought she was angry.
Lounging against the open door of the carriage, Peter stared at the highwayman. Their assailant was so muffled up it was difficult to make out much about him, but Peter noted the man was no taller than he was, and wasn’t grossly overweight. He’d pulled a cocked hat low down on his forehead and a muffler up over the lower half of his face.
Peter thrust his hands in his pockets, touching the rounded end of the pistol. In the other pocket, he had a knife, usually carried for more mundane purposes but it might come in useful too, given the chance. He kept Arabella in view, prepared to push her to the ground. Some highwaymen wanted more than jewelry and cash; he wasn’t about to allow that.
Arabella lifted her chin and glared at the man. There was no doubt about it now—fire flashed from her dark eyes. She was angry. Peter hoped she wouldn’t do anything foolish. He wished he could see the coachman but that was impossible without turning.
Their aggressor swore, fluently and, much to Peter’s surprise dropped the hand holding the pistol to his side. “Jewelry. Money.”
Then Arabella did something that took Peter completely aback. She put her hands on her hips and thrust her face forward in the age-old position of the fishwife. It said a lot for Peter’s newfound attraction that he found her pose delightful. “And who do you think you are threatening? Get in the carriage this instant!”

Tantalizing Secrets is out at Samhain Publishing on February 24th, 2009

Newsletter, January 2009

2009-02-02T16:26:00.000Z

Newsletter, January 2009

News
I really wanted to get this out on January 1st, but you know how it is!
Anyway, happy new year to everyone, I hope you get what you want this year, within reason, of course!
I have some exciting news that I can't announce yet, but when I can, you'll be the first to hear. But everything else is on course, and I'm working hard to try to keep up.
I'm still publishing columns at The Good, The Bad and The Unread. The latest is about the changes happening on my side of the Atlantic, and the way the publishing world seems to be drawing ever closer together.
I have a new release this month, the second Richard and Rose book. I adored writing "Devonshire," and it was a joy to revisit. I went there on my honeymoon, and although we stayed on the north coast and Rose lives near the south coast of the county, we did take trips all around. It's a stunningly beautiful place, and I hope I've conveyed some of the atmosphere and sights in my book. As always, I took real life places and fictionalised them, although I have to confess that Peacock's is straight out of my imagination. I imagine James is going to rebuild the manor to become something like Saltram House, the gorgeous place designed by Robert Adam. I think Martha would like that.
I'm going down to London on the 8th to attend a friend's book launch. Jean Fullerton and I have struggled through the publishing world together, and I was so thrilled when she got first an agent, then a three book contract with Orion, that it could almost have been me. Now "No Cure For Love," the first book in the trilogy is out and I'm going to help her celebrate. Not that she'll need much help!
Currently I'm trying to write the next Team Red book for Ellora's Cave. I had to stop when I realised a part of the story didn't work, but I think I'm back on track now. I still have to launch the STORM series, but EC took the first one, Red Alert, and I can't wait to tell you about it nearer the time!
I'm waiting to hear about the publication date for the last Pure Wildfire series, Thunderfire, which is ready to go. It was sad saying goodbye to the members of the band, but it became obvious to me that it would be a shame to keep revisiting them, so Chris Keys' story is the last in the series, and I hope you'll agree, rounds it off with a great climax.
Next month, watch out for the last Secrets book, "Tantalizing Secrets," and a brand new Department 57 story, "Crystal Captive." I've been busy! I hope you enjoyed revisiting Sophie and Evan in "The Chemistry of Evil" this month, together with the extra heat I managed to inject into the rewrite!

Excerpt and blurb:
Awkward, unsure Rose Golightly was used tobe being snubbed by those higher on the social ladder. Now, as the sister of an earl and fiancée of one of the most admired men in society, she can hold her head high. With Richard, respectability—and lifelong passion—are hers.
Behind Richard’s aloof, sophisticated facade lies a man of shrewd intelligence, fierce loyalty, and deep devotion to those he loves. He is a man of principle who will fight fair when necessary, dirty when cornered. Rose is one of only two people he trusts, but she doesn’t yet know all his secrets.
Gangs of smugglers rule the coast, and the Rose’s brother’searl’s decision to stand up to them has puts herRose’s life in danger. The only way Richard can save her is to reveal every dark corner of his life.
Otherwise, he could lose her.

This excerpt is a naughty bit, so please, no under 18's!

A breath on my ear woke me, and I spun around, startled awake. I sighed with relief when I saw who it was. “Richard.”
“Hush, love.”
I put my hand to my mouth, to quieten myself. He leaned across the bed to me. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
“Have you locked the door?”
“Naturellement.”
I threw back the covers, while he stripped off his robe and got in. He was naked, but he got into bed so quickly I didn’t see him properly. Immediately he drew me close, and I felt at home and safe. His chuckle bewildered me until I felt his hands on my braids. “I couldn’t stop Fraser doing them for me.”
“While I’m sure they are extremely practical,” he said, his hands busy unravelling, “I prefer it when your hair is loose. I like to feel it flowing over my hands, winding me in its web.”
“So I’m a spider?”
He kissed my forehead, his lips just brushing the skin. “Arachne was a beautiful woman, turned into a spider for boasting and being right about it. You never boast, my love. Perhaps you should.”
“It’s not in my nature.”
“Then I shall boast for you. I’m lucky to get you, sweetheart.”
I laughed. “So you keep telling me.”
He finished undoing the braids and thrust his fingers into my hair, combing them through the locks to untangle them. “Much better.” He looked down at my face. “And if I keep telling you, you might believe it one day.”
“I’ll do my best. I have to promise to obey you soon, don’t I?”
He grinned. “So you do.”
Lifting up on one elbow, he leaned over me, and smoothed the hair back from my face. He’d brought a branch of candles in with him, and it stood on the nightstand by the bed, casting a light on his gleaming hair and his fine-drawn features. Looking intently down at me he said, “This is almost enough. Almost.” He bent his head to kiss me.
What began as a gentle kiss of welcome soon deepened into something more, his tongue reaching into my mouth, his desire searing through my entire body. I arched and felt his hands on me, pulling up my voluminous nightgown.
Eagerly I helped him, undoing the little buttons at the cuffs and neck, sitting up so he could pull it off over my head. Casting it aside, heedless of where it fell, he gazed at me, only me.
He touched my breast, traced the swell below and then cupped it, testing its weight. I closed my eyes and drew a breath. I was so sensitive to his touch.
“Every time,” he murmured, “every time I touch you it feels like a miracle. That you want me, that you, so lovely, could have lain like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for me.” He kissed the nipple, pushing with his hand to take more into his mouth.
His tongue curved, caressing me, and I touched his back, partly for support, partly for the sheer joy of contact. His touch made me weak and soft, his need for me made me want to give him everything without stint.
He drew back, only to fold his arms around me and seek my mouth with his. He gave me a long, penetrating kiss, his hands smoothing, caressing, rousing my body to a peak of need.
He smelled like no one else. Under the citrus perfume he preferred lurked an even sharper edge. Him. I’d know him anywhere now, in the dark, the light, in the middle of a crowded ballroom by scent alone. He surrounded me with his essence, held me fast, held me close. I moved my hands over the muscles of his back, feeling his reined-in athletic strength.
When he broke the kiss he was smiling. “I love you.” He laid me down and moved over me to enter me.

December Newsletter

2008-12-04T15:06:00.001Z

Wow, where did the year go?

I'll try to do a year round-up next month, but this has been a very busy year, when I look back at it.

So what has December in store in terms of reads from yours truly? Two re-releases, or rather, rewritten and heavily revised books, both of which mean a great deal to me. I’ll put the official blurbs and details here, and I’ve also added pages on the website, with excerpts. And an excerpt below, or rather two! Exclusive to this group, the first segments of each story. I’ve been told that my contemporary style and my historical style vary. I’ve never seen it myself, I just try to tell a story the best way I know how.

First up, is "Yorkshire." The first book I ever had published and the first in the Richard and Rose series. I've taken the "spot the deliberate mistake" on page one, where Richard says "hello" to Rose, although I was tempted to leave it in! For those of you who don't know (and I didn't until the book hit the shelves, lol!), "Hello" as a term of greeting was purposely invented for the telephone, a mix of "halloo" from the hunting field and "hullo" as an exclamation of discovery. But I think what Richard says instead is even better!
For those of you with the original version, you'll be able to see just how much is changed. I’ve revised the whole thing, and the language is more accurate (Angie James discovered a couple of anachronisms that had sped past 4 editors so far – nothing gets past Angie!), and I’ve eliminated a few of the characters that really didn’t need to be there. Like Lord Southwood and his wife and daughter. I think it’s tighter now, and I love the new cover art!

Also out this month at Loose-Id is the first contemporary I ever wrote, “The Chemistry of Evil.” Originally written for a continuity series, I’ve rewritten it to be more in line with Department 57, since this is the book where the Department made its first appearance. Now it’s a fully-fledged Department 57 book, with a hero who has a very unusual Talent, and his archaeologist-turned-forensic-archaeologist girlfriend. I’ve added more steam, more sexual tension and more of the act itself. It was a delight to revisit Evan and Sophie, and I was really surprised to see how much my style has changed in the three years since the book made its first appearance.

I hope those of you who bought Moonfire last month thought it was worthwhile! I did enjoy writing Jake’s story. Next is Chris, and after that, exciting news about what’s coming next from Ellora’s Cave!

There's a competition going on at Samhain, which I'm involved in. Angela James organised it, and as well as winning two Kindles, there are a host of other prizes. We thought we'd really push the boat out this year!
If you want to play, go here:
http://nicemommy-evileditor.com/blog/?page_id=1604
and here:
http://nicemommy-evileditor.com/blog/?page_id=1623

So everyone be sure to have a happy Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanza and all the other celebrations that happen at this time of year. We need to count our blessings and give thanks in whatever way makes sense to us, because I fear there might be a tough time ahead. Nil desperandum. I’ll keep writing if you keep reading!

Excerpts and blurb:

Yorkshire

Rose Golightly is a country girl who thinks her life will continue on its comfortable course, but a series of events changes that for good. On a visit to the ancestral estate of Hareton Abbey, Richard Kerre, Lord Strang, enters her life. A leader of society, a man known for extravagance in dress and life, Richard is her fate. And she is his.

Richard is to marry a rich, frigid woman in a few weeks, and has deliberately closed his heart to love. Then a coach accident throws his wounded body into Rose’s arms.

With one kiss, Richard and Rose discover in each other the passion they thought they’d never find.

But the accident that brought them together was an act of sabotage. Somewhere, in the rotting hulk of a once beautiful stately home, a murderer is hiding.

Richard and Rose set out to solve the mystery, and find the layers of scandal go deeper than simply determining who is guilty. And that doing the right thing could separate them—forever.

The first meeting, from chapter one of Yorkshire

At last, we came to a juddering halt at the top of the drive, nearly throwing us out of our seats. We waited as the steps were let down, which gave me the chance to take a few deep breaths in preparation for the ordeal ahead. James got down and helped Martha, Lizzie and me to alight.

Silence fell, suddenly oppressive. Steven stood by his horse. We stood by the coach. No one spoke, appalled and awed in equal measure by the sight before us.

We stood in the courtyard, before the main part of Hareton Abbey. Two great grey wings stretched out on either side. Elsewhere, they would serve as a protective barrier against the bitter Yorkshire winds, but here they seemed more like a trap waiting for the prey to spring it. No life stirred behind the windows, dulled with begrimed years of neglect.

The house was rendered in grey Yorkshire stone, formidable and forbidding. It had not been cleaned except by the weather, nor repaired where pieces of the stone had shattered in the frosts of winter. Pieces still lay on the ground. They must have lain there disregarded for some time. The main part of the building towered in front of us. Its air of abandonment was almost tangible: you could almost hear the house crumbling.

“Rose…” Lizzie whispered.

I glanced at her. “Dear God. What have we come to?”

Her face reflected my own apprehension. “I don’t know. This is Hareton Abbey, isn’t it? We haven’t come somewhere else by mistake?”

“It has to be,” Martha said. We spoke quietly; afraid of awakening echoes. “Don’t forget, James and I have been here once before, but it didn’t look like this the last time we came.”

“Lord, no.” James murmured. Martha clutched his arm as if she might never let go. “It’s supposed to be one of the show houses of the county; whatever can have happened?”

The rumble of wheels on the drive behind started us out of our shock. We stepped back to see what was coming, and to get out of its way.

Into the dilapidated courtyard bowled two travelling carriages, as different from our hired vehicle as possible. They were clearly private vehicles, bang up to date in style, bearing emblazoned crests on their doors. The shiny new black paintwork contrasted strongly with the dull, weathered finish on our carriage. The windows were glassed in, but despite their fashionable comfort, the bodies of the vehicles jolted and swung just as much as ours had. The horses pulling them were matched thoroughbreds. They must have cost a fortune.

They came to a brisk halt in front of the house. We watched liveried footmen leap down and run to let down the steps. “The Southwood party,” Lizzie whispered, awestruck. The cream of society, the top of the tree. Her ideal, her dream.

From the first coach alighted a figure that made my mouth drop open in disbelief. A vision of male gorgeousness, a sumptuous feast of a man. Lizzie gasped, but I didn’t turn to look at her. I kept my gaze fixed on the mirage before us.

He wore scarlet velvet, dressed for the Court. He would be sadly disappointed here. His white powdered wig was set just right, his waistcoat was a dream of embroidered magnificence. He swung around to help a lady descend from the vehicle, and when I again glanced at Lizzie, I saw she had temporarily lost all faculties of speech. No doubt remembering her manners, she closed her mouth.

This younger lady was attired—dressed would have been too clumsy a word—in a French sacque of blue watered silk, embroidered down the hem and the robings in fine floss. Frills and furbelows seemed to take on a life of their own, romping over her petticoats. Pearls gleamed at her neck. “Dear God,” whispered Lizzie.

Behind these visions of fashionable excess, another man climbed down. He wore his fair hair simply tied back; his clothes were just as well cut as the other gentleman’s though not as extravagant, and his attitude far more natural. “They’re twins,” Lizzie told me, back in control of her voice.

“I know,” I said. “You told us. More than once.”

To see the Kerre brothers was a different experience to merely reading about them.

The only identical twins in polite society, they made themselves more conspicuous still by creating scandal after scandal. Lizzie’s information continued, “The younger went abroad after eloping with a married woman. He’s only lately returned, after twelve years away. I wonder which one it is?”

“The peacock.” It had to be. The other looked far too sensible.

They glanced at us. The gorgeously dressed gentleman turned back to the coach, and said something only his brother could hear. His twin spun on his heel, the gravel grating under his foot and stared at us for one impolite moment before he looked away. I guessed the popinjay had said something like “country bumpkins”, and I resented the comment while at the same time agreeing with it. We were in a hired coach, and hadn’t thought to make a stop to change into better clothes as the other party obviously had. I smoothed my hand over my worn, brown wool gown.

With a leisurely gait, the peacock approached us and bowed. “You, sir, must be Sir James Golightly. Lord Hareton informed us you would be here.” His voice was faintly musical and touched with a low burr I found unusually attractive.

YORKSHIRE
Richard and Rose are back!
Coming to Samhain Publishing on December 5th 2008

The Chemistry of Evil

(No cover art as yet)
Sophie Adams is engaged, but the second she sees sexy Evan Howell, she wants him. When her fiancé dumps her, Evan is there to catch her. And show her a passion she’d never dreamed of before, drawn from his dark experiments into sexual magick, a magick that has driven more than one man insane. Enthralled by the new world Evan introduces her to, Sophie wants more.
Evil follows them across the Atlantic. From Arthurian Cornwall to New York, Mordred, cursed son of King Arthur, stretches his evil influence to encompass Sophie, Evan and everyone they love. Evan has already lost his sister to Mordred and his supporters—he refuses to lose Sophie, too.
Evan, ex-convict hacker turned CIA computer genius for Department 57, explores the dark side of life. It will take all his skill to save Sophie from the danger threatening to take her over, body and soul. All his skill—in the bedroom as well as out of it.
Together, the three will embark upon a dance of danger, at the end of which there will be only two. . .or one. . .or none.

The first meeting of Sophie and Evan, from the first chapter of The Chemistry of Evil

Sophie’s dreams of violent, terrifying deaths halfway across the world faded in the peace of the English countryside.

Even here in Tintagel, a place that had seen murder and terror in its time, the atmosphere felt tranquil. The bloody history was long gone; only a pile of moss-encrusted stones remained as a mute reminder. On the other side of the world lay her new, exciting life.

She stretched her back and headed for the tent where the team laid out the day’s finds. A kettle lived there too, heated over a camping stove. The lure of tea was almost more important than the view. Almost.

“Find the Grail?” she asked Gwyneth, flashing a grin.

“Not today.” It was an old joke, masking a secret desire. Here, on the top level of Tintagel, one almost believed in Arthur and all the other old tales. The modern world seemed to recede, only the occasional plane flying high overhead reminding them of their time and place. “You?”

“Nothing like it. Just a few old shards.”

“Not as glamorous as New York, then. You’ll be back there soon enough.”

With Archie. He’d taken a job at the Metropolitan Museum, a lucrative position with a research fellowship attached. He always had to go one better than her.

Sophie would miss England, her native land. The soft grass, masking hard, unforgiving rock, the levels and layers, the knowledge that wherever one was on this little island, someone had gone before, perhaps dropped something, a coin, a jewel, a Holy Grail.

“I don’t think Archie would appreciate finding the Grail here,” she commented. She strolled with Gwyneth toward the tent. “It wouldn’t fit in with his theory. He’d be more excited if we found a hermit’s cave.”

“Some people came up today asking about Arthur. When we told them we were excavating the medieval monastery, they didn’t believe us. So Archie told them the castle was twelfth century.”

Sophie laughed. “How did they take that?”

“They said we were mad, that everyone knew it was Arthur’s castle.”

Their laughter rang over the small area of the dig. Several heads poked up to look at them, their owners’ bodies lost in the trenches of the main dig. People roused, their concentration broken, murmuring greetings to each other as they began to climb out of their self-dug holes. Moles facing the light, or perhaps bodies rising from the grave. Appropriate, since part of the dig was a burial ground. But Sophie doubted monks would wear a motley array of shorts, T-shirts, and tattered jeans or be discussing the character of skeleton deterioration over time in such a pragmatic way.

Sophie smiled to herself when she recalled her New York wardrobe with its sharp designer suits and elegant, understated eveningwear. But she still kept her old clothes. You never knew when an interesting opportunity to grub about in the ground might occur. Or perhaps it was a disinclination to let go of her old life and embrace the new. She found her new job extremely lucrative and prestigious, but not as much fun. She still loved digging and the camaraderie a team involved in a dig could engender.

The tent was a large one, which was just as well. Six people crowded in, to add to the four already in residence. A laptop was carefully set up at the end, away from the dirt. It formed their communication with the study center at the hotel in the village and a link to all the research documents, geophysics, and the rest. Long trestle tables held trays containing the day’s finds. Geophysics equipment stood propped up in the corner, expensive equipment that had to be hauled to and from the village each day.

Sophie moved to the part of the tent that contained “her” section, the section farthest from the opening, near to George, who was currently sitting in front of the laptop swearing at it.

Sophie’s woefully small finds section contained only one tray, instead of the three or more on the other tables. Uninformative pottery that merely served to confirm what they had already discovered, plus her one find, now cleaned and gleaming balefully at her, reminding her of her failure. Archie was probably right. The whistle, aulos, whatever, couldn’t be an ancient artifact, although it looked like one. Probably a modern reproduction, maybe bought from one of the tourist shops clustered in the village below and then dropped up here and lost. Similar to a Roman aulos but shorter, a whistle or pipe with only one finger hole, engraved with symbols and lines that looked vaguely Celtic in nature. Definitely an imaginative tourist piece. Archie would be pleased she hadn’t made a major discovery.

Foolish to think like that. She had succeeded in disproving a rival’s theory that a settlement lay buried in that area. His theory put the site farther to the east. Had Sophie found anything interesting, it might have delayed Archie’s departure for New York and his new job at the Metropolitan Museum. And their marriage.

So why did she feel depressed? Why had she tried so hard to find something? She knew. Perhaps she would tell him tonight that she couldn’t marry him and then leave for her mother’s house before going back to the States. They'd nearly finished the dig now, so she couldn’t put it off much longer.

An arm curled round her shoulders. “Well, Sophie love,” a voice soft as a whisper breathed hotly in her ear. “New York, here we come.”

She forced a bright smile and turned around. “Yes, here we come. Back to the FBI for me.”

He frowned. “You could always join me at the museum. I’m sure I can find something for you.”

A curl of anger crawled through Sophie’s mind at his patronizing attitude. “I don’t want you to. I want to stay with the FBI, if they’ll have me, perhaps even apply for citizenship and join full-time.”

“I don’t like you working with those…bodies.”

Sophie laughed. “I’ve been working with bodies all my adult life, Archie love. Just that these are more recent, that’s all.”

“And have living relatives.” His other arm went around her waist, imprisoning her. “It’s only that I worry about you.”

Sophie suspected it might be more. Archie was the primary male, the supervisor of this group, built like a golden bear, all bulging muscle and gleaming teeth. Gorgeous and clever, he wasn’t used to a slip of a girl besting him, but she’d done it, getting better marks than he at university, and earning her doctorate a year earlier than he did. His overwhelming niceness saved him from the accusation of alpha-ism. Sophie’s doubts had crystallized into certainty in the last few days. Where once she had loved him, the gentle liking that remained, together with a response to Archie’s undoubted sex appeal, was no longer enough for her.

When she’d needed him, when her father died, he’d been there for her. She owed him for that, but she didn’t owe him the rest of her life.

She smiled and reached up to kiss him on the cheek in a gesture more friend than lover. “I’m starving.”

“Shall we go to the pub? I’ll miss their lasagna when we leave.”

“It’s only because they serve it in large roasting tins. Big enough portions for you.”

Sophie tried to pull away, but Archie was having none of it. He dragged her back and angled his mouth over hers, settling in for a nice, leisurely kiss. The whistles and catcalls from the interested bystanders only served to encourage him. When he finally pulled away, she felt numb from the pressure of his arms and mouth. He waited for her reaction and gave her a cocky grin when she smiled at him. “I can’t wait to leave because of what happens next.”

He released her. Sophie took a deep breath, trying not to show her anger at his enforcing his so-called male superiority. Tonight. She would tell him tonight, as soon as she had a private moment with him.

The whistle gleamed evilly in the find tray, reminding her of her failure. Archie saw where her gaze went and picked it up, tossing it high into the air and catching it without looking at it. “Someone’s tried his or her hand at engraving this. I had a look earlier. But it’s not old.”

“How do you know it’s not old?” She wished she could take the words back. She knew.

Archie gave her a pitying glance. “Really, Sophie! If it’s silver, it would have tarnished and rotted. If it’s steel, then by definition it’s modern. Good steel didn’t occur on a regular basis before the nineteenth century. Take it as a souvenir. I’ll sign it out as irrelevant to the dig.”

Sophie felt hurt by his light response, as though he denigrated her efforts that day. Archie could still make her feel as though her achievements amounted to nothing. He did it to most people, and she suspected he wasn’t even aware of it. Defiantly she picked up the whistle and rubbed it against her T-shirt to polish it up. “I’ll use it when I need help. It might come in handy in New York.”

“Down those mean streets?” Archie laughed, just as a new voice, dark as night and twice as sinful, sounded from the open flap of the tent.

“I believe that quotation was about Los Angeles.”

The occupants of the tent fell silent, their end-of-the-day chatter stilled. Before them stood the embodiment of masculinity. Handsome, as dark as Archie was fair, tall, and whipcord lean.

Sophie lifted her gaze and met his dark stare. Now she knew where her restless feeling came from. This was her fate.

The Chemistry of Evil – A Department 57 book
Coming Soon from Loose-Id Publishing

Alluring Secrets

2008-10-28T20:18:00.001Z

I have a new release this month! Alluring Secrets, the story of Severus and Penelope! It hit number four on the Samhain top ten this week, the highest I've ever been!

Severus Granville, Earl of Swithland, finds himself dealing with a wholly unfamiliar urge—to settle down and produce an heir. But among the bevy of beauties vying for his attention, none hold his interest except for one: Penelope. Clumsy, intelligent, appealing Penelope is the one woman with whom he could escape…but she’s expected to marry another.
Afraid she’ll be labeled an unmarriageable bluestocking, Penelope’s family forces her to go without her badly needed spectacles in public, and to hide her intelligence. Though she has loved Severus for years, the best she can hope for is a loveless union with a perfectly suitable—and perfectly boring—cousin. Except Severus seems to have changed his mind.
Hours spent in his rooftop observatory leads to a passion they couldn’t deny. Yet just as their eyes are opened to the possibility of lasting love, Penelope is embroiled in a plot to destroy her family and take her away from Severus forever.
If he wants to keep his heart’s treasure, Severus will have to fight for her with everything within him—mind, body and soul.

His hands stilled, and his head bowed over the papers. “Yes, but on an amateur basis. I’m an enthusiast, not a Newton.”
Rising, she went over to him, and looked at the papers. It was difficult to make anything out in the dusky light but she could make out symbols and colored diagrams, as meaningless to her as her graphs had been to him earlier. “I’m trying to map Venus,” he told her. “I don’t think I’ll be able to, but it gives me a reason to come up here and look.”
“I have every confidence in you.” With one finger, she gently traced the curves of a gleaming brass instrument lying in a case on the table. “A sextant,” he told her. “They use them at sea to calculate their position.”
“It’s lovely.” The gleaming curves fascinated her. She looked up at him and realized he was watching her, not the sextant, in what she could only describe as a noticing way. He seemed to be looking at her with a new awareness. She felt the same. “They do have a—a beauty of their own, don’t they?” Suddenly shy, she looked down.
He reached out, put a finger under her chin and guided it up, so she met his intent gaze. “It seems appropriate.”
“At least you don’t look right through me.”
All humor gone, he glared at her. “Who does that?”
She tried to smile, but failed and settled for a shrug. “Most people do. Women don’t see me as a rival in their matrimonial aspirations.”
“Why not?”
She was astonished by his response. That should have been obvious, she thought. “Look at me. Add that to my clumsiness, and social ineptitude and you can see why they do that. They think I’m slow, they laugh at me. I don’t mind, really I don’t, but I don’t court their company, either.”
He looked at her, studying her until she felt uncomfortably warm. Then he lifted a hand from her arm and caressed her cheek. She didn’t mean to, but she leant into his hand, loving the feeling of being cherished, however false.
Because she’d closed her eyes for a moment she missed his bending his head to hers, but she felt the soft pressure of his lips. He slid his hand around her neck, and when she didn’t withdraw, touched her lips with his tongue. She shuddered, and heat spread through her. When she opened her mouth slightly, he took advantage of it, sliding his tongue just between them to taste her.
Toby had kissed her once, about three years ago, a kiss stolen in the orchard one summer. She’d allowed it, but escaped soon afterwards and felt no inclination to repeat the experience. Sev’s kiss wasn’t like that. It felt wonderful, as unlike Toby’s wet, messy embrace as possible. Penelope responded instinctively, reaching up to hold on to him. His response was to draw her closer and deepen the kiss.
Penelope tasted the brandy on his lips and knew that if he wasn’t drunk, he was well-to-go. She didn’t care. If he hadn’t been, he would not be kissing her like this, in this hot, demanding way that drove tingles to the tips of her toes. He broke the kiss, took a quick breath and returned to the fray. He caressed the back of her neck, his fingers moving slowly over the small curls clustered there. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Or perhaps, Penelope thought cynically, he wanted flirting without any expectations. If he’d done this with any one of the other young ladies in the house, taken her up to a private room and then kissed her, she would have expected a proposal of marriage in the morning. Penelope wouldn’t insist, wouldn’t tell anyone or demand anything from him that he wasn’t willing to give. With one small touch of his lips against hers, he drew back, and gazed at her, his eyes dark in the gloom. They were both breathing quicker, and Penelope followed his gaze to see her breasts rising and falling above her tight-laced, low-cut evening gown. “Sir?”
“Sev. Penelope, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me—”
Was he apologizing because he remembered, rather belatedly, that he was a gentleman, or because he didn’t find the kiss interesting? “Sev, I—no, I’m sorry. I don’t expect—well, I’m not officially—” She stopped, floundering.
“It makes me wish you were,” he murmured, still too close to her for comfort. He rested his forehead against hers before drawing back. His gaze remained intent on hers as he withdrew his hand from her neck and touched her face, drawing his fingers down her cheek and tracing the line of her lips.
She stared up at him, the dim starlight softening his face. She wasn’t averse to another kiss, but she was unsure what to do. Should she behave like a lady, and deny all pleasure, or invite further caresses and perhaps the sobriquet of wanton?
Her experience didn’t extend this far. Nobody had looked at her in such a caressing way, or shown any inclination to kiss her. She’d assumed her lot in life was to be taken for granted and perhaps laughed at for her clumsiness. Now she was rapidly reassessing that. If such a connoisseur of women as Severus Granville took notice of her, she must have something worth looking at.
He bent to kiss her once more, this time briefly. “I didn’t mean this to happen. I wanted to reciprocate—show you my obsession. Believe me, this isn’t an attempt at seduction. It’s just that I haven’t—noticed you before this visit and I like what I see. Very much. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” The words were out before she could suppress them. “I’m glad you wanted to show me this. And it was only a kiss.”
“Yes.” His mouth twisted up at one corner. “Only a kiss.”

Alluring Secrets - the Second in the Secrets trilogy
True Love Sees With The Heart
ISBN: 978-1-60504-214-5
From Samhain Publishing
http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/alluring-secrets

Newsletter, August 2008

2008-08-01T12:20:00.002+01:00

Newsletter, August 2008

News

Most of my news this month is of the under the hood variety.
Lots of rewriting and editing, getting books into shape for releases later in the year and early next year.

I already told you about selling Richard and Rose to Samhain. I'm really delighted I'm going to be working with Angela James on these books. They're very close to my heart.

I've written a new book and sent it off to New York editors and agents. It's a paranormal romance, so keep your fingers crossed for me!

I did go to the RNA conference at the start of the month. I still haven't written my notes up, but I will, and I'll put an account on the Goodies page of the website.

After the conference, I went to London to visit my good friend Jean Fullerton. She has a trilogy coming out later in the year which will knock your socks off! We visited the London Docklands Museum, and the Jack the Ripper exhibit is wonderful, well worth it. It even had the Dear Boss letter there!

We also went on the Ripper walk. There isn't a lot left of the Ripper's London, but despite that, the walk was really enjoyable. It put everything into perspective, to walk the area and see just how small a part of London was terrorised by the monster. My money's on Tumblety as the Ripper, but our guide thinks it was Koslowski. Any other Ripperologists about?

Currently, I'm writing a paranormal romance book, the next Dept 57 offering, but I've started to think about a new historical series. I just can't keep away from the historicals! When I tried to write Corin's book for the Triple Countess series, the book died on me. It happens sometimes, and I don't really know why, except I suspect I chose the wrong heroine.

So are there any secondary characters you want to know more about? I have a few noted down, and I thought I might write a new series about some of the characters that have interested me, but I had to leave alone for the time being. I can see Corin and maybe his sisters featuring there.

I'd love to get a buzz going about the books, but I haven't the faintest idea how to go about it! Maybe I should just keep writing!

Excerpt

How about a bit from Topaz Delirium? Exclusive to this group,
here's a naughty bit, to heat up your August, a bath scene!

Jasper lifted Svetlana off the bed and carried her to the bathroom

She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. “I’m not that weak.

“Humor me” was all he said, his handsome face grimly set. He set her on her feet beside a large ivory-colored bath, half-sunk into the floor

Then he stripped off his robe, tested the water, and climbed in, reaching up his arms to help her

When he sat down, he leaned against the bath and pulled her into his arms, so her back lay against his chest. She felt his cock, hard against her back.

He caressed her, his hard palms sweeping down her body in long strokes. “This is what I should be celebrating in my work, the pure beauty of a real woman.” He cupped her breasts then slid his palms back down again. “Your skin is so soft, so silky. It’s a joy to touch.=

She smiled. “I’m glad it brings you pleasure.

He stroked her buttocks and cupped them under the water. “You have lovely curves that should be celebrated and not suppressed.

“You’re an artist, Jasper.

“A craftsman,” he corrected her. “But don’t tell anyone.” She looked up at him, delighted by his flash of humor. Jasper Lebec had a wonderful natural smile, slightly one-sided, his mobile
mouth curving, his gray eyes full of mirth. She’d never seen him smile so wickedly before, or with the humor that lit him up, making her smile back. “I promise. Why did you go into fashion? It’s such a frivolous industry."

“It’s influential, and it’s powerful, especially here in France. We Department heads need positions of power to stand with the political leaders of our society. We can’t help other Talents if we don’t command respect. Or at the very least, gold. So I spent years making money, moving from alias to alias, as we all do, before I went into this.” He paused, gazing into her eyes. “And I love beauty, I love women. When I saw the ateliers of Paris, I knew I’d found a home.” He stroked her back in rhythmic caresses, his other hand under her head, holding her close

She snuggled closer. Then she wriggled

“Don’t distract me, Svetlana. I’m working very hard on not falling on you like a rutting stag.”

She caught her breath. “Why fight it? You want me that much?”

“Yes."

“Then do it. Fuck me so that when I meet Hugo Berthier tomorrow, I’ll have part of you still with me.” His need excited her, that he would want her so much, so soon.

“You’ll always have that.” He lifted her and slid under her body, his cock pushing briefly at her anus, then sliding up to her clit. She shuddered at the sensation that spiked through her. “But
I’ll fuck you with great pleasure. I know you’re tired, but you’ll have to do without sleep for a while yet. I can’t get enough of you tonight.” His terse, clipped tones belied by the heat simmering in his body, she felt him put up blocks against something he didn’t want her to see. It might be Department business, but she thought not. It felt more personal than that.

She dipped her fingers in the water and touched his cock head. It felt silken, more so than out of the bath, but the skin resisted against her fingers for a moment. She pulled the tiny slit at the top open slightly. His low groan told her he liked it. Gently, so gently, so as to torment him more, she stroked him and curled her fingers under the ridge to explore him. He sat very still under her, and then he groaned.

“Exquisite torture,” he whispered. “Never stop.”

“That’s what I’d like. To never stop.”

“Svetlana --”

“Not now, Jasper.” She lifted her body enough to push him inside her. She used her fingers to ease him into her body and let her fingers push inside with him. Feeling him in her, with her, was addictive, and from the small whimpers Jasper was making, he liked it too. She tried an experimental probe and memorized the feeling of his body inside hers before she withdrew.

She cupped his balls and caressed them. He slid his hands around her waist and up to her breasts, massaging and tugging her nipples in the way he’d already learned she liked.

“Oh Jasper!” She gasped when he drove deep and hard, hitting the spot every time. Her fingers froze on his balls, unable to move while he brought her to orgasm, pulling and tweaking, thrusting deeply.

She was his. She’d always be his. Not that she’d tell him. This was a night of hot sex, frantic fucking, nothing more.

One day, she might be able to believe it.

He rocked into her, holding her tight so all she could do was brace her feet against the sides of the bath and watch and feel. He plunged deep, his body hard under her ass and against her back.
Bending to her, he nibbled and sucked at her neck until she turned her head and blindly met his lips. His tongue thrust into her mouth in sparkling counterpoint to his thrusts into her pussy.

“There’s no one to hear you except me,” he whispered, his breath sinfully hot against the tender flesh of her neck.
“Scream for me. Show me how much you want me.”

She needed no more encouragement. She opened her mouth to cry out for him and for herself, letting him take her higher until she regained a little bit of control and pushed against him. His hand slid down her body to her stomach, and he pressed in with the palm. “Oh God, I can feel us. Svetlana -- darling -- this is so good!”

Topaz Delirium from Loose-Id

Order Page: http://www.loose-id.com/detail.aspx?ID=687

ISBN: 978-1-59632-664-4

Where to find Lynne Connolly and her Books

My website

The hub of everything I do. It's updated regularly, with excerpts,
short stories and other goodies:

http://www.lynneconnolly.com

My newsletter and yahoo group.

Members get a monthly newsletter, where the news ALWAYS breaks first,
and new excerpts are aired. There is also a free book, currently being
serialised, but it will be available in the Files for new members, when
we've finished.

To join, go here:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/LynneConnolly/

or send an email here:

LynneConnolly-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

UK Historical romance blog:

http://historicalromanceuk.blogspot.com/

My personal blog, which is shamefully out of date:

http://lynneconnolly.blogspot.com/

The Mavens of the Pen blog:

http://mavensofthepen.blogspot.com/

I currently write for Samhain
Publishing, Ellora's
Cave and Loose-Id.
So you can find me on their loops and on their websites.

I write columns for Sybil at The Good, The Bad and The Unread:

http://tinyurl.com/6j42ut

And my email is lynneconnollyuk@yahoo.co.uk

Icefire!

2008-05-30T17:02:00.001+01:00

Icefire from Ellora's Cave

Shapeshifters rock!

Order Page: http://Icefire.notlong.com

ISBN: 9781419916410

At the Pure Wildfire concert...

Gina opened her eyes, right on to the speculative, sharp gaze of Ryan
Hawthorne. He wouldn’t be able to see her, not really, she assured
herself.

She looked away but she’d felt the contact and it couldn’t be undone.
She felt naked, open, just for a moment. That was why she avoided
meeting eyes unless she had shielded herself, prepared for the
encounter. Whoever said eyes were windows on the soul was right. She
looked deep inside Ryan Hawthorne and caught an amazed, vulnerable,
open soul for a second, or perhaps even less. Then he turned away, his
whole body pivoting in the other direction and took his microphone from
a roadie. Just an illusion. It had to be...

Later

Ryan held out his hand to her. She swallowed and looked up at him.

His expression now was completely controlled, the deeper emotions
masked, a query in his eyes. She could refuse him but that would be the
act of a coward. And besides, something inside her urged her to go to
him, as he evidently wanted.

Behind him, Splinter played on. Taking a deep breath, she leaned up and
took his hand. “Come up,” he said softly, so softly she couldn’t hear
him, only follow the shape of his sensual mouth.

One of the security staff lifted her and she scrambled over the low
barrier separating them, sliding from the edge into his arms.

He released her as soon as she’d steadied but not before she felt his
astonishing steely strength. Who would have imagined such a
slender-seeming man would be so strong? When she looked closer, she saw
muscles bunch as he turned away, his hand in hers, to lead her to the
stools.

Time slowed, as he seated her next to the guitarist, then began the
song. She knew many bands did this, drew a member of the audience into
a song and her seat was conveniently close. But however much she told
herself This is a gimmick, a device, she couldn’t separate her
professional self from the vulnerable woman underneath.

She tried not to listen, tried to keep the smile fixed on her face, the
blank expression in her eyes. But she couldn’t. Ryan had evoked Maria
perfectly in the song—her fragility, her gentleness, her touching
naïveté. Her image—slight, blonde, ethereally pretty—swam before Gina’s
eyes.

Damn, when had she started to cry? Tears spilled over her eyes and ran
down her cheeks, two big, fat tears the spotlight would only emphasize.
The man taking video shots for the band knelt in front of them and she
knew the camera would magnify her distress tenfold. She couldn’t use
her trick of squeezing her eyes tightly closed, because anyone watching
the video would see it and know. So she forced her sight past the tears
and gazed at Ryan. Right into his eyes.

Shock lanced between them.

When Ryan Hawthorne and Gina Russo meet, the heat between them burns
hot and raw. But an event five years before set them apart and it lies
between them now.

Ryan Hawthorne is the charismatic vocalist for the band Pure Wildfire
with the world at his feet. He’s also a shape-shifting firebird more
than a hundred years old, torn apart by the death of his lover. Maria
died of a drug overdose but Ryan always suspected foul play. Now he’s
back in New York to find out.

Gina always blamed Ryan for her stepsister Maria’s death, but when she
meets the devastatingly sexy singer she finds Ryan is the embodiment of
all her wet dreams, and she’s had plenty.

They set each other’s worlds ablaze but they have to find Maria’s
killers before they get to Gina.

Or Ryan will lose her, too.

Icefire from Ellora's Cave

Shapeshifters rock!

Order Page: http://Icefire.notlong.com

ISBN: 9781419916410

New release!

2008-05-01T14:27:00.002+01:00

I have two new releases this week (greedy, ain't I? lol!)

The first is TOPAZ DELIRIUM from Loose-Id

Someone is killing vampires with a new drug and
the only people who can discover the source are Svetlana Yevchenko, top model and Jasper, head and chief designer of the House of Lebec and the head of Dept 57 in France.

Svetlana wants Jasper, and he wants her. But they can never give in because Jasper is cursed and through all the lives he remembers no woman has survived the curse. An affair might weaken their attraction to each other – or it might strengthen it.

Svetlana is the greatest temptation Jasper has ever tried to resist but their relationship can never be more than sex. As the latest Dept 57 assignment throws them together, their resistance weakens to the point of total, steaming breakdown. The more they fight the attraction, the deeper it gets.
But when the assignment is over they must face their fate. Again.

Jasper nodded and gazed down at his plate. “Is there something wrong with the food? It came from my usual service which is generally reliable but it seems to taste of very little tonight.”

Svetlana forced herself to lift a morsel to her mouth and concentrate on tasting. This was the first real meal she’d had all week, so she should really have more appetite. “It’s fine. Better than fine.”

He considered his plate, his head tilted to one side, his invariable habit when thinking about something. “Perhaps I’m not in the mood for it.” He shoved his plate aside and reached for his glass. “It gives me pleasure to see you eat, though. So many models never eat at all.” He toasted her, lifting his glass. His lips quirked in a smile though the look in his eyes remained distant. “I’ll design for real women like you. With curves.”

“Isn’t that more difficult?”

He shrugged and tilted his chin up in an arrogant gesture. “I am Jasper Lebec.” He grinned, deliberately ruining the effect. “I can do it. It’s true that breasts disturb a drape or break up a sweep of pattern but I’ll make breasts fashionable if I can.”

She forced another mouthful down. “So why do you think many women have breast augmentations?”

“A different market. Less refined.” His gaze sharpened. “You haven’t had such an abomination, have you?”

She laughed. “No. You’d have noticed, in any case.”

He put his empty glass down on the fine linen tablecloth. “So I would. I see you naked several times every season. But it’s just business. In the atelier you’re another shape to challenge me, that’s all.” He opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything. Abruptly he got up from the table and tossed his crumpled napkin down by his plate. “Would you like some dessert? It’s something with raspberries, I believe.”

Svetlana recognized the gesture; Jasper was getting too close to revealing his true feelings, so he changed the subject and broke eye contact. Her naked body disturbed him, did it? Was it that, or the thought of her stripping for Hugo Berthier? Tough shit. He was sending here there, after all so he’d have to suck it up. “I don’t want any dessert. You’ll have to take my word for it, Jasper. I don’t starve myself, I’m just not hungry tonight.” She couldn’t take any more.

She had to leave. She wanted Jasper so much, she was wet and ready for him already, dampening her panties under the severe blue skirt. Her thoughts were too disturbing, too close to the surface and Jasper’s powerful Talent would discern them before too long if she didn’t leave now.

“Too late,” he murmured, so quietly she had to strain to hear him. He turned around to face her.

The expression in his silver eyes was nothing like she was used to. Hot, passionate and desirous. Needy. He spoke to her, every word throbbing with sincerity. “Every movement you make is agony to me. I want you so much, it hurts me every time I look at you.” He paused and she stared back, stunned. “What, you can’t take the truth? Shall I send for your car?”

She shook her head. “Why, Jasper?”

“Why what? Why do I want you? God knows.”

“Jasper?” If they wanted each other, if he’d wanted her all this time she’d wanted him, why hadn’t he said anything? Was he afraid of commitment, perhaps? She had no idea. She couldn’t read him unless he let her in, and his face remained impassive apart from the fire in his eyes.

He lifted his hand, then dropped it again, the movement jerky, so unlike his usual elegant, considered gestures. “Every time I look at you I want you with a despair that eats at my soul.”

“Why haven’t you come to me before?” She wasn’t hearing this, she couldn’t be.

He shook his head. “Too many reasons. But, Svetlana, we can have tonight.”

Temporarily bereft of words, she stared at him.

“Tomorrow you begin an assignment I’m still not sure I should give to you. Times are desperate but I won’t send any of my agents into a situation they can’t handle. You won’t let me read you, you’ve kept your barriers hard up against me and I won’t force it.”

“You could,” she said, like him, in English.

“Yes. But I won’t. So tell me and be honest. Do you want this assignment? Should I send someone else?”

She met his gaze frankly, needing to meet honesty with honesty. “Read me, Jasper. Learn the truth.” He shook his head, watching her, his eyes wary. “Then I’ll tell you. No, I don’t want it but yes, I can do it. And Berthier has the hots for me, you made sure of that by throwing me in his way every opportunity you had. I’m the best person for the job.”

“You’re right.” He swallowed, his throat pale against the mandarin collar of his black jacket. “But I don’t want you to do it. Nothing about this assignment feels good. But if you take it, we can have this.”

“So you’re giving me one night of bliss before snatching it away?” Anger, never far away when she dealt with Jasper, swelled within her.

“It has to be. Understand that, Svetlana. If we take tonight we can’t have anything else.” He stayed where he was but turned his hand, palm up and held it out to her. “Neither of us can think straight for this desire we have for each other. It’s a physical thing, no more. Maybe it’s an inconvenience we can rid ourselves of tonight. Can you do that?”

Could she? Take this and work out her obsession with Jasper Lebec in one night? She had to try or she’d go mad.

Svetlana took the step that separated them and put her hand in his. His warmth surprised her. He usually felt so cold when he touched her but now his heat enveloped her.

Now it was his turn.

He moved with a fluidity that shocked her, releasing her hand only to wrap his arms about her and take her lips in a welcome kiss.

Earlier in the day Jasper’s kiss had been punishingly savage but this time he cherished her, parting her lips with his tongue to stroke and seduce, taking her more thoroughly with that one kiss than anyone had ever done before with his whole body. His tongue caressed hers and moved on to stroke the roof of her mouth, exploring her.

Topaz Delirium from Loose-Id
Order Page: http://www.loose-id.com/detail.aspx?ID=687
ISBN: 978-1-59632-664-4

I'll tell you about the other release tomorrow, when I have the order page!

Following up on the details.

2008-04-01T10:18:00.001+01:00

When writing a historical romance, it's important to follow up on the details. So if you have a plausible, but unusual plot, you have to follow it up. Less the facts of the time, more the manners, and expectations of the age - the zeitgeist. That's where novelists often make their biggest mistakes.
I write in the Georgian era, and here are a few of the mistakes commonly made. Plots that I've seen that either need a bit more work to make plausible or wouldn't work at all.

1. The duke marrying the governess. No. Just no. A gentleman, a high-ranking member of the upper middle class, yes, but if a duke marries a governess, he can expect to be socially shunned.

2. Speaking of which - disregarding the fact that society will shun you. Better than imagining it's no problem. This didn't mean not being invited to a few parties, it meant being cut off from everything that made the peerage what it was. Being an aristocrat in this era was similar to being the Chairman of the Board or Senior Executive in a big-ass corporation these days. Not exact, but near enough for the analogy to work. Being cut off meant having your peerage disbarred. 'Companies,' that is, other peers, the network of financial organisation, contacts and goodwil that make a company work, all gone. So yes, it happened, but it also could lead to the total destruction of the 'company' or peerage, and all the structures that depended on it for their living. Estate workers, farm workers, lawyers, servants, industries - everything.
If a man's word couldn't be trusted, then the structure collapsed, too. The code of honour meant something.

3. Another situation - the hero and heroine blithely assuming they could have a 'temporary' marriage, that they could divorce or have the marriage annulled after a trial period. Never, ever. Divorces involved an Act of Parliament, and wherever the fault lay, usually put the woman beyond the pale. Annulments were so rare as to be discounted, and when they did occur, they were for legitimate reasons - and those reasons were rigorously tested. Again, yes, it happened, rarely, but the consequences were dire, especially for the ex-wife.

Consummation has never been valid grounds for an annulment of a marriage. There isn't one case of a marriage annulled from non-consummation in the Georgian era. An annulment on the grounds of the male's impotence could be invoked, but the male's impotence had to be tested, by putting him in a room with several sexy women who would try to arouse him. One doubtful case in the late Georgian era is all we've been able to find. But no, annulment for non-consummation never existed in the Georgian era and wasn't valid grounds.

4. The duke (or marquess or earl) marrying a courtesan and society forgiving and forgetting her notorious past. Never, ever happened. Once a courtesan, always a courtesan. If a peer did something that foolish, then not only him but his children would be tainted. Not to say it didn't happen in a more discreet fashion (I used this loophole in "A Chance To Dream"). But no, such a woman would never, ever be openly acknowledged or accepted in the fashionable salons which were the powerhouses of the time.

5. A woman dressing in bifurcated garments, under or over her clothes. Until the Victorian era, no bloomers or knickers or panties (except for titillation). From a practical pov, imagine trying to pee in one of the primitive toilets or chamber pots of the time, holding voluminous skirts out of the way and trying to hold a pair of panties down as well? And if a woman dressed in male clothing, or rode astride, she would probably be locked away as a lunatic. Menfolk could and did get rid of inconvenient females that way.

6. Women who refuse to marry a man after she has slept with him, on the grounds that "he didn't say he loved her." After she'd lost her virginity, she could well be pregnant and to deny a child the chance of legitimacy carried severe, and permanent consequences for the child. Not the act of a heroine, in my book.

See what I mean? These things could happen, but you have to follow through on the consequences. You can't pick and choose, you have to accept the times as they were.
And what is most frustrating to me is that there are some great stories to be told if the consequences are followed. What happens when your mother is shunned as a Fallen Woman? Do you stick with her, or do you accept the offer of your stiff and proper Auntie Honoria, for her to take you into her household, bring you out into society and find you a husband? Can you turn your back on your much beloved mother? But no, many writers assume that society was as flexible then as it is now, that its mechanism is much the same. It isn't, and it wasn't.
Another reason why I admire people who write in past ages, and who recreate a society long gone. I only write about times 300 years ago, but already it's alien to many readers.

And don't expect your editor to pick up your historical inaccuracies. Editors don't pick up those errors. They aren't there for that, and usually they will question a few points, but editors aren't often history experts, too. They might be editing a variety of books, from paranormals to sweet Inspirationals, to cowboy romances, and they aren't experts on that, and most publishing houses don't expect them to be.

Seductive Secrets

2008-03-28T15:50:00.001Z

Well I don't want to outface Nicola's news, I couldn't if I tried, but I did just get the most beyoootiful cover art for my June release, "Seductive Secrets," the first in the Secrets Trilogy.
Georgian England again, and all three of these books take place outside London, two in country houses and one in a small town.
Isobel has a lot of secrets her new husband, Lord Cardington, doesn't know until after the marriage. But Nick loved her years ago, and has come back for more, so he thinks he's prepared for what lies ahead. He isn't.
I put a bit of the new technology to mid-Georgian England in each book, so the first book has a bit of the agrarian revolution, the new developments in agriculture. It was so enjoyable to write and I'm so pleased the book is coming out. And with such a lovely cover, too. Vivat Anne Cain!

Another one gone

2008-03-25T11:23:00.001Z

Sadly, it looks as if another epublisher has gone. Dark Eden Press is closing because of the illness of its proprietor. My best wishes to Debra and everyone orphaned by the closure.
Again, sadly, it's given the detractors and the gossips another stick to beat the epresses with. I've been epublished since 2000, and I've seen the constant criticisms and detractions, and like most generalisations, while there's a nugget of truth in it, there's also a lot of misinformation.
You can't any longer tar all epublishers with the same brush - if you ever could. Many are print publishers as well, which should more accurately bring them the title of small press. And some are definitely larger and more stable than others. They just aren't the same thing any more.
And risk. Every venture carries some risk. A risk assessment of the publishing industry is no different. When I was at business school, many years ago, risk assessment was a whole discipline to itself. and it still is. You can put numbers to it. I'll show you in the next entry. Everyone going for publication should really take the risk assessment into account, but they don't.
That's why I don't intend to send work to any more smaller of the small presses, if I can help it. But it took me a long while to get here and when I look back, I can see, much to my surprise, a career structure. Who'd have thunk it?

Tittle-tattle

2008-03-20T23:55:00.001Z

They're at it again.
Last year, when Triskelion Publishing got into difficulties, it was astounding to see how the gossips gathered around. What should have been a private author loop leaked like a sieve and what was always thought to be private ended up on public blogs.
And the vultures gathered around the corpse.
In truth, the company went down because the print program was a failure. Too much investment, too fast, led to cash meltdown and that was that.
But if you read the blogs you would have thought it went down because of incompetence and selfish behaviour by the owners. It wasn't. If they had made a roaring fortune from the print books, they would be laughing now, and they could have shaken off the critics. But the money ran out. At least they went bankrupt. In the past, epublishers just melted away in the night and the poor author rarely got closure.
The company has gone now, and remains as a Grave Lesson.
Now it's starting up again with another company. These things come in cycles, it seems.
I know nothing about the company currently under the spotlight. I've never had books there, never submitted any, but it is one of the longer-established epublishers and it has its way of working. Leaked emails are appearing all over theplace, to be lampooned and cut apart, when the emails weren't even meant for them. I have no bone to pick this time. I'm completely neutral.
But in the wake of every company that dies, whether it is because of its own faults or something else, it leaves a slew of bitterly disappointed and upset authors.
However, this is a symptom of market development. It really is. The smaller companies will either find themselves a niche or they will die, taken over or blown to the four winds. Bigger companies are venturing into epublishing and it's beginning to show.

New contract!

2008-03-12T13:25:00.001Z

I've been offered a contract from Ellora's Cave on the third Pure Wildfire book, MOONFIRE. I am so pleased that Jake's story will be out!
Jake is a sweetie, but nobody's fool, and when he returns to his home town of Springwater, Texas, he finds more than he bargained for, and a woman who can stand up to him.

A Night Out with Pure Passion

2008-02-22T13:38:00.002Z

What a treat to put that subject in my mail!

I attended the Pure Passion presentation last night and I took my daughter as my guest.
First I have to thank Rosemary for the invitation. What a lovely night it was!
We arrived by train from Warrington and, as always, I entered Manchester Town Hall with a fair bit of awe. The Town Hall was built in the era when Manchester was the wealthiest city in the world, sometimes called Cottonopolis because it was the centre of the cotton industry. The Town Hall was built in the high Victorian Gothic style, embellished inside with murals, vaulted ceilings and grand staircases. It really is a wonderful sight. If you ever go to Manchester, the Town Hall and the Exchange are the two buildings that really express the grandeur and wealth of the time.
http://www.manchester2002-uk.com/buildings/town%20Hall.html
Gathered in the Conference Room were writers, editors, librarians and readers. What better combination of people could there be?
The presentation went very well, helped along by witty speeches by Jenny Haddon, Catherine King and special guest Jan Etherington, TV scriptwriter and all-round good egg. Fashion notes I'll leave to someone else, except to say that my daughter looked her usual astonishing self.
A very enjoyable celebration of romantic fiction, and a fitting tribute to the genre. I'm looking forward to the exhibition in June at the Manchester Central Library, another tribute to the breathtaking confidence of the Victorian occupants of the city.

Revisionism

2008-02-19T10:43:00.001Z

Recently, I've been rewriting books I wrote before and a few things occurred to me. "Sunfire" is heavily rewritten, for example, but that was for a new publisher (Ellora's Cave) who had different requirements to the book's first publisher. I really thought the book was improved by the rewrite. But there wasn't much time before the original and the rewrite.
I'm currently going through edits for "Devonshire," the second book I had published and I'm finding myself less inclined to make any big changes.
Why? Because I wrote it long enough ago for me to have been a different writer then. I did things in that book I wouldn't do today, but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm better now - just different. I know what I was trying for when I wrote it, and it isn't always what I go for today. My concerns have changed, my writing style has changed.
And I revised "The Chemistry of Evil" ready to present it to publishers. I was happy to revise that because it is part of a series (Dept 57) that I'm still writing today. It gives me a chance to check the continuity. But I deliberately held back on heavy rewriting. I added a scene that I thought improved the story, but it's only a little one, and kept other things I wasn't entirely sure about, but I was then.
So where does revisionism stop and improving start?

The RNA's best male celebrities

2008-02-14T13:32:00.001Z

In a fun poll earlier this year, I voted for my favourite male celebrities, along with most of the other members of the RNA (Romantic Novelists' Association). So here are the results. What do you think about our choices?

The top ten male celebrities voted the Perfect Romantic Hero were:

1. Johnny Depp

2. Daniel Craig

3. Sean Bean

4. Richard Armitage

5. Hugh Jackman

6. Colin Firth

7. Alan Rickman

8. Pierce Brosnan

9. George Clooney

10. David Tennant

A second poll, taken by members of the RNA bravely admitting to being ‘over a certain age’, voted for male celebrities over fifty who’ve ‘still got it’. Remarkable for his appearance on both polls, Pierce Brosnan took the crownfor the over fifties by a huge margin.

The top ten Over-Fifty Perfect Romantic Heroes were:

1. Pierce Brosnan

2. Harrison Ford

3. Ranulph Fiennes

4. Bill Nighy

5. Liam Neeson

6. Sam Neill

7. Sean Connery

8. Peter O’Toole

9. Clint Eastwood

10. Omar Sharif

Met By Chance

2008-02-13T22:29:00.002Z

A new book out in time for Valentine's Day!

There’s more to this man than satin and lace.

After a serious riding accident, Perdita Garland is back in society. Unfortunately the first man who catches her interest, Charles Dalton, Marquis of Petherbridge, turns out to be a popinjay with a spoiled daughter in tow. And his equally spoiled sister is flirting with the same fortune-hunting suitor who almost cost Perdita her life. What’s a lady to do? Warn the marquis of the danger, of course.

Charles knows that English society finds his manners and dress astonishing, but they cover a man broken by a disastrous marriage to a faithless wife. Now a widowed father determined not to be fooled again, he is nevertheless charmed by Perdita and the steely strength of will under her fragile exterior. If only the lady would mind her own business.

But when his impulsive sister elopes and kidnaps his daughter, he finds himself wishing he had listened to the little busybody. And Perdita, feeling partly responsible for the disaster, boldly sets out to help him put things right.

Alone in a strange city with his lordship, plunged into danger, Perdita discovers there is more than meets the eye under the pampered skin of the marquis. There is strength, power…and passion beyond her wildest dreams.

Met By Chance, from Samhain Publishing
There's more to this man than satin and lace!
Order Page: http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/met-by-chance
ISBN:1-59998-892-5

A sharp exclamation, swiftly bitten off before the profanity entirely escaped his lips made her pay complete attention to the man by her side. “Good God, what is she doing here?” he cried, in a completely different tone of voice.

If she was less surprised, Perdita might have admired his skill in bringing his horses to a swift halt, and even more by his athletic leap from the vehicle, while his tiger scrambled to take the reins and climb up beside her. He started in the direction of the trees, a discreet gathering of oaks and sycamores, intended, she assumed, for added privacy, if needed. A flash of yellow drew her attention to a parasol wielded by a lady with her back to them, her hand resting on the arm of a man Perdita knew and had long wished she didn’t.

Berrington.

Charles was halfway to the trees before he realised just how improper his behaviour was. He didn’t stop walking, since the deed was done, but he owed Lady Perdita a deep apology for his behaviour. The trouble was, once he saw Millicent heading for the undergrowth he knew precisely what would happen next.

Exactly what happened last time. Only this time the result might not be as favourable as the last. His sister was an accomplished flirt, and didn’t know where to draw the line. The last time it had taken a fortune to quiet the budding scandal. Kissing a man in the corridor at the Opera they had, not unnaturally, been seen. She was at it again, and Charles intended to save himself considerable expenditure by finishing it now.

They were some way ahead, Millicent and the unknown man, and Charles hadn’t caught up with them by the time they disappeared between the trees. Only a flick of blue from Millicent’s gown betrayed their progression to the rear of the copse, where it was darkest. Charles quickened his stride, until he heard something behind him and turned to see the cause of it.

Damn! Lady Perdita was determinedly following. Why couldn’t she have waited in the phaeton? He would have to take her into his confidence now. Charles frowned when he saw her stumble on the rough ground. He had no choice. He waited for her.

Her breath came in short gasps, and it was only then he recollected her accident, the one that had broken both her legs. His agitation had driven the memory momentarily out of his mind. Lady Perdita had only been ambulant for a year, and still felt the effects of such severe injury. He’d felt as much last night, when he’d danced with her. He cursed his carelessness that made him forget.

She stared at him, getting her breath back. “Don’t stop! Go after them!”

Astonished, Charles held his arm out for her. “Come. We’ll go after them together. How did you know?”

She shot him a frowning look. “What else could it be but an impending scandal? Who is she?”

“My sister Millicent.” The hand on his sleeve tightened, but she did not use him as support, instead using it to help her quicken her stride.

They reached the trees. “Where are they?” he wondered. In the time he’d taken his attention from his sister to attend to Lady Perdita, Millicent had disappeared.

“Shh!”

All he could hear was her laboured breathing, slowly settling.

Then he heard a giggle, some way distant. “There!” He set off as quickly as he could, considering he had to consider someone else. He didn’t have to tow her, although his pace was probably too quick for her.

The trees here, past the sycamores, were old elms, interspersed with newer saplings, an artificial construct. Not being familiar with Hyde Park, he wasn’t sure where they led. Although reading his mind she said, “This comes out by the Serpentine. There will be people there.”

He let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “She’s a flirt,” he said, lightly, “but too young to have complete control of herself. I returned from France to find her deep in trouble, and having extricated her from that, I have no desire to see her do it again.”

“She could empty your coffers.”

So she realised just how he’d extricated Millicent last time. He glanced at Lady Perdita’s face, and saw total understanding there. He hoped he saw discretion, too. His irritation with his sister grew. He had been enjoying his drive, and enjoying her company. Millicent had ruined it. He dismissed his twinge of regret and plunged on, determined to do his duty.

Lady Perdita kept up, gamely refusing to lean on his arm, but determinedly keeping pace with him. When he glanced at her, he saw her lips tightly compressed, a sure sign of strain. He prayed the swift walk would do her legs no damage and fervently wished she’d remained behind.

They came out of the trees suddenly, a small copse, but artfully designed. People strolled this side of the bank of trees, enjoying the fine day and the view of the small river winding through the park. The sunlight blinded him and he blinked while his eyes adjusted to the altered circumstances. Then he spied his sister and the unknown man. She stopped walking, and faced her suitor, ready for his kiss.

Charles watched, aghast, as Millicent moved closer to her swain. How much this time? Two thousand? Three? More?

Then another couple moved out of the trees, heading for the Serpentine. Charles recognised them at once. The Earl and Countess of Ilford. Incorruptible leaders of society. If they saw this little scene, the game would be up, and his sister married to a man who was likely a fortune hunter, prepared to milk Charles and his family of everything he could get, and more importantly, make Millicent’s life a misery.

He felt a tug on his sleeve, and he turned, but without taking his attention from the awful scene being enacted before him. When he finally looked at Lady Perdita, the entreaty in her eyes startled him. Her hand curled behind his neck, and he bent towards her, rather than resist. Then he realised what she was about.

A distraction. Perfect.

Their lips met. Feeling hers part under his, Charles succumbed to the urges never far under the skin since he’d met her last night and clasped her closer, so she couldn’t get away even if she wanted to. Her mouth hot under his, he pushed her lips further apart with his own, so he could enter her with his tongue.

Exquisite hot, damp, warmth. Something he hadn’t felt for five years. The welcoming, feminine form moved closer, and his hands tightened on the warm silk of her gown, giving himself up to the kiss, forgetting everything but their startlingly intimate embrace.

When she gasped, he pushed his tongue between her lips in exploration, found the firm, sweet roof of her mouth and stroked it, as though caressing her bare skin with his hands. She was open to him, unknowingly offering all she could give, and if it weren’t for the time and the place he would be tempted to take it.

His own thoughts reminded him of the time and place. Allowing courtesy to dictate his actions, he slackened his grip, removed his tongue from her inviting mouth and finished the kiss with a quiet, closed mouth caress.

Charles allowed himself a moment to gaze at her, so close, her wondrous blue eyes as dazed as he knew his own must be. Then, brought back to the immediacy of the situation, he drew back and looked around him.

Munich

2008-02-06T18:31:00.001Z

Today is the 50th anniversary of the Munich Air Disaster.
I'm a Manchester United fan, so I'm remembering today and raising a glass to the boys who died that day. And they were boys.
In case you don't know what I'm talking about, Manchester United is one of the best football teams in the world. And the richest in the UK. On this day in 1958, the United team of the day was the best in the country, packed with young hopefuls and on its way to winning the European Cup. The manager was Matt Busby and the team was called "The Busby Babes."
Until Munich.
On its way home, the plane didn't lift off, but crashed at the end of the runway. There were 44 passengers on board, and 23 died. Including 8 players. The manager was in intensive care for a while.
Ten years later, Manchester United won the European Cup under Sir Matt's managership but nobody has ever forgotten Munich.
So spare a minute tonight to remember them.

MET BY CHANCE - Out today!

2008-02-05T14:38:00.001Z

The third book in the Triple Countess series.
Set in the glamorous age of Georgian England, Met By Chance is Perdita's story, the sister of Orlando, featured in A Chance To Dream.
For brand-new excerpts and buying, go here:
http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/met-by-chance

Now read on:
There’s more to this man than satin and lace.
After a serious riding accident, Perdita Garland is back in society. Unfortunately the first man who catches her interest, Charles Dalton, Marquis of Petherbridge, turns out to be a popinjay with a spoiled daughter in tow. And his equally spoiled sister is flirting with the same fortune-hunting suitor who almost cost Perdita her life. What’s a lady to do? Warn the
marquis of the danger, of course.
Charles knows that English society finds his manners and dress astonishing, but they cover a man broken by a disastrous marriage to a faithless wife. Now a widowed father determined not to be fooled again, he is nevertheless charmed by Perdita and the steely strength of will under her fragile exterior. If only the lady would mind her own business. But when his impulsive sister elopes and kidnaps his daughter, he finds himself wishing he had listened to the little busybody. And Perdita, feeling partly responsible for the disaster, boldly sets out to help him put things right.
Alone in a strange city with his lordship, plunged into danger, Perdita discovers there is more than meets the eye under th pampered skin of the marquis. There is strength, power…and passion beyond her wildest dreams.

Met By Chance, from Samhain Publishing
There's more to this man than satin and lace!
Order Page: http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/met-by-chance
ISBN:1-59998-892-5

I hope you like! And get a shufti at that beautiful cover!

Resolutions

2008-02-05T01:32:00.001Z

So much for daily blogging! I tried, I really did. But so many things happen and all at once I don't really believe January is actually over!
I have a new release tomorrow, which I'll blog about then, and January was a blast, with the release of "Sunfire." I absolutely loved writing that book and the reviews that have come in have blown me away. They like it. So I'm safe to keep writing for now!

Accuracy

2008-01-26T16:53:00.001Z

I was pointed to an excellent post on historical accuracy in romances:
http://speakitsname.wordpress.com/2007/10/03/malibu-historical-barbie/
Go read. It's good.

Sales!

2008-01-22T14:59:00.001Z

To celebrate the release of Sunfire, I went and did the tail-end of the sales yesterday.
I love the tail-end. When the sales first start, you go out and get the things you really want, or the things that are in short supply. Then, towards the end of the sales, one last trawl for those hidden gems, the piles of things that have been overlooked. I got some bandanas for 50p, silk ones, a great bargain, and now I've decided to keep my hair long for the time being, I need more hair stuff. And a skirt from Monsoon. I can rarely resist Monsoon so I have a new skirt to add to the beautiful new handbag I bought at the start of the sales. I've been stroking that bag for weeks. It's velvet, you see, very strokable!
Or is it just me and my inveterate bargain-hunting self? Perhaps nobody else likes them. Debenhams was packed with stuff, mostly clothes, so there is some indication of overbuying, or maybe they just didn't buy what people wanted. Oops. I had an interview for fashion buyer there many moons ago, but I didn't like the unwieldy corporate structure, so I went into advertising and marketing instead, which was huge fun but I always wondered what I'd missed!
I might just go back for that John Rocha skirt.......

Sunfire is out today!

2008-01-18T19:23:00.001Z

Sunfire is out today!
I am really thrilled that this book is getting a new lease of life, and the others in the series will be released for the first time.
Rock musicians and shapeshifters, yum!
You can read an excerpt on my website, here;
www.lynneconnolly.com/sunfire.htm

and you can buy the book here:
http://Sunfire.notlong.com

Rock meets classical. Paranormal meets mortal. Will anybody get out
alive? The members of rock band Pure Wildfire are firebird
shape-shifters. Manager John Westfall will sacrifice anything for the
power they wield, even his daughter Corinne.

Corinne attracts Aidan in a way he's never known before. He'll do
anything to release her from Westfall's trap. He offers her marriage,
but Aidan wants more from Corinne — he wants her heart. And he'll give
her his in return.

Classical guitarist Corinne is desperate to escape her father's
control. She loves Aidan but craves her freedom — can she trust him to
give it to her? Can she trust the wild man of rock with her heart?
There's only one way to find out. Dive into the wildfire!

And here's a snippet to tempt you!
Aidan’s way out of the manor led past the rehearsal room, he made sure
of it. Maybe Corinne might still be there. Maybe he’d have another
chance with her.

The waves of grief hit him like a wall of icy water on his way past. He
couldn’t ignore such anguish, so he turned the knob and went in.

The door opened silently, like the door to Westfall’s office, gliding
on well-oiled hinges. She stood with her back to the door, head bowed,
shoulders shaking in quiet pain. Her sobs filled the room with sorrow.

At first, Aidan wasn’t sure which sister wept so heartbrokenly, but the
white clothes and the feel of the atmosphere soon told him. Guessing
her wish for privacy, he closed the door quietly before he walked
forward and placed his hands on Corinne’s shoulders to tell her she was
no longer alone.

“What is it? Is there anything I can do? Who made you cry like this?”

Her shoulders froze, tensing under his touch. She drew a deep breath
and her hand went up to wipe away the tears. Only then did she turn.

Her eyes, made even darker by her tears, gazed steadily into his. Her
cheeks were still wet but she’d composed her face before she turned to
him. She looked ethereally beautiful and heartbreakingly lovely. Aidan
caught his breath in wonder.

“You,” she said. “You made me cry.”

Let me know what you think!

The plagiarism debate

2008-01-14T10:34:00.001Z

Except it's not a debate any more.
A best selling author of 100 books, Cassie Edwards, has been accused of lifting material from other books without acknowledging them.
http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/index.php/weblog/cassie_edwards_extravaganza/
It's now become so bad that people are asking if there is a book where she didn't copy.
I've heard some authors saying that "we" should stick together to support the romance community. To my mind, there is no "we" in this case. Copying someone else's material and claiming it as your own is wrong. Whoever, whatever. The whole thing makes me very sad, but just because one person is doing this, doesn't mean it's okay to do it or that everyone who ever writes a book is the same as the next person who writes a book. If there's anything I've learned about writers, it's that there are no generalisations, the only common factor being the writing. Every writer has her own technique, every writer has his methods.
But this isn't a writing technique. It's a patchwork way of constructing a saleable product. Until somebody finds out. And they have found out.