Bonnie Vanak's Blog, page 7
March 31, 2016
New cover!
This is the cover for The Mating Destiny, which is now Book 7 in my Werewolves of Montana series. I decided to swap up the order of books in that series because this is a dragon book, and Alex and Emma play an important role in the series. Book 8 will be Xavier's book, The Mating Game.
The Mating Destiny has been edited and is now in production. I am focusing on edits for The Mating Season, Tristan's book, which I hope to release in April.
Happy reading!
March 24, 2016
Florida heat!
Our boxed set is out next month and USA Today has a feature on it! Joyce Lamb asked us to name our favorite Florida tv show or movie. Mine was not quite about Florida, but rather, filmed near my home in Florida. It has to do with the Hollywood sign, a Tom Cruise movie and how Hollywood came to our local trash dump.Check it out by clicking here.
SIZZLING FLORIDA HEAT, sexy stories from the Sunshine State, will be out April 12.
March 13, 2016
Dragon breath!
I'm busy with a new dragon novella, one that comes on the heels of The Mating Season. The Mating Season, Tristan's book, is with an editor now. I always have my books professionally edited so they can be the best book possible.
The dragon novella is called The Mating Destiny and I'm making this Book 7 in my Werewolves of Montana series. Why, when it's not a full book? Because vendors like Amazon won't let you number a series in half numbers. I can't call it Book 6.5 on Amazon. And I know how important reading order is to readers and since Alex, the hero, makes his appearance first in The Mating Season, I want readers to know his story is right after that.
If you are interested in my dragon books, here is the reading order:
Tempation: Werewolves of Montana Mating Mini (Sebastian and Skyler)
Lovestruck: (Michael and Anna)
The Mating Destiny: Werewolves of Montana Book 7
Until later!
The dragon novella is called The Mating Destiny and I'm making this Book 7 in my Werewolves of Montana series. Why, when it's not a full book? Because vendors like Amazon won't let you number a series in half numbers. I can't call it Book 6.5 on Amazon. And I know how important reading order is to readers and since Alex, the hero, makes his appearance first in The Mating Season, I want readers to know his story is right after that.
If you are interested in my dragon books, here is the reading order:
Tempation: Werewolves of Montana Mating Mini (Sebastian and Skyler)
Lovestruck: (Michael and Anna)
The Mating Destiny: Werewolves of Montana Book 7
Until later!
March 4, 2016
Get 17 free books!
Harlequin is kicking off a campaign called Romance When You Need It! You can sign up for Harlequin News and Get 17 FREE books, including romantic suspense.
My first romantic suspense book from Harlequin is out this July. Navy Seal Seduction is the first in a trilogy about Navy SEALS and the women who love them.
click here for more information on the free books from Harlequin!
February 28, 2016
On death and dying
Someone else we know is dying from that dirty, rotten &^*&#*@ called cancer. I'm having flashbacks to all those I have known and lost to this damned disease. I dug this essay out and it fits my emotions and the brief, precious moments we all are granted in this life and the importance of making the most of each one.
Marcia’s clock copyright 2016 Bonnie Vanak I’m sitting at my desk at work, with a prime view of hectic rush hour traffic on Interstate 95. People driving at breakneck speed to get home, get somewhere, get anywhere because time these days is precious and even free cell phone minutes aren’t enough. I’m not thinking about going home, even though it’s five o’clock. I’m thinking of cutout pink valentines with a photo of Care Bears glued in the middle. Care Bears stuck to a long, chrome hospital pole with the cheery inscription, “To Mom. Happy Valentine’s Day. Love, Laud.”
Laud is his nickname. Marcia told me she named him Hilario because she liked that name. “I didn’t know I was going to have a son who was autistic and couldn’t say his own name.” Marcia told me about Laud’s Care Bears today as I slowly reeled past the roundhouse slap shock of seeing her lying on the hospital bed, a lanky pile of bones and flesh, her Miss Clairol hair once swinging down to her shoulders, now cropped short and threaded liberally with gray. “I just took the razor,” she told me matter-of-factly. “It started to grow out and I took the razor to trim it and then realized I really did a number on it and needed to even it out.” It’s rather military style, her haircut, flat top, perfect Army requisition hair. But about the Care Bears, I fear I digress. You see, ever since Marcia told her adult son, who has depended upon her for his whole life, that she was sick, he has bought her stuffed animals. One after the other. A virtual parade of plush fur plopped in her ever-thinning lap. A zoo of Care Bears for mom. The giant Care Bear gift at Christmas. “You should see it,” Marcia says in her monotone, tired voice people have when they need to talk because they have a lot to say and know there is little time to say it in, but lack the energy, “It’s huge. Isn’t it Janet?” Janet, her sister, looks up from straightening up the rollaway patient cart with the little Jell-O cups, a mauve cup of untouched oatmeal and green cans of ginger ale. She stretches her arms out “like so” to indicate how big this bear is. “But you have to see it next to the others,” Marcia tells me. “It makes the others look so small.” There’s a Care Bear sitting on the bedside table, a clay potted plant nestled between its legs, the table Marcia hasn’t the strength to reach. It sits next to a Dean Koontz book she hasn’t the strength to read. Above her head is a trapeze to help her sit up. Marcia reaches up and her sister scurries over. “Do you need anything?” Janet asks. “No,” Marcia says with a glimmer of a smile. “Just playing.” She fingers the trapeze and it swings gently back and forth like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock, minutes slipping away. I hand her three cards I have brought. Two are valentines. She is too weak to open the second card. I do it for her. It’s a funny card. “My weird sense of humor,” I say, laughing because I must laugh, because if I don’t this crazy play of emotions I am struggling to contain will gush out like water.“Yes, Marcia says, with her oblique, dry sense of humor, “You did always have an odd sense of humor.” I give her a CD of Sister Jeanne singing. “The Sisters of Song.” I tell her that it’s a gift from Monica at work. Marcia toys with it and lets it fall into her lap. “Sister Jeanne, the fun, cheerful, rotund nun?” “Yes,” I reply, “that’s her, she’s sort of bouncy. There are 59 other nuns singing with her on the CD.” “You mean 59 other bouncy nuns, or maybe some of them aren’t as bouncy as Sister Jeanne?” Marcia asks. I laugh, gratified to hear Marcia making a joke. Her sister gives her a cup of ice and coaxes her to take a spoonful of red Jell-O. The hospital has only yellow and green Jell-O, Marcia explains. Her mother had to go to the store and buy red. But the Jell-O doesn’t sit right with Marcia. She shakes her head, and plays with the Styrofoam cup of ice instead. “I have no appetite,” she says. “Do you think it’s because I’m on all these nutritional supplements?” I say, “Maybe.” I don’t want to wax enthusiasm and nod like one of those little animals you put next to a glass of water that bobs its head up and down stupidly. I know what’s going on. But I will not say it. She’s on antibiotics this morning. Her fever was 100. And there’s the steak in a bottle, as my sister-in-law called it when her mom was dying of colon cancer. Marcia’s sister says they call it blueberry pie. And opium. “It’s the last resort,” Marcia says in that flat, monotone, matter-of-fact voice. “For diarrhea.’
She tells me in a calm, accepting tone that she was used to taking her IV pole with the chemo in it and wheeling it into the bathroom. But this visit, she couldn’t find the strength. So they gave her a port-a-potty. It sits, lid lowered, next to her bed like a polite, waiting visitor. But she had no strength for that, either. “I’m wearing diapers,” she tells me. I nod slowly. I know all about the diapers. I don’t tell Marcia it was the same with my mom’s colon cancer. First there is the walker to lean upon, to hop drag to the bathroom, and then the port-a-potty and finally, the diapers. What do you say to a friend who is dying and doesn’t want to give up? You talk about things like Abiquiu. Abiquiu where the monks at Christ in the Desert monastery have a web site. “Remember the monks online?” she asks me. I vaguely recall her telling me about them. Years ago, Marcia told me all about Abiquiu when I mentioned my husband and I were going to pass through there. “You must stop and stay a while,” she had insisted, her artist’s eyes dancing with memories of colors and light. “It’s beautiful. Georgia O’Keefe lived there. It’s got a tremendous spiritual power.” She had gone on and on about the beauty of the place. But we were in a hurry. The rose and toast and green cliffs were pretty, but so were the trains we were heading for in Durango, so we stopped for one minute, took photos like Japanese tourists. Snap, snap, snap and we were on our way. There’s so many medications and bags just hanging there next to Marcia as we talk of Abiquiu. Red digital numbers flashing, pumps dripping. It all seems so out of place, as if Marcia’s hospital bed is sitting in a vast verdant field next to the cliffs and the beaming little monks, so serene and peaceful. And then she stops talking of Abiquiu and mentions chemo. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about any more government trials. I don’t know if my body can take this anymore.” A tight smile stretches over her sister’s face. “We’ll deal with that later,” Janet says in a too bright tone. “Just concentrate on regaining your strength and getting through this now.” “Yes,” I say, chiming in, feeling this false brightness spreading to me now, although I know what is truth and what is reality and what is fact. “Just concentrate on getting better.” I didn’t ask if she was in pain. I didn’t need to. I see the signs, the same ones my mother had, the restless shifting of legs, heels flat against the bed, knees bent. I pretend. I ask, “When are they going to spring you?” She says she doesn’t know. Maybe Tuesday. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m wearing a diaper. I don’t think Hilario can help with that. Maybe I’ll be stronger by then.” How do you look someone in the eye when you know they are dying and hold a normal conversation with them? What do you talk about with someone whose time is running out and they really don’t want to admit it because they still have so much to live for? You talk about Abiquiu and men she says were her “mistakes.” I tell her, “Everyone makes mistakes, Marcia. Yours are just more colorful.” You talk about ordinary things like work. You talk about everything except the one thing hanging between you like a blanket, or the invisible veil between this world and the next. I drove away from the hospital thinking about years, months, days, hours, minutes and then seconds decreasing until the clock finally stops. Tick, tock, silence. I thought about time and how precious it is and how there’s so little of it. And then there’s Abiquiu. There are monks online and cliffs of gold, rose and green that lift the spirit if you pause long enough and listen to the music they make in your soul. There is Abiquiu . I will return there and make time to hear their song. Because it takes a friend who is dying, who is too damn weak to sit up and open a Valentine’s Day card, for you to sit up and pay attention to what really counts. I will go back to Abiquiu. And when I do, I will think of Marcia, whose artist’s soul knew what I failed to understand. That we don’t have that kind of time and we need to soak up every second with that which is beautiful and precious and real to us. For her there were fuzzy, silly Care Bears. For me, there is Abiquiu. I will return. I will.
Marcia’s clock copyright 2016 Bonnie Vanak I’m sitting at my desk at work, with a prime view of hectic rush hour traffic on Interstate 95. People driving at breakneck speed to get home, get somewhere, get anywhere because time these days is precious and even free cell phone minutes aren’t enough. I’m not thinking about going home, even though it’s five o’clock. I’m thinking of cutout pink valentines with a photo of Care Bears glued in the middle. Care Bears stuck to a long, chrome hospital pole with the cheery inscription, “To Mom. Happy Valentine’s Day. Love, Laud.”
Laud is his nickname. Marcia told me she named him Hilario because she liked that name. “I didn’t know I was going to have a son who was autistic and couldn’t say his own name.” Marcia told me about Laud’s Care Bears today as I slowly reeled past the roundhouse slap shock of seeing her lying on the hospital bed, a lanky pile of bones and flesh, her Miss Clairol hair once swinging down to her shoulders, now cropped short and threaded liberally with gray. “I just took the razor,” she told me matter-of-factly. “It started to grow out and I took the razor to trim it and then realized I really did a number on it and needed to even it out.” It’s rather military style, her haircut, flat top, perfect Army requisition hair. But about the Care Bears, I fear I digress. You see, ever since Marcia told her adult son, who has depended upon her for his whole life, that she was sick, he has bought her stuffed animals. One after the other. A virtual parade of plush fur plopped in her ever-thinning lap. A zoo of Care Bears for mom. The giant Care Bear gift at Christmas. “You should see it,” Marcia says in her monotone, tired voice people have when they need to talk because they have a lot to say and know there is little time to say it in, but lack the energy, “It’s huge. Isn’t it Janet?” Janet, her sister, looks up from straightening up the rollaway patient cart with the little Jell-O cups, a mauve cup of untouched oatmeal and green cans of ginger ale. She stretches her arms out “like so” to indicate how big this bear is. “But you have to see it next to the others,” Marcia tells me. “It makes the others look so small.” There’s a Care Bear sitting on the bedside table, a clay potted plant nestled between its legs, the table Marcia hasn’t the strength to reach. It sits next to a Dean Koontz book she hasn’t the strength to read. Above her head is a trapeze to help her sit up. Marcia reaches up and her sister scurries over. “Do you need anything?” Janet asks. “No,” Marcia says with a glimmer of a smile. “Just playing.” She fingers the trapeze and it swings gently back and forth like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock, minutes slipping away. I hand her three cards I have brought. Two are valentines. She is too weak to open the second card. I do it for her. It’s a funny card. “My weird sense of humor,” I say, laughing because I must laugh, because if I don’t this crazy play of emotions I am struggling to contain will gush out like water.“Yes, Marcia says, with her oblique, dry sense of humor, “You did always have an odd sense of humor.” I give her a CD of Sister Jeanne singing. “The Sisters of Song.” I tell her that it’s a gift from Monica at work. Marcia toys with it and lets it fall into her lap. “Sister Jeanne, the fun, cheerful, rotund nun?” “Yes,” I reply, “that’s her, she’s sort of bouncy. There are 59 other nuns singing with her on the CD.” “You mean 59 other bouncy nuns, or maybe some of them aren’t as bouncy as Sister Jeanne?” Marcia asks. I laugh, gratified to hear Marcia making a joke. Her sister gives her a cup of ice and coaxes her to take a spoonful of red Jell-O. The hospital has only yellow and green Jell-O, Marcia explains. Her mother had to go to the store and buy red. But the Jell-O doesn’t sit right with Marcia. She shakes her head, and plays with the Styrofoam cup of ice instead. “I have no appetite,” she says. “Do you think it’s because I’m on all these nutritional supplements?” I say, “Maybe.” I don’t want to wax enthusiasm and nod like one of those little animals you put next to a glass of water that bobs its head up and down stupidly. I know what’s going on. But I will not say it. She’s on antibiotics this morning. Her fever was 100. And there’s the steak in a bottle, as my sister-in-law called it when her mom was dying of colon cancer. Marcia’s sister says they call it blueberry pie. And opium. “It’s the last resort,” Marcia says in that flat, monotone, matter-of-fact voice. “For diarrhea.’
She tells me in a calm, accepting tone that she was used to taking her IV pole with the chemo in it and wheeling it into the bathroom. But this visit, she couldn’t find the strength. So they gave her a port-a-potty. It sits, lid lowered, next to her bed like a polite, waiting visitor. But she had no strength for that, either. “I’m wearing diapers,” she tells me. I nod slowly. I know all about the diapers. I don’t tell Marcia it was the same with my mom’s colon cancer. First there is the walker to lean upon, to hop drag to the bathroom, and then the port-a-potty and finally, the diapers. What do you say to a friend who is dying and doesn’t want to give up? You talk about things like Abiquiu. Abiquiu where the monks at Christ in the Desert monastery have a web site. “Remember the monks online?” she asks me. I vaguely recall her telling me about them. Years ago, Marcia told me all about Abiquiu when I mentioned my husband and I were going to pass through there. “You must stop and stay a while,” she had insisted, her artist’s eyes dancing with memories of colors and light. “It’s beautiful. Georgia O’Keefe lived there. It’s got a tremendous spiritual power.” She had gone on and on about the beauty of the place. But we were in a hurry. The rose and toast and green cliffs were pretty, but so were the trains we were heading for in Durango, so we stopped for one minute, took photos like Japanese tourists. Snap, snap, snap and we were on our way. There’s so many medications and bags just hanging there next to Marcia as we talk of Abiquiu. Red digital numbers flashing, pumps dripping. It all seems so out of place, as if Marcia’s hospital bed is sitting in a vast verdant field next to the cliffs and the beaming little monks, so serene and peaceful. And then she stops talking of Abiquiu and mentions chemo. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about any more government trials. I don’t know if my body can take this anymore.” A tight smile stretches over her sister’s face. “We’ll deal with that later,” Janet says in a too bright tone. “Just concentrate on regaining your strength and getting through this now.” “Yes,” I say, chiming in, feeling this false brightness spreading to me now, although I know what is truth and what is reality and what is fact. “Just concentrate on getting better.” I didn’t ask if she was in pain. I didn’t need to. I see the signs, the same ones my mother had, the restless shifting of legs, heels flat against the bed, knees bent. I pretend. I ask, “When are they going to spring you?” She says she doesn’t know. Maybe Tuesday. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m wearing a diaper. I don’t think Hilario can help with that. Maybe I’ll be stronger by then.” How do you look someone in the eye when you know they are dying and hold a normal conversation with them? What do you talk about with someone whose time is running out and they really don’t want to admit it because they still have so much to live for? You talk about Abiquiu and men she says were her “mistakes.” I tell her, “Everyone makes mistakes, Marcia. Yours are just more colorful.” You talk about ordinary things like work. You talk about everything except the one thing hanging between you like a blanket, or the invisible veil between this world and the next. I drove away from the hospital thinking about years, months, days, hours, minutes and then seconds decreasing until the clock finally stops. Tick, tock, silence. I thought about time and how precious it is and how there’s so little of it. And then there’s Abiquiu. There are monks online and cliffs of gold, rose and green that lift the spirit if you pause long enough and listen to the music they make in your soul. There is Abiquiu . I will return there and make time to hear their song. Because it takes a friend who is dying, who is too damn weak to sit up and open a Valentine’s Day card, for you to sit up and pay attention to what really counts. I will go back to Abiquiu. And when I do, I will think of Marcia, whose artist’s soul knew what I failed to understand. That we don’t have that kind of time and we need to soak up every second with that which is beautiful and precious and real to us. For her there were fuzzy, silly Care Bears. For me, there is Abiquiu. I will return. I will.
February 24, 2016
Free short story on my website next month!
This is my new cover for the short story I will be offering next month for 99 cents on Amazon, iBooks and other vendors, and for free when you sign up for my newsletter!
Click here to sign up for my newsletter.
Weaving his spell of enchantment, he came to her in dreams, initiating her into the passionate world of the vampire. She cannot forget the slide of his muscular body thrusting into hers, the erotic sting of his fangs sinking into her tender skin. Now Adrian, leader of the vampire world, will seduce Lily to officially change her into a vampire. Only Adrian knows Lily's darkest secret, a secret that can turn his people against her. He is determined to protect her by claiming her as his mate. Once they make love, Lily becomes addicted to Adrian's sensual caresses, but fights his attempts to coax her into mating. Yet only Adrian's touch can bring her the ecstasy she craves. Even the legendary vampire orgies hold no appeal for her, for she burns for Adrian, and only in his arms will she at last surrender to him… and the night.It was published by Ellora's Cave under my pseudonym, Blair Valentine. Next month I am getting the rights back and will self-publish it.
In other book news, I'm busy slogging away on Tristan's story, The Mating Season, and hope to finish next week! The first half of the book is now with an editor. And Bad Boys of The Night, our boxed set of eight sexy stories, is still available! Only 99 cents for eight sizzling paranormal romances by eight New York Times bestselling authors. Fulfill your darkest fantasies with alpha-male bad boys of the night in these stories about vampires, shifters, fallen angels, werewolves, demons, psychic warriors and ghosts.
Stories by Erin Quinn,Jennifer Ashley/Allyson James, Erin Kellison, Colleen Gleason, Felicity Heaton, Bonnie Vanak, Laurie London,and Caris Roane!
Amazon:iBooks: Barnes and Noble: Kobo:
Happy reading!
February 17, 2016
Fantasyland, again
Bad Boys of the Night, eight sizzling paranormal stories, is now out. My contribution is The Mating Challenge. I need to read this book again because I'm trying to get back to writing Tristan's book, The Mating Season. For the past three months, I've been immersed in writing romantic suspense for Harlequin, and now that book is finally ready for publication (July 2016). Now it's time to return for a while to fantasyland and my Silver Wizard, who is all-powerful and yet hopelessly in love with his one true mate, who fears him.
Life has presented a few big challenges along the way. I was happy I could actually complete the Harlequin book and turn it in on time, considering we had to move out of our house because of the flood and subsequent discovery of mold in our bathroom and kitchen. Living out of a suitcase, especially when you have two elderly dogs to care for, and one has Stage 3 kidney failure, is not fun.
Even though we are back home, things are still not resolved. The kitchen is not back to normal, as the granite was improperly installed and if it is not corrected, it could crack. We have only one bathroom, but hey, I grew up in a family of four with only one bathroom, so that's not a big deal to me.
The kitchen is a bigger concern. We can't unpack all the kitchen items and put them away because of the issue with the granite. Hopefully the contractor will resolve that soon.
I'm trying to get back to Tristan and Nikita. The Mating Season is close to being finished, but it's not done yet. I need writing mojo. I need fairy dust. Most of all, I need to focus, which is really tough when half your household items are still packed away in boxes and each time you go into the kitchen to cook, you realize the pots and pans are on the patio in crates!
I'll get there. This weekend, after I work on the revisions for the HRS proposal, I'll dedicate myself to Tristan's book. Next weekend I'm at Sleuthfest, one of the few writing conferences I'm attending this year. I'm looking forward to this conference as I've never attended. I figured since I am now writing RS, it's a good time to go.
Until later!
Life has presented a few big challenges along the way. I was happy I could actually complete the Harlequin book and turn it in on time, considering we had to move out of our house because of the flood and subsequent discovery of mold in our bathroom and kitchen. Living out of a suitcase, especially when you have two elderly dogs to care for, and one has Stage 3 kidney failure, is not fun.
Even though we are back home, things are still not resolved. The kitchen is not back to normal, as the granite was improperly installed and if it is not corrected, it could crack. We have only one bathroom, but hey, I grew up in a family of four with only one bathroom, so that's not a big deal to me.
The kitchen is a bigger concern. We can't unpack all the kitchen items and put them away because of the issue with the granite. Hopefully the contractor will resolve that soon.
I'm trying to get back to Tristan and Nikita. The Mating Season is close to being finished, but it's not done yet. I need writing mojo. I need fairy dust. Most of all, I need to focus, which is really tough when half your household items are still packed away in boxes and each time you go into the kitchen to cook, you realize the pots and pans are on the patio in crates!
I'll get there. This weekend, after I work on the revisions for the HRS proposal, I'll dedicate myself to Tristan's book. Next weekend I'm at Sleuthfest, one of the few writing conferences I'm attending this year. I'm looking forward to this conference as I've never attended. I figured since I am now writing RS, it's a good time to go.
Until later!
February 9, 2016
Like bad boys?
Bad Boys of the Night, our new paranormal boxed set, is out Feb. 16! Only 99 cents for eight stories of sexy, otherworldly males!
Bad Wolf (Shifters Unbound) by Jennifer Ashley
Wolf Shifter Broderick is stuck looking after his three younger brothers and a Collar-less Shifter who is driving him crazy, but he's putting up with them for Joanne, the human woman he wants to take as mate. When Broderick is captured, mistaken for a Guardian, it's Joanne who figures out that hackers are after the Guardian Network, the database that holds the deep secrets of Shifters past and present.
Shadow Fall (Shadow series) by Erin Kellison
A man with all Custo's sins isn't cut out to be an angel. One moment he's fleeing Heaven; the next, he's waking up stark naked, called by a woman who's afraid of the dark. Shadow gathers around Annabella as she performs, a magic that allows her to move between worlds. Her abilities attract a primeval wolf, and it stalks her relentlessly. Custo stops at nothing to keep her safe, and though danger proves seductive, they fight for redemption and love.
Warrior's Heart (Iron Portal) by Laurie London
Librarian by day, Zara Kane is a thief by night, stealing artifacts that belong to her homeland. When she learns a man she once loved has been wrongly imprisoned, she uses her para-abilities to orchestrate a daring escape.
Vince Crawford isn't afraid of anything, but when the woman he's never stopped loving and the son he never knew he had are threatened by a ruthless enemy, he will stop at nothing to keep them safe...even if it costs him his life.
The Vampire Voss by Colleen Gleason
In 19th Century London, vampires live alongside the uppercrust members of Society...
Even after centuries of lust, hedonism, and women, Voss, rarely finds himself bored. He is a rogue of the first order who loves nothing more than a warm woman, excellent vintage, and even a puzzling challenge to keep his mind active. But when one of his seemingly harmless manipulations sets him on the path to seduce the beautiful Miss Angelica Woodmore, things become a little less simple...a lot more passionate...and definitely more complicated.
Hunger (Vampires Realm Series) by Felicity Heaton
A vampire assassin hardened by centuries of service, Tor is a man of discipline and loyalty, never straying from his mission, and has purged all his weaknesses, including his emotions. But the moment he meets the broken, fiery female he is to escort to Oslo, something dangerous awakens in him, something possessive and powerful, and when he is pulled into a deadly game of cat and mouse with the man who betrayed her, Tor discovers he will do anything to protect the woman slowly claiming his heart and give her the vengeance she desires--even break all the rules.
The Mating Challenge (Werewolves of Montana) by Bonnie Vanak
Alpha werewolf and ranch owner Aiden Mitchell desires the curvy, vivacious Nikita Blakemore, alpha female of the Blakemore pack. He will have her as his mate and no other. To force her hand, Aiden maneuvers her into hosting a Mating Challenge, the ultimate warrior competition for werewolves, where males fight for the right to mate and breed with a female alpha. Fiercely protective of his future mate, Aiden will do anything to make her his own, even fight to the death...
Dark Flame (Flame Series) by Caris Roane
Committed to the rule of law, vampire Border Patrol Officer Robert Brannick falls hard for a beautiful fae woman who illegally seduces him in his dreams...
Diablo Springs by Erin Quinn
When she escaped Diablo Springs years ago, Gracie Beck swore she'd never return. But all that changes on the night of her grandmother's death when Diablo Springs lures Gracie's teenage daughter to its treacherous border. Gracie races to the rescue--only to find herself trapped in the undercurrent of a hundred year old curse and the menacing spirits that still terrorize the town. She isn't prepared to deal with Reilly Alexander--a man from her past who she's never forgotten--at the same time. Reilly is determined to help Gracie and prove his to love to her, but they've come to a dangerous place where every lurking shadow should be feared....
January 31, 2016
What goes up must go down...the drain...
I'm working on revisions for Navy Seal Seduction and finishing a proposal for the next romantic suspense for Harlequin. My editor liked NSS, which was great news! That book was a tough one to write, as it was my first romantic suspense. I usually have elements of suspense in my books, either historical or paranormal, but this was my first straight RS book.
I'm so happy that I finished the book and all looks well. It was a big challenge to write during the holidays, as the week of Christmas we had a huge, huge problem...
We had a flood in our master bathroom a few days before Christmas and discovered mold growing between the walls backing up to our kitchen. Black mold. Lots of it. We had to hire a mold mitigation contractor, put in an insurance claim, and move out of the house.
The contractor did a great job removing the mold. It's been unsettling going back and forth from our temporary living quarters to the house, but the most important thing is our health. The black mold was causing us to cough, wheeze and get ill. And we never even knew it was there.
All this was caused by a rusty, leaking drain. We had no idea this could happen. But it was the original tub, and rusted out at the bottom. Since the tub was installed 30 years ago, and not properly sealed, it was only a matter of time.
Regarding book news, soon as I turn in my RS proposal, I will focus on finishing Tristan's book. The Mating Season needs about 10,000 more words. I have a cover as well, which I will show in another blog post. When The Mating Season is done, I'll hire a professional editor. All my indie books are professionally edited. I am a seasoned author, but writers need editors! It's hard to edit your own work because you are often too close to it.
Well, back to work for now. I'll touch base again soon. Happy reading!
I'm so happy that I finished the book and all looks well. It was a big challenge to write during the holidays, as the week of Christmas we had a huge, huge problem...
We had a flood in our master bathroom a few days before Christmas and discovered mold growing between the walls backing up to our kitchen. Black mold. Lots of it. We had to hire a mold mitigation contractor, put in an insurance claim, and move out of the house.The contractor did a great job removing the mold. It's been unsettling going back and forth from our temporary living quarters to the house, but the most important thing is our health. The black mold was causing us to cough, wheeze and get ill. And we never even knew it was there.
All this was caused by a rusty, leaking drain. We had no idea this could happen. But it was the original tub, and rusted out at the bottom. Since the tub was installed 30 years ago, and not properly sealed, it was only a matter of time.Regarding book news, soon as I turn in my RS proposal, I will focus on finishing Tristan's book. The Mating Season needs about 10,000 more words. I have a cover as well, which I will show in another blog post. When The Mating Season is done, I'll hire a professional editor. All my indie books are professionally edited. I am a seasoned author, but writers need editors! It's hard to edit your own work because you are often too close to it.
Well, back to work for now. I'll touch base again soon. Happy reading!
January 9, 2016
Navy Seal Seduction is FINISHED!
I finally finished writing Navy Seal Seduction, my first romantic suspense book for Harlequin. Yay! This book is out in print and digital in July. I've posted an excerpt below.
The plan is now to finish the proposal due for the next romantic suspense book, and then I'll be returning to my Werewolves of Montana. Tristan's book is close to being finished. Happy 2016!
Navy Seal Seduction
copyright 2016 by Bonnie Vanak
A tall, muscled pirate in a clean white shirt and black trousers stood before her in the courtyard of Le Soleil Hotel. Scowling to hide her emotions, she stared, her heart racing as if she’d run a mile up and down the nearby mountain. Black hair cropped short, he wore a pressed white shirt, the cuffs rolled up to display tanned, muscled forearms. Smooth cheeks, strong jaw and a nose that had been broken at least once. Rugged, tough and those eyes, green as the ocean water he navigated on a mission. Those eyes had turned smoky and dark with passion as they’d made love, and cold as the Arctic the day she’d announced she’d hired a lawyer to initiate divorce proceedings. Whoa, he still had it. Hot, hot, hot, as the locals said. Bad boy to the extreme, who made her female parts say Why, hello there! Her female parts needed to stay quiet. This time she’d listen to her broken heart, and not her hormones, even though her heart jumped at the sight of him. He had never been there for her before, and certainly wasn’t staying now. Lacey managed to find her voice. “I hope this is a bad dream and I’ll wake up and find you gone.” Her ex-husband pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it. “Well, darling, it seems your nightmare isn’t going away. Neither am I.”She managed to conceal her trembling hands by wrapping her fingers tight around the beer bottle. Lacey took a deep drink, relishing the cool wash of liquid sliding down her throat. It reminded her of that time after they’d consumed several beers and then he’d kissed her and they had…Not. Going. There.“Go away Jarrett. If you’re here on a mission, aren’t you supposed to be invisible in your invincibility?”He did not smile. Flickering candlelight on the table revealed the sharp angles and planes of his lean face. Jarrett looked all business. “You’re my mission. I’m taking you out of here. I booked us on tomorrow’s early morning flight.” He glanced around. “Before the elections and before this place blows to hell.” Jarrett, trying to be funny, except his expression was dead serious. Had he heard about the mysterious vandalism plaguing her compound? It had been a few minor incidents she’d written off as a nuisance caused by locals who didn’t like how she helped women, until last week’s truck fire. That fire had not been a nuisance. It destroyed her best working vehicle. She glanced around at the two other occupied tables and lowered her voice. “Are you insane? I’m not going anywhere with you.” “St. Marc is teetering on a coup and I’m taking you back to the States.” She knew St. Marc intimately, shied away from the hot spots and knew how to handle herself. “Elections are in two days. I know about the violence, and know how to avoid it and soon as elections are over, things will cool down. Stop wasting your time.” “You’re at risk of getting shot, kidnapped, or both.” “The media exaggerates about a few protests downtown. It’s not violent here.”Jarrett turned his head as six men carrying sinister-looking guns trotted out onto the courtyard, racing off toward the hotel disco. His mouth curved in a knowing smile. “The president is here with his friends. He likes the disco,” she snapped. “Do all his friends carry assault rifles?” “It’s the latest fashion craze. Goes well with the Guayabera shirts. We do like to accessorize here on St. Marc.” The smile dropped, replaced with a dark stare. The Look. How many times had he aimed it at her in the past? The man had a stubborn streak bigger than a US Navy destroyer. Jarrett leaned forward. “This country is eroding into civil unrest, Lace, elections or no elections. You need to get out. How many State Department warnings does it take before you’ll listen?” Anger fisted in her stomach. “Those warnings are for the tourists who come here to do poverty tours, or sun themselves on the beaches. Not for ex-pats like me or Paul. And who the hell are you to tell me what to do? We’re no longer married.” She was 29, no longer that wide-eyed girl who’d fallen hard and fast for the handsome Navy sailor with a wicked smile, husky laugh and skilled hands. Marlee’s Mangos was her dream now, not a life of domestic bliss with a SEAL who was gone more than he’d been home. Gone too, when she needed him the most. Lacey clenched her beer bottle again and pushed away thoughts of the baby they’d lost. That was the past, and St. Marc was her future.
Jarrett Adler belonged to those ghosts she’d exorcised out of her life...
The plan is now to finish the proposal due for the next romantic suspense book, and then I'll be returning to my Werewolves of Montana. Tristan's book is close to being finished. Happy 2016!
Navy Seal Seduction
copyright 2016 by Bonnie Vanak
A tall, muscled pirate in a clean white shirt and black trousers stood before her in the courtyard of Le Soleil Hotel. Scowling to hide her emotions, she stared, her heart racing as if she’d run a mile up and down the nearby mountain. Black hair cropped short, he wore a pressed white shirt, the cuffs rolled up to display tanned, muscled forearms. Smooth cheeks, strong jaw and a nose that had been broken at least once. Rugged, tough and those eyes, green as the ocean water he navigated on a mission. Those eyes had turned smoky and dark with passion as they’d made love, and cold as the Arctic the day she’d announced she’d hired a lawyer to initiate divorce proceedings. Whoa, he still had it. Hot, hot, hot, as the locals said. Bad boy to the extreme, who made her female parts say Why, hello there! Her female parts needed to stay quiet. This time she’d listen to her broken heart, and not her hormones, even though her heart jumped at the sight of him. He had never been there for her before, and certainly wasn’t staying now. Lacey managed to find her voice. “I hope this is a bad dream and I’ll wake up and find you gone.” Her ex-husband pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it. “Well, darling, it seems your nightmare isn’t going away. Neither am I.”She managed to conceal her trembling hands by wrapping her fingers tight around the beer bottle. Lacey took a deep drink, relishing the cool wash of liquid sliding down her throat. It reminded her of that time after they’d consumed several beers and then he’d kissed her and they had…Not. Going. There.“Go away Jarrett. If you’re here on a mission, aren’t you supposed to be invisible in your invincibility?”He did not smile. Flickering candlelight on the table revealed the sharp angles and planes of his lean face. Jarrett looked all business. “You’re my mission. I’m taking you out of here. I booked us on tomorrow’s early morning flight.” He glanced around. “Before the elections and before this place blows to hell.” Jarrett, trying to be funny, except his expression was dead serious. Had he heard about the mysterious vandalism plaguing her compound? It had been a few minor incidents she’d written off as a nuisance caused by locals who didn’t like how she helped women, until last week’s truck fire. That fire had not been a nuisance. It destroyed her best working vehicle. She glanced around at the two other occupied tables and lowered her voice. “Are you insane? I’m not going anywhere with you.” “St. Marc is teetering on a coup and I’m taking you back to the States.” She knew St. Marc intimately, shied away from the hot spots and knew how to handle herself. “Elections are in two days. I know about the violence, and know how to avoid it and soon as elections are over, things will cool down. Stop wasting your time.” “You’re at risk of getting shot, kidnapped, or both.” “The media exaggerates about a few protests downtown. It’s not violent here.”Jarrett turned his head as six men carrying sinister-looking guns trotted out onto the courtyard, racing off toward the hotel disco. His mouth curved in a knowing smile. “The president is here with his friends. He likes the disco,” she snapped. “Do all his friends carry assault rifles?” “It’s the latest fashion craze. Goes well with the Guayabera shirts. We do like to accessorize here on St. Marc.” The smile dropped, replaced with a dark stare. The Look. How many times had he aimed it at her in the past? The man had a stubborn streak bigger than a US Navy destroyer. Jarrett leaned forward. “This country is eroding into civil unrest, Lace, elections or no elections. You need to get out. How many State Department warnings does it take before you’ll listen?” Anger fisted in her stomach. “Those warnings are for the tourists who come here to do poverty tours, or sun themselves on the beaches. Not for ex-pats like me or Paul. And who the hell are you to tell me what to do? We’re no longer married.” She was 29, no longer that wide-eyed girl who’d fallen hard and fast for the handsome Navy sailor with a wicked smile, husky laugh and skilled hands. Marlee’s Mangos was her dream now, not a life of domestic bliss with a SEAL who was gone more than he’d been home. Gone too, when she needed him the most. Lacey clenched her beer bottle again and pushed away thoughts of the baby they’d lost. That was the past, and St. Marc was her future.
Jarrett Adler belonged to those ghosts she’d exorcised out of her life...
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