Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 366

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Women In Fantasy: Guest Blog Feast of Dreams by Christian A. Brown

Just a second, everyone put away the pitchforks and stop brandishing those Gertrude Stein books at me as if they can compel the misogynistic demon from my flesh. This isn’t a diatribe on feminism in literature–I wouldn’t dare to touch such a heavy subject without an array of facts at my disposal. As a fantasy writer, I don’t really deal in facts, as much as possibilities. What I would like to discuss is the portrayal of women in fantasy, what I like, and what I don’t like, what I think needs changing. I’d like to keep this dialog as uncontroversial as possible, and focus on how these characters are written, more than diving into the societal influences that make writers craft women in this manner. That’s psychology, and I’m not a psychologist. Okay, moving on, I’ll start with the stuff I can’t stand–expect hyperbole and potential cussing.
Women who are powerless. To me, nothing is more irritating than watching a female lead take a backseat to the action. I understand that characters need time to “grow” into their heroism, however, the foundations for that backbone should have been laid prior to that mettle being tested in a life-or-death situation. Otherwise, my suspension of disbelief is being tested. Even if a heroine is in a situation from which she cannot escape, she should always be thinking of escape, and not complacent with her miserable existence. At least that spark of free-will can be convincing impetus for a future act of daring. In the event that your heroine ends up chained in a basement, and awaiting the most wretched fate imaginable, she should be testing her chains, wondering who she can pounce on when they enter her cell, or looking for a rat bone to pick her irons. Whatever. She should be doing  something , or sure that she will somehow live. That fire for life is what keeps me, as a reader hooked. When characters give up, so do I.
Women who are overly negative. As a man who writes some pretty snappy ladies, this can be a delicate act to balance. Cynicism is fine, particularly if that character has endured hardships. But when all she does is harp, or whine, or question her strength, that character becomes as unpleasant as the people in real life who do that. You know that friend that you have who calls you up to complain about her weight/ marriage/ job? Negative Nancy the sorceress, can have the same tone and repellence.  Negativity can serve a purpose, and a hero should always suffer moments of doubt. But the strongest people do so silently, or among their closest allies, and never often or vocally (unless they are giving a rousing speech against their injustice). Finding a balance with humor, can help to offset a character with a naturally acerbic demeanor. At least it gives the reader something else to focus on.
Women who need to be constantly saved (usually by an all-powerful figure). Similar to the first point, although I believe it deserves its own mention. Getting saved  once  by your beau, assuming our heroine has exhausted all of her resourcefulness, and is really, truly, screwed, is fine. Sometimes, despite everything, we just cannot extricate ourselves from a mess. We need help. Alright. Help arrives. Then, she trips and falls down a well in another ten pages. Shortly after calling for help and being rescued, she decides to go for a walk in the Forest of Ultimate Evil. Probably a bad idea, given the name, but this girl (I’ve demoted her from womanhood for her naiveté), doesn’t have the good sense God gave a toothpick. Don’t worry, here comes Damien Glorylocks–knight, and secret royal blood of a long forgotten dynasty–to save Clueless. From now on, we’ll just refer to my sample heroine by that name, as it tends to sum up a lot of decisions that writers place in the minds of their female leads.
Stupidity. Coming off that last point. How stupid can one character be? Okay, we all make dumb decisions. In fact, it’s necessary for characters to do one or two things in error, and thereafter grow from that experience. The key here is grow.  Grow . As in, not do that stupid thing, or comparable act of stupidity again. If you’re on the 3rd arc of your trilogy and your character is still figuring out the fundamentals of how to control her dragonblood, faery-magic, or whatever, then you have a problem. Similarly, if you’re deep into your story and Clueless still can’t figure out why the Dark Elves want her dead so badly, then you probably haven’t done a good enough job as a writer giving the reader–and potentially Clueless–information. Readers like to be in the know, and if your character is being kept in the dark, often treating your audience the same risks aliening them. So if these scenarios are occurring in your books, then your character (and audience) is not learning, they are not growing. And if you’ve watched one season of Honey Boo Boo, you’ve watched them all.
The only thrill in that entertainment is in watching the mediocrity unfold. We do not want our stories to be banal, we want them to be inspiring, and teaching of greatness. Mediocrity is for the real world, it has no place in fantasy.
Things I like. Here, we have a shorter list, as most of these things are self-explanatory.
Normal characters. By this I mean, they have no supreme, miracle, magic. No great hidden power. These women are just tough as nails, and have learned how to kick life in the balls. Almost universally, readers like these sorts of characters. Sure, later on in the story-line, that character may struggle to hang with their mystical friends, and as end-of-the-world events unfold, it takes a deft narrative hand to weave them through those troubles unscathed. Still, the value of a normal character in an otherwise epic fantasy cannot be understated, for they create a bridge between our world and the fantasy.
Women who make their own choices. Decisiveness. I love this trait in characters. As a storyteller, characters who do not waver with indecision, move the story forward at a steady pace. Otherwise, you can end up wasting pages on internal dialog, which can make a character seem weak, which then threatens to lose the reader.
Women who fight. I’m not saying that every heroine has to be a martial expert, but even a princess can have lessons in fencing, and if you make the heroine a blacksmith’s daughter, she would surely know how to swing a blade. Again, this cycles back to women being helpless, which I personally hate to read.
Witty, curious women. Witty, is not the same as bitchy–another fine line that can be crossed. And curiosity may have killed the cat, but it shouldn’t kill the heroine. A sense for questioning order, a rebellious spirit, and someone who can take the slings-and-arrows of life with the occasional laugh, all make for engaging characters.
I have another 90 pages of editing to do on my second MS, so I must bid adieu to deal with that duty. I hope that my ramblings have been thought, and not anger, provoking. Do keep in mind that the above represents only my opinions, and there are as many ways to write characters as there are writers in the world. These are just my pet-peeves, and the pitfalls that I try to avoid.

Feast of DreamsFour Feasts Till DarknessBook TwoChristian A. Brown
Genre: Fantasy Romance
Book Description:
As King Brutus licks his wounds and gathers new strength, two rival queens vow to destroy each other’s nations.
Lila of Eod, sliding into madness, risks everything in the search for a powerful relic, while Queen Gloriatrix threatens Eod with military might—including three monstrous technomagikal warships.
Far from this clash of queens, Morigan and the Wolf scour Alabion, hunting for the mad king’s hidden weakness. Their quest brings them face to face with their own pasts, their dark futures…and the Sisters Three themselves.
Unbeknownst to all, a third thread in Geadhain’s tapestry begins to move in the wastes of Mor’Khul. There, a father and son scavenge to survive as they travel south toward a new chapter in Geadhain history.


Available at Amazon Kindle and Paperback





About the Author:
Bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Feast of Fates, Christian A. Brown received a Kirkus star in 2014 for the first novel in his genre-changing Four Feasts Till Darkness series. He has appeared on Newstalk 1010, AM640, Daytime Rogers, and Get Bold Today with LeGrande Green. He actively writes a blog about his mother’s journey with cancer and on gender issues in the media. A lover of the weird and wonderful, Brown considers himself an eccentric with a talent for cat-whispering.

http://christianadrianbrown.com
https://twitter.com/AuthorChrisAB
https://www.facebook.com/ChristianAdrianBrown
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8422242.Christian_A_Brown
https://plus.google.com/u/0/105782095673393074893/about

Blitz- Once Again, With Blood by Larry Weiner

Once Again, With BloodThe Island TrilogyBook 2Larry Weiner
Genre: Horror/Dark Comedy
Publisher:  ForsakenImprint of Booktrope
ISBN: 2940150858305
Number of pages: 220
Cover Artist:  Larry Weiner
Book Description:
"We're getting the band back together!"
For Kyle Brightman, bipolar advertising-industry burnout, this is good news and bad news. Good, because he'll get to see his zombie-killing friends again, and be reunited with Cate, the zombie he loves (yeah, yeah, I know, read PARADISE ROT and you'll get it). Bad, because having to blast his way through battalions of bloodless corpses took a brutal toll on Kyle's already fragile psyche. But duty, and booty, calls. And soon Kyle finds himself on another tropical island, duped again into creating an ad campaign to lure unsuspecting Middle Americans into the greedy mouth of ancient madness. This time, it's vampires. But with the help of a) his comrades-in-ass-kicking; b) the love of a good (cold) woman; c) the enduring power of Herb Alpert; and d) the awesomeness that is Charo, Kyle just might find a way to save thousands of lives. And what little's left of his sanity.
Splattered with folklore, dripping with history, ONCE AGAIN, WITH BLOOD, Larry Weiner's sequel to the uproarious comic romp PARADISE ROT, is what you get if Jimmy Buffett, Carl Hiaasen, Sarah Silverman and Hunter S. Thompson took turns pummeling Anne Rice with a cricket bat.
Available at Amazon   BN 
CHAPTER 1“YOU’RE A NEWBIE. I MEAN, LOOK AT YOU. That look of terror. I’ve seen it before. Of course, it was during a zombie invasion, but still. Whoops! That last sentence freaked you out. S’okay. Let’s focus.“First, you’re doing it wrong. All wrong. You gotta calm down or you’re not gonna survive it. I’m about to make your life easier. I’m babbling right now because I’ve had a slight psychotic break. Not really a break, more a sabbatical from reality. It’s okay, they’ll give me a new drug cocktail plus some Law & Order, and I’ll be back in action.“Back to you. Here’s the way it works. Used to be that when you got a patient in who was out of his mind, whether from psychosis or crank or whatever, you’d strap him down with his arms at his sides and cart him off. Problem was, these tortured souls would pull on the restraints so hard, it’d dislocate their shoulders, and then the real howling would start—not to mention the potential litigation. Now, since they’re in pain, they’re gonna smack their heads on the gurney repeatedly. Let ‘em. It’s a padded gurney. They’ll end up with a terrific headache. I suppose you can give yourself a mild concussion. Anyway, it’s the shoulders that were the problem. So someone, and I don’t know who, but someone, maybe a yoga instructor or a cop, came up with the idea of strapping the crazies one hand up by the side of the head, one down by the hip. Did they demonstrate that to you? They should, along with the Fleet enemas. Try some of that shit, chief. See what I did there? Focus. One hand over the head, the other by the side. Now you’re talking incapacitation. Right? Such a simple solution. Almost elegant.“So listen, you’re the new guy and seem reasonably intelligent so I wanna give you some tools to utilize while working the psych ward. Here they are. First, let them masturbate excessively. They’re burning off angst and energy and if you stop them they’ll do shit like stab each other in the eye with a plastic knife. There are not a lot of ways to blow off some steam in a psych ward. In fact, you might want to suggest they pass out hand lotion with toothpaste. You see a lot of awkward gaits around here—part of the reason is because they’re walking around with chafed cocks. Next, obsessively watching a TV show does not a crazy person make. It’s the repetition and predictability of the characters that provide comfort. A patient feeling safe is one who won’t try to hang himself off a doorknob. Lastly, tell everyone, regardless of how fucked up they are, that things are going to be okay and they’re gonna get through this. Even the thrice-admitted homeless paranoid schizophrenic meth addict. You tell ‘em they’re gonna be A-OK. Even if you know that it’s bullshit. It’ll make things go a lot smoother and you’ll breathe a little humanity into an otherwise inhumane situation.“Remember, your job is to get ‘em back on their feet and get them the hell out of Dodge. That’s it. I’m sure you have questions, but it’s been a long day for me and I could really use some Law & Order SVU. It’ll help with the coming down. They’ve gotta process my paperwork. It’s gonna take a while before they even get to me. Law & Order. It’ll be on TNT, Bravo, and USA. Possibly on NBC. There are a few constants in the universe. One of them being that at any given time an episode of Law & Order is running somewhere on Earth. The lounge is off to your left. Why don’t we go hang out in there for a while? Don’t put me next to someone with their hands jammed down their pants. I’m in no mood for that shit. Watching that is like pissing out my soul. You’ll see.”The orderly, a young man with thick horn-rimmed glasses, stood over Kyle Brightman, a little unsure of how to proceed. Kyle was right. The young orderly was in fact into his third day on the psych ward and had not yet mastered the skills for telling which patients had lost their way versus which patients were the truly batshit among them. Kyle seemed near normal, though he was brought in for beating a tourist couple at Pike Place Market with a twenty-fivepound salmon. The tourists, Scandinavians, had cut into a line that Kyle had been in for ten minutes. When Kyle let them know there was a line, the Scandinavians waved Kyle off. But how could the Scandinavians know that Kyle Brightman had seen some things this past year, things they wouldn’t believe, and had just come out of a broken relationship that smashed his heart into a million pieces? True, he instigated it by running away, but still. He looked like just another Seattleite, not someone who had survived a zombie war in the Caribbean and a subsequent relationship with a zombie woman. There were a great many things they didn’t know about Kyle, chief among them that there were moments when he knew he was about to do the wrong thing but felt compelled to do it anyway. So, they cut in line and Kyle grabbed the first thing he saw, a gigantic Copper River salmon, and commenced beating the Scandinavian tourists with it. The rest was all screams and a bin of mussels thrown at the bewildered Scandinavians when the salmon fell apart. It was meltdownville after that, and, once again, Kyle found himself at St. Eligius, fifth-floor psych ward.It had been little over a year since his last visit.After the paperwork, Kyle was shown to his room, where he found his clean pajamas on the bed. The bed next to him was empty and still made. Kyle had hoped he would have the room to himself. The last time, he ended up with Oscar Pilson, ex-military, ex-Halliburton mercenary and eventually a good friend who now shared a life in the Caribbean sunshine with the woman-with-no-name and her talking Chihuahua. The very sunshine he had abandoned to come back to the Northwest and lose his shit once again. Just like Cate said he would.At the time he said Cate was full of it, but in the back of his mind a tiny voice had said, “We’ll see you soon.” She was right about everything: escaping to Seattle, feeling his old ways seeping back into his life and, eventually, the meltdown.As Kyle slipped on his pajamas, which felt like paper, he thought about where he was in his life. Thirty-three, unmarried, unemployed, bipolar, and alone. Well, the alone part wasn’t totally true. He did know people around town: former friends and work associates from his days as an art director in advertising. Maybe he could land a gig? He knew enough people to call on. It’d only been a year. He wasn’t aged out of the job market yet—or was he?It was time to formulate a plan. First, a few more hours of L&O, maybe some ice cream—he hoped it was still stocked in the cafeteria freezer—followed by a nap, then the introductions to the staff counselors and doctors who would mess with his meds and try to impart some coping mechanisms to stop the assaults with seafood.* * *“Take it down a notch,” Dr. Jason Applebaum said to the group. “Doesn’t that have a release to it? Hmm? It gives you a chance to just step back and think about things for a moment. To take a mental inventory of your thoughts and feelings and, hopefully, for that one moment, change the course of your life. You breathe deeply and you look around you. In what moment in time do you exist? Is it your reality? And if it is, then to quote Robert Frost, ‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’”Kyle sat with a certain car-wreck pleasure. He was three days into his hospital stay and in group therapy, this one about coping skills in stressful situations. The therapist, Dr. Applebaum, was going around the circle of people asking each of them to relay an experience in which a coping mechanism failed them as they tried to solve a problem. In between stories, Dr. Applebaum served up some food for thought, a way to punctuate the stories of despair with a tinge of hope. What could it hurt?“Ahmed, would you care to share a story with us about standing in front of diverging roads and the one you chose?” Dr. Applebaum asked in what really was a wonderfully soothing voice. Ahmed nodded thoughtfully.“It was when a co-worker took credit for something I had done that my company profited from.”“And how did that make you feel?” Dr. Applebaum asked.“I felt just awful, like someone had removed my genitalia and lit them on fire,” Ahmed said with a heavy Indian accent.“So you felt physical as well as emotional pain, correct?” Dr. Applebaum asked.“I could almost smell my genitalia burning on the taupe-colored carpet in our office,” Ahmed said. “It was a horrible, horrible feeling.”“Clearly you felt dismayed over what had transpired,” Dr. Applebaum said.“Yes, dismayed. I was dismayed over what Ralston had done to me, that Anglo-Saxon whore.”“Ralston being the man who took credit for your report. What happened next?”“I defecated on Ralston’s desk.”There were a few stifled giggles. Kyle felt sad and entertained.“You actually defecated on your co-worker’s desk?” Dr. Applebaum asked.“Yes, I shat on Ralston’s desk. On a copy of the report I had written, for which he took the credit.”“What happened next?” Dr. Applebaum asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.“I was still feeling very stressed out,” Ahmed said. “I defecated on the CEO’s desk, the CFO’s desk, and the CEO’s secretary’s desk because she never treated me well. Then I microwaved a stapler, which started a fire. After that, I began to feel relief at long last.”“Okay. Thank you, Ahmed. Would anyone care to give their input on how Ahmed might have handled the situation differently?” Dr. Applebaum asked the group.“Man, how you control your ass to shit like that, all off and on like a garden hose?” Cedric asked.“What might have Ahmed done differently in what was a very stressful situation?” Dr. Applebaum jumped in with. “Nancy?”“I’m sorry, but I agree with everything Ahmed did, which is why I guess I’m in this goddamned place to begin with.”“Thank you, Nancy.”A hand tapped on Kyle’s shoulder. It was a nurse. She bent close to Kyle’s ear. “You have a visitor.”“Can it wait?” Kyle asked. “This group rocks.” “Visiting time is almost up,” the nurse said.Kyle rose from his chair with a heavy sigh. It wasn’t often that group had any entertainment value beyond watching people cry, so when a good scene came along, it was a prize to behold. Kyle followed the nurse out of the room, as “Take it down a notch!” was yelled out behind him. Kyle turned the corner and was met by the beautiful yet somber face of Cate Hendricks, the undead woman with whom he had a relationship back on St. Agrippina when the sun shone every day, the sex was good, and Kyle thought he could finally go off his meds. Things had gone south at an alarming velocity.* * *They sat in the TV room, which was empty save for the elderly homeless man in a catatonic state who sat in a wheelchair in front of the big screen that was set to Jeopardy as if it might restore the old man’s consciousness. They sat in plastic-covered recliners that were easy to wipe down and faced each other, the glow of Alex Trebek flickering across their faces.“So, how are you feeling?” Cate asked.“I feel great. Plenty of ice cream. Law & Order on four channels. Group therapy rocks. It’s all good,” Kyle said.“I see. And what about your meds?” Cate asked.“I have new pills now. Or I should say, more pills now.”They were both doing their best to keep it civil. “Rhymes with colostomy for one hundred, Alex.” That turned both their heads to the screen. “Kyle, what happened?” Cate asked, her eyes still on the TV.“There is no word in the English language that rhymes with ‘colostomy.’ It’s like ‘orange,’” Kyle said. “Maybe lobotomy?” “I’m trying not to kick you in the balls here,” Cate said.“I know,” Kyle said. “Same old song and dance. I get to a happy place and figure I don’t need the drugs. It seems to be a lesson I keep relearning.”“I mean, Kyle, you just vanished. I could still see the cloud of dust swirling where you once were.”“It’s fucked up,” Kyle said. “I can’t believe you’re here.”“I agree,” Cate said. “I should’ve just thrown away a year-anda-half relationship and started over with one of my kind. But then who would I have around to kick in the balls whenever they pissed me off...?”“Now that you mention it, you’ve got a kind of addiction to caving in my testicles,” interrupted Kyle. “Was the sex that bad? You could’ve just said so instead of getting physical about it.”Cate sat back in her chair, the plastic cover squeaking. Why did she come after him? Okay, she loved him, but really? That was enough? Took three planes to get here to, what? Bring him home? Was that even a possibility? Chasing after men was never Cate’s style. She was the heartbreaker.“Heartbreaker, dream maker,” she sang in an almost whisper.“Love taker, don’t you mess around with me,” Kyle finished. They smiled at each other.“I should just eat your brain right here and now and be done with it,” Cate said. It wasn’t often that she made zombie references. It was still volatile terrain to walk across. Some days she had a hard time working past the idea that she had risen from the dead, much like Zac Efron, on a daily basis.“It was more than the meds,” Cate said. “Percy really tripped your wire.”“Yeah, he did,” Kyle admitted. “It was like a borderline serial moron was teaching me how to dismantle a bomb.” “So I see you’re over it,” Cate said.“Look, the guy’s a douchebag. We had a sweet deal, being our own bosses, our own creative directors. Suddenly there’s this brown-shirted haircut in the conference room judging our creative? C’mon. You know how many years I had to put up with running the gauntlet of approval. They don’t tell you that when you work in a profession that is remotely creative there will always be someone to ram a telephone pole of criticism up an already worn-out ass, like Jack McCoy…”“Who’s Jack McCoy?” Cate asked.“Jack McCoy. Manhattan District Attorney, Jack McCoy? Played by Sam Waterston?”“This Law & Order fetish, it’s no good,” Cate said.“Said the woman addicted to Downton Abbey.”“Kyle, here’s the deal. I love you, probably more than I should. I know you love me and I know you have a disease to do battle with. But I can help you with it if you let me. Normally I’d tell a guy to go fuck himself, pulling a stunt like you did.”“After kicking him in the balls.”“Shut up. I’m being serious here.”“I know.”“I’m willing to travel across three time zones to see if we can make this work,” Cate said. “And that’s a big deal for me. But we have something and I’d like it to continue. Would you?”Kyle’s immediate answer in his mind was “Hell yes!” but he also had the deep, dark fear that it would only be a matter of time before he ended up in the psych ward again. But good god, this woman was everything he ever wanted—except for the being-a-zombie part, which really didn’t matter so much. He always assumed that sooner our later he’d let her take a bite out of his ass and join her for all eternity or until all the flesh on their bones was replaced with new and exciting composite plastics. Hunter S. Thompson whispered in his ear: Buy the ticket. Take the ride.“I’m in,” Kyle said. “I’m so in.”Cate smiled. They lunged for each other. She felt so cold to the touch. It was perfect.“Here’s the thing,” Cate said. “You can get your old job back. We’ve got a new assignment.” Kyle unclenched her.“Don’t fuckin’ say it, Cate,” Kyle said.“Six weeks, tops,” Cate said. “It’ll be like opening St. Agrippina. Remember the excitement of that? Launching a new resort?”“There’s no way I’m working with Percy Shitballs to open one of his resorts,” Kyle said. “And as for it being exciting, you seem to forget that we lured hundreds of unsuspecting civilians to an island to be a hot lunch for zombies. Also, there were explosions and gunfire. Can you promise me the same for this? Because I’d love to duct-tape some C-4 across Percy’s mouth. Why the fuck did Dory get into bed with him to begin with?” “Take it down a notch,” Cate said.“Oh, no you di’int,” Kyle said.“Just listen to me,” Cate said. “Dory wants to expand the St. Agrippina brand. She needed a partner with cash and land. She found one. Percy’s just a suit, not the partner. And it was easy. Why? Because a couple of awesome creatives put together an ad campaign that filled a resort to capacity in a week’s time. Sure, it was for nefarious reasons—which we corrected. But nonetheless, we did good.”That was how it worked in advertising. Create a talking Chihuahua to sell cheap burritos for Taco Bell. People line up to get them, not taking into account the lard content that hardens arteries and puts a drain on the healthcare industry which in turn has a field day charging whatever price it sees fit—but so what, the creative worked and won a shit ton of awards. That made Kyle think about Dog, the talking zombie Chihuahua that was Woman’s sidekick. He would never sell out like that. Fuck sellout-talking Chihuahuas.“I’ll do it on condition that I’m never in the same room with Percy the Taint Weasel,” Kyle said.“I can present the creative,” Cate suggested.“Okay,” Kyle agreed.“Most importantly, we’re gonna keep a close watch on your health. This means lots of exercise, eating well, group therapy and taking your meds.”“Okay.”“Let’s get you back on your feet and get out of here.”“Can we do it tomorrow? Bravo’s got a Law & Ordermarathon running and it’s my favorite SVUepisodes.”“Sure,” Cate said. “If you could just stand up long enough for me to smash your balls in with my Chuck Taylors.”They both smiled behind the fear and trepidation.* * *Topo Bogomil, having just drained the blood of an Austrian tourist, sat in Café Patrocinio, sipping espresso and thinking about all the various postings he’d been given and how each one seemed to represent how the powers that be felt about him. South of France? They felt he was doing a pretty good job. Same for Spain, the Netherlands, and Northern Ireland—though that one could’ve been an early sign of things to come. It wasn’t easy gauging their reaction to his work. It was a lot like putting a suggestion in a suggestion box that emptied into a black hole. It wasn’t until things were wrapped and it was time to move on that he got an inkling of how well he had ared. The next posting, surely; but sometimes there’d be a small token of appreciation: an attaboy pocket watch or maybe some extra-filthy lucre in his bank account.But there was none of that after the Sao Paulo debacle. Things got messed up fast and when the smoke cleared, there was nothing but carnage and empty hands. Not entirely Topo’s fault, but still, shit rolls downhill. It felt bad from the start. The mark was too big a fish; the surroundings too unstable; his crew was jumpy about it from the get-go. Topo didn’t listen to his gut on that one and paid the price. He had that same feeling as he sat in Café Partrocinio with his bitter espresso and throbbing gut.“So this is what ‘go fuck yourself’ looks like,” Topo whispered as he took a sip from the small white porcelain cup. He looked out of the window. The moon waxed crescent, reflecting on the calm waters of the North Atlantic. In the distance, a buoy rang lazily through a light breeze. In a way it was a shame to build such a whorish resort on such a pristine island.“So it goes,” Topo said, quoting Kurt Vonnegut, one of his favorites.* * *Xavier Wishburn, formerly Jimmy Dank, felt serenely joyful as he piloted his Grumman G-64—one of nine that he owned as the CEO/ pilot of West Indies Air—through the bilious clouds and azure sky. His good friends Kyle Brightman and Cate Hendricks sat in the cabin, listening to Derek & the Dominos (at Cate’s request) as they headed home. Business was good for Xavier since the oft-called Zombie Land Rush & Barbecue. St. Agrippina did bangup business and now, with the new resort opening, Xavier was about to make a serious purchase— three CRJ Series regional jets, aircraft he wasn’t even instrument-rated for. It was a big deal, which Dory was backing because the Grumman’s capacity had become woefully outsized by recent client volume. Though the cruise lines were the bulk of tourist transportation, air travel was still a viable way to get to the island—or now, islands.But for the moment, Xavier was pleased to have Kyle and Cate back. He knew things had been rough for the both of them, but deep down he knew they’d find a way to make it work. Kyle had mentioned to him that they were getting the band back together, which struck Xavier as sincere and maybe a tad overzealous. Probably the meds. It didn’t seem to affect Kyle’s bullshit detector any. They both thought Percy Merriweather to be a cubicle thug with a grasp of “out of the box” verbiage and an odor of indifference to authenticity. He too wondered why Dory had partnered up with someone who let Percy be the mouthpiece. True, it was a cash infusion and the acquisition of another property, but still, couldn’t there be some venture capitalist out there who wasn’t a complete charlatan? Nonetheless, it was good news for West Indies Air—something Percy had suggested a name change for.“The North Atlantic Line, perhaps?” he’d mentioned to Xavier over cracked crab.“Sounds like a railroad,” Xavier had told him, though in actuality, it sounded pretty regal. Xavier took note of his soul departing for greener pastures.“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now on our final approach to St. Ledo,” Xavier said in his soothing pilot voice. “The North Atlantic Oscillation fluctuation at this time is positive, with warm winds coming out of the zonal systems of the South Atlantic. We ask that you please put away all electronic devices. Flight attendants, prepare doors for arrival, crosscheck, and all-call. At this time, if you could remain seated with your belt buckles securely fastened, allowing enough movement to bend over and kiss your asses, I’ve had too many vodka martinis, God have mercy on us all, here’s a little Foghat to send you into the valley of the shadow of death.”Slow Rideblasted out of the cabin speakers. Kyle turned to Cate with a wide grin. “We’re getting the band back together!” he shouted over the engine noise, giving a thumbs-up. Cate gave the thumbs-up back, wishing he’d stop saying that.* * *Dory Parthenia sat behind her Plexiglas desk, taking a moment to choose her words carefully as she looked at Kyle’s bright blue eyes. He did have nice eyes, like shards of broken glass arranged in a circle. But what a pain in the ass. Okay, he was worth the pain. He did good work. The chemistry between him and Cate generated great ad creative despite their drama. It’d taken a while for Dory to learn the Guidebook for the Caring and Feeding of Kyle Brightman, but once she did, he never let her down. If anything, being with Cate had a calming effect on him. Domesticity tames the restless mind. That, and sixty milligrams of Citalopram and one hundred and fifty milligrams of Lamotrigine. She was surprised that Cate went after him. Would she do the same for someone she cared about?She’d built a four-star resort, Dory had. After the reconstruction following the Zombie Land Grab & Barbecue, St. Agrippina had become a premier getaway for middle management and up. She was able to recruit undead from various parts of the globe interested in a 401(k) with “maintenance benefits” in the Bahamas. She also did a fair bit of recruiting from colleges that spewed out grads with useless degrees who kept open minds about working alongside personnel who ate brains. Doing the deal with Percy Merriweather’s people would expand the St. Agrippina brand. Dory’s hope was to be the South and North Atlantic island destination when the Azores proved too expensive and Aruba was too full of dentists.But first, get the creative back on track.“Look Kyle, it’s me you’re mad at, not Percy. And I get it. I don’t blame you. I should’ve given you a heads-up,” Dory said, to disarming affect.“Yeah, you should’ve,” Kyle said, his selfrighteous indignation deflated by Dory’s admonition. “He’s like the feeble uncle at Thanksgiving who keeps dropping his dental partials in the mashed potatoes. You can’t just kill him, but he was almost unbearable to put up with.”“He’s a businessperson just like me, though not as smart,” Dory said with a wink. It was true even if it did sound vain. “So whaddaya think? Wanna open the next asskicking resort this side of the West Indies? Be a nice change of scenery for you and Cate. Get you off this island for a bit.”There was a knock at the door. It opened and Cate stuck her smiling face in.“Just in time,” Dory said, waving Cate in. “I was just filling Kyle in on the new resort.”“Awesome,” Cate said, closing the door and taking a seat on the second Eames recliner facing Dory’s desk. Though she ended up caving in her mentor Atria’s skull, Dory retained Atria’s style, using the same décor for her office.“Let’s get to it,” Dory said. “The new resort is called ‘St. Ledo,’ named after the Patron Saint of Happiness and Good Hygiene. Anyway, about the hotel…”“Hold on, D,” Kyle said. “We’re opening a resort called St. Happy that will appeal to those with good grooming habits?”“Okay, I didn’t pick the name,” Dory said. “St. Ledo was a Portuguese saint. The island is situated in the North Atlantic, between Bermuda and the Azores. Percy thought it appropriate given the location.”“That part of your sentence—’Percy thought’—yeah, that makes me wanna staple my large intestine to a race horse,” Kyle said.“I like it,” Cate said. “Short, easy to say. We can sell the happiness angle.”“Exactly,” Dory said. “The place is a confluence of cultural and historical significance. Okay. I’m quoting Percy, but he’s right. The island’s a melting pot of influences, from Portugal to Britain on Bermuda to—honest to God—Sephardic Judaism coming out of Spain and the Azores. It’s bigger than St. Aggies. Even has a small village, Oliveira, with shopping—very old-world charm meets tiny streams of revenue.”“Didn’t the Inquisitions start in Spain?” Kyle said.“Bygones,” Dory said. “The main hotel is smaller than ours, but we’ll be offering timeshare cottages situated throughout the island. We’re going to cater to a more upscale clientele. We’re looking to attract those avoiding the Jimmy Buffett lifestyle. We want Eastern seaborders, Canada, Portugal, Morocco, Miami. We wanna pull from the south, the north, Greenland—this could be big.”“Do you want me to send you back to where you were—unemployed—in Greenland?” Kyle said.“Come again?” Dory said.“Princess Bride,” Cate said.So that’s why she went after him.“So we’re getting the band back together for another big push,” Kyle said.“That seems to be the case,” Dory said. “You two ready to rock it?” Kyle winced.“What?” Dory said.“Nothing,” Kyle said. “It’s just when C-level types make with the hep dialogue I expect us all to jump up with high-fives and a freeze-frame.” Kyle rose out of his chair. “Which sounds like a pretty good idea!” He raised his hand, waiting for the others to join them. “So we’re clear,” Dory said. “You actually went after him?”* * *Sari Wysocki sat on the deck of Candido, her thirty-foot sailboat, thinking about slicing up cow tongue for human consumption. Working at a deli involved slicing up various kinds of meats and that was something Sari found pleasant—even meditative—but there was just something about cow tongue that repulsed her. It wasn’t so much the part of the cow, but what it represented. It was more anthropomorphism than anything else, such as believing a cow could talk. It was similar to the effect one might have naming an animal then having it turn up on your table. To Sari Wysocki, cow tongue represented civility and humanity.Van Morrison’s And It Stoned Me rose above deck, putting Sari in a relaxed mood, as if she were a character in a summer read. She made busy work, knitting an orange and gold caftan for the mild weather that slowly took hold of the island formerly known as Queixa. Freakin’ developers. Someone made a deal and now her beloved northern island was about to be transformed into another Sandals resort. “St. Ledo?” Wasn’t Ledo a Boz Scaggs song? Or was it L.I.D.O? Whatever. They were promised that business would only improve, which meant working longer hours and spending less time on her boat.Sari, along with her father, Noam Wysocki, owned the island’s only deli. How a Brooklyn-style deli came to be located on an island between Portugal and New York wasn’t such a mystery, at least not to her father. He’d married a woman from Lisbon, Catalina Guarda, whom he had met in his father’s deli in Flatbush when she came in one day and asked if they sold Francesinha, a Portuguese sandwich. Noam was instantly swept away by the exotic request. It helped that it came out of the full lips of a brunette with deep brown eyes and a figure that his father, Max, called “the origins of sin,” which was how he described a comely woman who entered the deli.It was Catalina’s idea to be closer to home and she convinced Noam that pastrami, kugel, brisket, and Francesinha would do well in her part of the world so long as they provided strong espresso to go with it. They relocated to Lisbon but found the city to be too much city. That’s when Catalina mentioned an island northeast of the Azores that already had a decent-sized population bound to be grateful for a new dining choice. So they moved to Queixa with one cold case and some deli furniture and opened Koufax’s Delicatessen, named after Noam’s favorite left-handed pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers, Sandy Koufax (there were no Los Angeles Dodgers in Noam’s mind). Which was fine with Catalina, as she got to take control of the décor.Sari was born on Queixa and had an idyllic childhood on an island that had a mixture of culture, religion, and coffee. She was raised Jewish and Roman Catholic, thus cornering the market on Jungian symbolism and food rich in meats and spices. She attended college at Cornell, majoring in anthropology, and ended up with a job in public relations at Edelman, which blackened her heart.“Whaddya gonna do in Manhattan? Promote the next energy-drink crap you kids love so much, as if coffee weren’t enough? Come home, work with your parents. There’s no shame in working in the family business. It’s an investment. One day your mother and I are gonna set sail for Australia, and we’ll need someone reliable to keep things going here,” her father had intoned. As timing and the universe would have it, her mother, Catalina, died before Sari made her decision. Sari was told that it was a heart attack. Catalina was standing there next to the crate of salmon on ice in the backroom, and then she was on the floor, dead. They buried her with a simple headstone on a small hill facing the Atlantic Ocean. Noam visited daily, but as time went on and Noam’s heart got back on its feet (with a pronounced limp), the visits became weekly, with Noam giving reports on the goings-on in his life, just like you would after a day of work.Sari came home, choosing to live aboard the Candido, which was docked in the village of Oliveira, a town built of adobe, maple, and stone, on an island full of olive farms. Oliveira was a vacation destination for those who searched hard enough—most travelers opted for the Azores or drifted south to the West Indies—and its town center was a mix of tourist shopping and practicality for the locals. The merchants were swollen with excitement at the prospect of a resort opening on the island. The chamber of commerce on Oliveira had decided to give the village a facelift, with planters hanging from every light pole and lots of streaming lights that advertised, “You’re somewhere exotic—spend accordingly.” Noam was pleased in that buying-a-used-car kind of way: glad to have it, but would it be trouble down the road? As for the name change, it was universally accepted that renaming an island after a minor saint who was a big fan of flossing was typically American and therefore completely off the mark.“So it goes,” Sari said. She sat aboard Candido, listening to her Van Morrison channel stream in and knitting as the boat lolled slowly, seagulls overhead, the blueish-green Atlantic reflecting the light. It was a good life on the island, no matter what it was called. Maybe the resort would yield a few dates? God knows she could use a little sex, though not so much the romance.

About the Author:
Larry Weiner is the author of PARADISE ROT (BOOK ONE), ONCE AGAIN, WITH BLOOD (BOOK TWO) and the forthcoming HINDU SEX ALIENS (BOOK THREE) that make up the Island Trilogy. Larry earned a degree in film from CSULA and was an award-winning art director. He lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, two kids and a gaggle of animals. He plays bass and thus has poor hearing.
Visit his site at: http://www.larrynweiner.com  
Join his Twitter feed at: @LarryNWeiner
Like him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/larrynweiner
Goodreads- https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7256424.Larry_Weiner

One Scandalous Kiss by Christy Carlyle

One Scandalous KissAn Accidental Heirs NovelChristy Carlyle
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Avon Impulse
Date of Publication: September 8, 2015
ISBN: 9780062427991ASIN:B00V3MGEOA
Number of pages: 256
Book Description:
Debut Victorian historical romance author Christy Carlyle delights in the first book of her Accidental Heirs series in which a suffragete bookshop owner agrees to a devil’s bargain that results in one scandalous kiss. When a desperate Jessamin Wright bursts into an aristocratic party and shocks the entire ton, she believes it’s the only way to save her failing bookstore.
The challenge sounded easy when issued, but the one thing she never expected was to enjoy the outrageous embrace she shares with a serious viscount. Lucius Crawford, Viscount Grimsby, has never met, or kissed, anyone like this beautiful suffragette. He’s determined to protect the title he’s unexpectedly inherited and Jess doesn’t fit into his plans.
When a country house party brings these two people together once more, neither can resist the temptation and both find that one scandalous kiss just isn’t enough.
HarperCollins    Amazon
CHAPTER ONE
London, September 1890She’d never imagined wealth would be so uncomfortable. Nearly every aspect of the Marquess of Clayborne’s Belgrave Square drawing room made Jessamin Wright uneasy. There were no books stacked in piles, no candles whose wax had run down their sides in haphazard sculptures, and not a spot of ash dusting the hearth—nothing inviting about the room at all. How could any lived-in space be so clean? The slippery damask settee felt stiff and unyielding beneath her body. Nothing about it urged you to sit and stop awhile. Even art was lacking from the walls, except for a series of watercolors of what must have been a terribly boring fox hunt. A fire burned low in the grate and offered a bit of warmth against the autumn chill, but the cool beiges and tepid pinks of the wallpaper and furnishings made Jess feel slightly queasy, as if blood had been drained from her body as thoroughly as color had been drawn out of every surface in the room. Even the wood was light colored or painted white and lacquered to a high sheen. It was all wrong. No room should be so spotless. As she and Alice had yet to meet their host, she began to doubt that anyone lived here at all. Then again, she’d never before set foot inside a fine London townhouse. Perhaps they were all this stark and unpleasant. Jess didn’t have to look down to know the room’s pristine neatness contrasted sharply with her scuffed boots, soot-dusted cloak, and unfashionable work clothes. She found it impossible to settle herself in such elegant surroundings. Sitting, then standing, then sitting again, she rearranged her limbs and scratched her neck in a most unladylike manner. Finally finding a spot on the settee that suited her, she stripped off her twice-mended gloves but kept her hands clasped, careful not to touch anything for fear she might leave a mark. Her cluttered thoughts offered as little comfort as the room. She fretted about leaving the bookshop managed solely by her assistant, Jack. He was a longtime employee and utterly trustworthy, but he’d never been fond of dealing with customers. He simply loved books—acquiring them, reading them, repairing them—and that was something she understood. He hadn’t stayed on after Father’s death for her, but out of loyalty to Lionel Wright. She understood that too. One of Father’s gifts had been the ability to inspire a bone deep sense of obligation in others. Since Jess had taken on the shop, other employees had been hard to come by—few men wished to take their wages and direction from a woman. Slipping Father’s old watch from its place in her skirt pocket, Jess’s mind sifted through what she had yet to accomplish before resting her head for the day. It was a long list and —Ah, that too—now included an article she’d almost forgotten to write for the Women’s Union journal. “I hope Lady Katherine hasn’t forgotten us. To be honest, I won’t be sad to see the last of this room. It’s all rather cold, even with the fire. Makes you afraid to touch anything or even breathe.” Alice McGregor had an uncanny talent for reading one’s mind and could always be counted on for blunt and insightful commentary. Of all Jessamin’s friends at the Women’s Union, Alice was the most practical and plain-speaking. Delicacy was overrated as far as Alice was concerned. She said what everyone else was thinking but knew it impolite to mention.“No, it’s not terribly inviting, is it?”If Jess could decorate such a room, the colors would be bold and full of life. Red would do very nicely. And she’d decorate the walls with art so vivid you’d believe you could smell the pot of basil in a Holman Hunt painting or hear the swish of silk and satin as one of Mr. Tissot’s beauties crossed the room. She closed her eyes and imagined crimson walls covered with art in rich, vibrant colors.“Miss Wright, have I caught you napping?” Lady Katherine Adderly’s giggle was like the clash of two crystal glasses meeting in a toast. Sharp and clear, it instantly snapped Jessamin out of her fantasies. As she swept in, a maid followed close on her heels with a tea tray. Lady Katherine smelled of flowers, but far too many, the scent cloying and sickly sweet.“Forgive me, my lady.” It was easier for Jessamin to apologize for drowsing than acknowledge how she loathed the decor.Jess and Alice exchanged raised-brow glances as their hostess handed each of them a fine porcelain teacup and began the process of pouring tea and offering them confections from plates laden with biscuits and tiny pastries. It was an elaborate ritual, much more fuss about tea than Jess had ever made in life. But the rich tang of jasmine in the brew was delicious and she was grateful for the distraction of the warm refreshment, even as she sensed the persistent tick of Father’s watch against her skirt pocket. She had to get back to the shop and hoped their meeting with the marquess’s daugther wouldn’t take long.“I’m pleased to make this donation to the Women’s Union. You know how I enjoy the lively meetings.” Lady Katherine had attended only three of the group’s weekly meetings over the course of four months, but she’d been eager to make a financial contribution and Alice, as the union’s treasurer and co-founder, was all too happy to accept. Jess wasn’t certain why Alice had asked her to come along to collect the money, but as editor of the group’s printed journal and author of many of the speeches given at gatherings, she supposed she was a visible member of the organization.“We are most grateful for the funds, my lady.” As always Alice spoke with sincerity, gratitude clear in her tone.“Oh, please call me Kitty.”Alice took a sip of tea, attempting to hold the cup with all the dignity  Kitty seemed to manage effortlessly.“I understand there’s another worthy cause to which I may also contribute.” “I’m sure there are many in London,” Jess offered, thinking of a dozen ways she might spend charitable funds, not to mention the money needed to salvage the indebted bookshop her father had left her.“I was referring to you, Miss Wright.”Jessamin shot Alice a look, wondering just what her scrupulously honest friend had revealed to Lady Katherine. “I understand you have a bookshop and lending library here in town.”“Yes, my lady,” Jess bit off, unable to keep the irritation from her voice. Alice shouldn’t have mentioned her situation to anyone. Kitty might be feeling benevolent, but the amount needed to clear the shop’s debt was more than any wealthy aristocrat’s daughter would wish to spend, no matter how generous they were feeling. “Would one hundred pounds be useful to you?” A shiver tickled Jessamin’s spine as she contemplated the amount, a sum she couldn’t earn at the shop in months, perhaps not even in a year. It wasn’t nearly enough to clear the entire debt, but it would bring her payments with the bank current.Jessamin studied Kitty’s feline smile and tried to unravel the mystery of the young woman’s wish to help her. She knew Kitty was wealthy, the daughter of a marquess, and perhaps a bit bored, but she’d never even conversed with her before today. Kitty was mentioned off and on in the scandal sheets Jess admitted to no one she indulged in reading, but she was hardly known as an outstanding philanthropist.Charity tasted sour, yet how could she refuse the sum? “Neither a borrower nor a lender be” had been one of Father’s favorite lines from Hamlet. But it was an adage he’d failed to uphold. His gambling had turned him into the worst sort of borrower, taking loans from friends and money from the bookshop he’d worked so hard to build up. For Jess’s part, she’d become a lender soon after her father’s death, finally instituting the lending library she’d been envisioning for years. It seemed neither of them had heeded the Shakespearian admonition at all. Kitty watched Jess closely and appeared to notice the moment she’d almost made up her mind to accept the money.“I am so pleased you’ll allow me to help you, Jessamin. And in return, I’m certain you won’t mind assisting me with one tiny request.”Alice frowned and set her teacup on the table between them, edging forward on the settee as if she meant to get up and leave. “I’m not sure that’s quite right.”“What is the favor, Lady Katherine? Please, let’s speak plainly with one another.” It didn’t surprise Jess in the least that Kitty expected something in return. No one offered such a sum without expecting something in return.“Kitty, please. Do call me Kitty. It’s a simple favor, really. As simple as a kiss.” Jess choked. “Pardon?” she squeaked, when she’d finally managed to swallow her mouthful of tea and could breathe again.“Just a kiss, Jessamin. Surely you don’t object to kissing.” Kitty’s teasing tone belied the glint of steel in her gaze. “You’re a modern, free-thinking woman, after all. You believe in the suffrage and equality for our sex. You should feel quite free to kiss any man you like.”Kissing men had nothing to do with Jess’s interest in social reform or gaining a voice for women in the political sphere. If Kitty thought it did, she hadn’t been to nearly enough meetings.“You want me to kiss a man?” Jess spoke the words as if it was an extraordinary feat. And it was. She’d never kissed a man. Not really. A childish, graceless kiss on the cheek from Tom Jenkins when she was twelve years old hardly counted.“This seems a rather strange favor, Kitty.” Alice’s precise tone cut through the quiet of the room. Kitty’s tinkling laughter rang out. “Yes, I suppose it does. But it’s merely a harmless bit of revenge.”“Revenge.” Jess waited. There had to be more. “Oh, all right. If you must know, the dreadful man snubbed me.” Kitty plumped her bow-shaped mouth in a pout. Was she the shallowest heiress in Belgravia? The thought that Kitty wished to seek revenge because a man did not prefer her company was ridiculous. Her beauty and wealth could secure her any suitor she set her cap at. In fact, the question of why the man rejected her was as intriguing as her desire for Jess to kiss him.“Why did he snub you?”“Why, indeed!” Kitty straightened up in her chair and slid her fingers into honey blond hair, tucking her already neatly pinned coiffure more firmly into place. “Perhaps because he is an odious man. If he wasn’t a viscount, soon to be an earl, and so irredeemably handsome, I wouldn’t have bothered with him. Never mind Papa’s mad notion I marry Lord Grim. Freddie is much more fun, even if he doesn’t have a farthing to his name.” Kitty turned the full force of her bright green gaze on Jess. “You’ll do it then?”“I’m still not sure I understand.” Kitty’s tone became pedantic, as if she was speaking to a child who needed to be set aright.“My dear, it couldn’t be simpler. Viscount Grimsby snubbed me at a soiree last week and I would like your help to put him in his place. He’s a dour man, as cold as marble. Some call him Lord Grim. And so he is. Grim and heartless. He needs a little comeuppance.” As an afterthought, she added, “He’s against the vote for women, of course.”As if that made the whole ridiculous scheme noble. As if kissing him would change his mind about women’s suffrage.“And where does kissing come into play?” It all sounded wrong to Jess, like the discordant notes of an untuned piano playing over and over in her mind, but Kitty waved away her concern dismissively.“It won’t be a real kiss, my dear. Not the kind that matters. Just a kiss that knocks him off his pedestal a bit. It will cause him a trifle of social bother. Stir up some tittle tattle.” For a moment Kitty’s expression altered, the corners of her mouth turning down as if she’d fallen into troubled contemplation. Jess wondered if she was already regretting her petty scheme? Then she lifted her head, a satisfied cat-at-the-cream grin lifting her cheeks. “The next time I see the man at a ball, perhaps he’ll manage a bit of humility. And since no one else will wish to stand up with him, I suspect he’ll be more than happy to dance with me.” None of Kitty’s words put Jess’s mind at ease. She’d never heard of Lord Grimsby but from Kitty’s description, kissing the man certainly didn’t sound appealing.“I happen to know he’ll be at an art gallery in Mayfair this evening.”“And?” Jess was growing impatient. Who had time for games when she had a business to run?“There will be a gathering at the gallery. Mrs. Ornish is a great fan of art and has sponsored one of the artists whose works will be featured. I do wonder why he always goes to Mrs. Ornish’s events. Could he have his eye on Meredith, do you think?” Of course, Jess had no idea who Mrs. Ornish or Meredith was. She might share their love of art, but they were the kind of women with wealth enough to offer an artist patronage. Jess couldn’t even afford to buy a painting. Her walls were decorated with cut-out prints culled from books and newspapers.“Kitty, please just tell me. What must I do?”Kitty’s crooked her mouth alluringly. Jess supposed she used the simpering expression to charm everyone. Everyone except Lord Grimsby, apparently.“I want you to show up at the gallery event and stride up to Lord Grim. Yes, you’ll just walk up and plant a kiss square on that cruel, unsmiling mouth of his.”“I really don’t think—“Alice’s voice had taken on the same pitch and volume she used to quiet the women’s group meetings. Jess knew what she was going to say and cut her off. “Wait. Let me consider a moment.” Jess closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She had to do it. She needed the one hundred pounds Kitty offered. There was no denying what the woman proposed was scandalous, not to mention farcical and childish. But Jess had no reputation to protect. As Kitty said, she saw herself as a free-thinking woman, unhampered by society’s strictures and eager for changing women’s roles. She had no idea how kissing a complete stranger would strike a blow for woman’s rights, but she knew her desperation for funds made her beholden to Kitty’s whims.“Come, Jessamin.” Kitty’s sing song voice was cajoling. “I dare you.” Because Jess’s speeches encouraged action over words, perhaps Kitty saw her as brave and daring. But if she was brave, it was because Father died and took all of her options with him.  She’d lost everything—her home, a modestly comfortable lifestyle, freedom to study and spend her days more or less as she wished—and put all her energy into maintaining his business, even after discovering the massive debt he’d accumulated. She was beginning to make inroads toward repaying the debt and Kitty’s funds would be another step toward financial success for Wright and Sons Booksellers. “Fine. I’ll do it.” Kitty gasped with delight and clapped her hands together. Alice shot her a look as if Jess had taken leave of whatever sense she’d been given.Jess couldn’t match Kitty’s enthusiasm nor acknowledge Alice’s concern. She was too busy fighting off the sense of dread that settled in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of what she’d agreed to do. “Where is this gallery and what time will he be there?”

About the Author:
Fueled by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British costume drama she can get her hands on, Christy Carlyle writes sensual historical romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing better than being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy endings.
Website: http://www.christycarlyle.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/historicalromanceauthorchristycarlyle
Twitter: https://mobile.twitter.com/writerchristy
Tumblr: http://christycarlyle.tumblr.com/
Blog: http://romancingthevictorians.blogspot.com/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25204333-one-scandalous-kiss
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Purina Pro Plan Extraordinary Men #MenAndCatsContest

Do you know an extraordinary man with a cat?
Purina Pro Plan is shredding perceptions of both traditional cat food and who typically loves cats by launching the Purina Pro Plan #MenAndCatsContest to celebrate the new Savor Shredded Blend.
Purina Pro Plan is working to change the perception of dry cat food by introducing Savor Shredded Blend, an all-new mealtime experience that combines crunchy kibble and tender meaty shreds to provide both extraordinary nutrition and exceptional taste.
In order to change how people think of who typically loves cats, Purina Pro Plan is partnering with proud cat guy and “Devious Maids” actor Gilles Marini to search for extraordinary men who own and love cats. 

We are asking that people nominate the cat guys in their lives or that those extraordinary cat guys out there enter themselves by sharing a photo of them with their cat on Instagram or Twitter using the hashtag #MenAndCatsContest and tagging @ProPlanCat from August 31 – September 14. 

Those men could be featured in the 2016 Purina Pro Plan Extraordinary Men and Cats Calendar and win a year’s supply of Savor Shredded Blend.
The calendars will be used to raise funds for rescue groups nationwide through the Purina Pro Plan Rally to Rescue network.
For entry details and eligibility requirements and to learn more about Savor Shredded Blend, visit www.proplan.com/MenAndCatsContest  and let’s not only change the perception of who loves cats, but also help rescue organizations across the country find loving, permanent homes for cats just like theirs.

This post was sponsored by the Role Mommy Writer's Network.

Release Day Blitz A Wicked Truth by Joyce Proell

Hi everybody. I’m Joyce Proell, and I write historical romantic mysteries.  

Ever since I was a kid, I loved mysteries. Trixie Beldon, Nancy Drew, the Boxcar Kids, I devoured every one of their books. If the mystery included a ghost, it was all the better. To this day, I still enjoy being scared by a creepy, gothic novel. 

So what is it about a mystery that hooks a person? For me, it’s the Big Question. Who’s committing the crime and why? A mystery is a puzzle. When confronted with one, I want to solve it, without delay. A good mystery is an intellectual process with a hearty dose of emotion thrown in to keep things lively.  

Mysteries are fraught with danger, the stakes high and the tension great. Unlike suspense where the threat is already known, the culprit of a classic murder mystery isn’t revealed until the end. The reader is strung along, willing to follow the thread that leads to the surprising conclusion. When I crafted the three Cady Delafield books, A Deadly Truth, A Burning Truth and A Wicked Truth, I wanted to make sure the reader would be left guessing until the very end. I hope I’ve succeeded. 

In plotting a mystery, I start with the criminal. Like Agatha Christie, I ask the five basic questions. Who, what, when, where and, perhaps the most important, why. I need to know what motivates the criminal. What’s so important that someone is willing to kill for it? 

Moral complexity in a criminal adds another layer of interest to the story. In A Wicked Truth, I felt a degree of sympathy for the criminal. It was understandable how he came to be the sort of man he was. He worked hard to better himself. Yet a burst of uncontrolled anger put all his aspirations into jeopardy. In the end, he deserved to get caught. 

A Wicked Truth is as much a mystery as a romance, so I didn’t forget to include lots of trouble and passion for the two lovers, Doyle and Cady. 

Romance and mystery. The best of both worlds.  

Thanks to Fang-tastic blog for hosting and thanks for stopping by today. Your interest means a lot, and if you have any authors you particularly like reading, please share. 

Joyce 

A Wicked TruthCady Delafield SeriesBook ThreeJoyce Proell
Genre:  Mystery/romance
Publisher:  Champagne Books
Date of Publication: September 7, 2015
ISBN 978-1-77155-034-5
Number of pages:  284Word Count: 93254Cover Artist:  Ellie Smith
Book Description:
The wedding date is set, and life is magical for Doyle Flanagan and Cady Delafield. Yet trouble has a way of finding these two. Honor bound to repay an old debt, Doyle agrees to help a friend find her sister. As he searches for the girl, painful memories surface, stunning Cady when she discovers facts about Doyle’s hidden past.
In spite of incredible odds, Cady and Doyle’s love has flourished. Now mired in tragedy and secrets, their happiness is in jeopardy. Their wits are put to the test when catastrophe strikes close to home threatening those Cady loves the most. Can they overcome the turmoil with a fateful decision that will change their future forever? 


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Excerpt:
Face set in stone, Doyle stared after his father’s retreating form. Beneath Cady’s fingertips, his arm muscle vibrated with tension. “It’s all right,” she said, giving it a comforting squeeze.He turned and searched her face, seeking further reassurance. When she smiled, his face relaxed.“I’m not so naïve the mention of cat houses throws me into a dither.”“Yes, but the mention of it is tawdry,” he replied. “It’s not the sort of polite topic one discusses in a social setting much less an occasion of solemnity such as a funeral. Not a good impression for his soon to be daughter-in-law.”“I pushed the issue, so I can hardly place blame. Besides, I like your father, at least what I know of him.”A secret desire she might bond with Brendan in the future looped in her head. While he couldn’t replace Papa, she hoped he might become a positive addition to her life and for their children should she and Doyle be so blessed.Doyle snorted.“What? Don’t you believe me?”“I believe you fine, darling.” He tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “Quite frankly, my father’s behavior at times, well, it isn’t likeable.”“Goodness.” She bit back a laugh. “The description fits about anyone. Dare I mention my undesirable traits?” A fiery temper, impetuous, too direct and outspoken got her in more than enough trouble.Smiling, he tapped the end of her nose with a finger. “Your heart’s always been in the right place.”It warmed her to know.



About the Author: 
Joyce grew up in Minnesota and attended college and grad school in Chicago. After working in mental health, she retired at a young age to write full-time. Her first book, Eliza, was published in 2012. A Wicked Truth is the third book in the Cady Delafield series. When she isn’t writing mysteries or historical romances, she loves to swim, walk and is a crossword puzzle fanatic. She and her husband live in Florida and Minnesota, in her very own little house on the prairie.
http://www.joyceproell.com/ 
https://www.facebook.com/JoyceProellAuthor 
https://twitter.com/jproell1
www.goodreads.com/author/show/6545483.Joyce_Proell 

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What Scares You? Guest Blog by Clarissa Johal

It may be because I write paranormal horror, but there are very few things that scare me. That said, I delight in scaring other people. Sometimes, I’ll give friends a scenario and ask them what they’d do, just to see if what I’ve written is “scary enough.” It usually is. Put yourself into one of these scenes and tell me what you’d do.
Scenario One :You’re alone at night, and washing your hair in the shower. Shampoo has gotten in your eyes. You hear a small whisper behind you, followed by the sound of your bath towel as it drops to the floor.

Scenario Two: You awaken from a nightmare with your roommate in it. Afraid for his safety, you wake him up. As you’re telling him about your nightmare, a spindly, human-sized figure crawls from your bedroom doorway. Arms and legs move, spider-like, as it pulls itself across the floor towards you. You’re the only one who can see it.

Scenario Three : You’re in a mental hospital. Surrounded by blackness, you feel you must be sleepwalking, though you can’t seem to wake. A presence lingers behind you. You continue to walk, feet inching across the black void. The smell of concrete hits your nose. You know that you’re poised at the top of a stairwell that plunges two flights down. The pressure from the presence behind you, urges you forward. Your toes slide over the edge of the first step. You teeter, your balance gone.

Scenario Four : You’re alone on a remote private island. In the middle of the night, you’re awakened by the sound of a baby’s cry. You venture into the surrounding woods to investigate, and the sound stops. A branch cracks behind you. As you turn, something dark darts through the trees.
These situations are all from my novels (BETWEEN, STRUCK, VOICES and THE ISLAND, respectively). Are they scary? Yes, to some. Others may brave the unknown and dive into the darkness.
Take a peek at THE ISLAND. As brave as she is, Emma Keller’s plunge into darkness may be her undoing.
THE ISLANDby Clarissa Johal

Exploring a remote island can sometimes get you into trouble.

Especially when you stumble upon a cave and awaken two demons.
Rumors and superstition.

That’s what Emma thinks about local gossip concerning her grandmother’s “cursed” private island. Emma journeys to the island to ready it for sale. While out exploring, she unearths a hidden cave–a cave which holds answers to the island’s dark past.

There may be more to the rumors than she thought.




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About the Author:

Clarissa Johal is the author of paranormal novels, THE ISLAND, VOICES, STRUCK, and BETWEEN. When she’s not listening to the ghosts in her head, she’s swinging from a trapeze or taking pictures of gargoyles. She shares her life with her husband, two daughters, and every stray animal that darkens their doorstep. 

*Member of the Horror Writers Association





Find Clarissa Online:
Author Website    Blog    Amazon Author Page
Facebook    Twitter    Goodreads    Pinterest

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Halloween on My Mind

A photo of my Bewitching Daughter
from the Spooky Pin Up to Pin Up Sale
Photo by RSII PhotographyHalloween, Halloween, Halloween....

How I love thee Halloween.

The Halloween stores are opening, all the regular stores are starting to put out Halloween stuff...

Halloween is coming!!!

I need to hit all the craft stores and start stocking up on frightfully fun supplies for crafts and spooktacular Halloween decor. Michaels is always full of a million things I want.

But the go to place for costumes is www.PureCostumes.com . They usually beat all the prices at the local stores. My youngest has not decided what he wants to be for Halloween yet. 

It looks like I'll have to take him to a local store so he can see and touch the costumes. He really likes to touch things. Texture is a big deal for him. I completely understand, I'm the same way.

If he finds something he likes I'll check Pure Costumes and see if they have it cheaper. 

I am a bargain shopping nut. I will always search online for the best deal. If it is cheaper online that's the way to go- but only if it's cheaper with shipping. If it's not I'll just drive to the store and get it :-) 

FYI- online shopping tip- always search for coupons and promo codes for the online store you are shopping from. I always do this before checking out so I can get the best deal. RetailMeNot.com usually has the best codes.

So what are your plans for Halloween? Costume ideas? Decorations?

Spotlight and Giveaway Deception by A.S. Fenichel

DeceptionThe Demon HuntersBook 2A.S. Fenichel
Genre: Historical PNR
Publisher: Kensington/Lyrical
Date of Publication: July 7, 2015
ISBN: 9781616505622ASIN: B00ONTR7WS
Number of pages: 232Word Count: 78,957
Cover Artist: Morgan Pielli
Book Description:
When Demons threaten Regency London, only a Lady can stop them.
Lillian Dellacourt is beautiful, refined and absolutely lethal. She’s also the most feared and merciless demon hunter in The Company. She’s come a long way from the penniless seamstress’s daughter sold to the highest bidder, and it wasn’t by trusting a man, let alone an exiled Marquis with more on his mind than slaying the hellspawn . . .
For Dorian Lambert, Marquis de Montalembert, being sent to keep track of Lillian is no mean task. He’s wanted the fiery vixen since he first heard of her five years ago. But wooing the lady while fighting the demon uprising is no easy feat, especially when the lady’s tongue is as sharp as the Japanese sai blades she favors for eviscerating the spawn of hell.
These two will have to learn to trust each other fast, because the demon master is back, and he’s planning to turn Edinburgh into a living hell…

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Excerpt: Chapter 1
Gripping the chair arms to keep herself seated, Lillian fought an urge to leave and never set foot inside Castle Brendaligh again.It had been a demoralizing battle and they had lost, but they had lived. They had done all they could, but still the demon master had ascended into man’s world.“You failed and we are all likely to die because of it. I hold every person at this table responsible for the state of England. You have ruined us.” Lord Clayton’s voice grated on Lillian’s nerves.Accounts of the battle were clear. Nearly everyone in the room had risked their lives trying to disrupt the ascension, not to mention keep the earl’s daughter, Belinda, from becoming a demon sacrifice. Making such a show of ferocious reprimands insulted their brave and selfless efforts. If not for the fact that he was her best friend’s father, she might have indulged her desire to pull a sai blade from her boot and slice his throat.As if Lord Clayton, the Earl of Shafton, needed to attract more attention, he waved his hands. “You had one mission, to keep the master from entering our world. All you had to do was kill one demon, but you failed. You should all be shot for treason. Treason!”His bright red face gave her hope his heart might fail and save her the trouble of killing him. Other hunters at the table murmured, but no one spoke out.Everyone in this room is to blame. You had the perfect opportunity to end this mess. Nowthe master is free of his realm and living in ours. It’s only a matter of time before he is strong enough to destroy everything we hold dear. When your families are killed mercilessly, will you sit here so unrepentant about failing in your duty?”“Father, really.” Belinda Thurston rolled her eyes.Lillian missed Reece’s steadying presence. Reece might have even been able to stop his lordship’s tirade with a few quick-witted remarks. Her partner had nearly died, and now lay upstairs recovering from demon poisoning.“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Belinda. You are equally to blame. You were with the master for days and made no attempt to destroy him.”Gabriel, Belinda’s husband, bristled. It was of course a ridiculous statement. The Earl of Tullering was not used to public abuse of his family. “Just a minute, my lord. You are out of order. Belinda was in no position to defeat the demon master. The information she gathered will be very helpful in our eventual victory.”Shafton pointed a fat finger. “I do not want to hear about information that will take years to decipher. You, Tullering, are by far the most culpable. You and that woman”—he pointed at Lillian—“made a conscious choice not to destroy the master.”Lillian reached toward her boot and let the hard steel of her sai blade handle bring her comfort. One second and Shafton’s head could be rolling down the long table and land in Drake Cullum’s lap.Besides Shafton, Drake and his assistant, Dorian Lambert, were the only ones present who had not been at the battle. Their leader, Drake, had attended to assign new orders to the hunters.Shafton said, “You could have destroyed the beast as it rose and was weakened. I know you had the opportunity, but you chose to save yourself. It was selfish and stupid.”Lillian could kill him and no one would be able to stop her. Of course, there were  always consequences when dealing with men in power. She’d lose her home within The Company. Yet another arrogant earl would not take her from her rightful place. She was in control. It was nothing like her youth and the titled man who’d ruined her life.Belinda said, “They saved my life, Father.”“It was the wrong choice, Belinda. You might have cost us our one chance to stop this.” Shafton narrowed his eyes on Lillian.Lillian said, “I can imagine your pleasure if we had allowed your only child to become the master’s sacrifice. Perhaps we should have stood by and watched until the master, with his full power rose, from the depths of hell and destroyed us all. As it is, Reece Foxjohn is still recovering from battle and the rest of us might have been sucked into the demon’s realm. But by all means, my lord, go on and tell us how you know we willfully failed on our mission. I do not recall your life being in danger that day at Fatum Manor. You were safely tucked away in your castle while the rest of us faced death or worse.”“You are out of order, Dellacourt.” Shafton said her name as if it were a curse.Lillian wasn’t sure when she had stood up, but clutching the leather wrapped steel, she rounded the table toward the earl. “If you have something you want to say about my abilities, my lord, I suggest you do so. I will be happy to display them for you, and we can evaluate them together.”“Miss Dellacourt.” A warning came from the other end of the table.“You were not there. You cannot know if we could have destroyed the master. As far as I’m concerned, we made the only choice possible under the circumstances. Maybe if your intelligence had supplied us with the location of the gateway before the master had grown so powerful, we might have been able to seal him in.”“How dare you imply that I failed in some way? You who completely disregard orders  at will.” She had only ever hated one man the way she despised Shafton, and he too was an earl. At least that one was dead. Steeling her nerves, she slid the sai blade through the pocket cut in her skirt. “You speak of orders that were selfish and almost succeeded in getting your own family killed.”“You have no right to question me or my motives.” To his credit, he faced her and stared her in the eye.“I have every right when you point your fat finger at me.”“Who do you think you are? I know where you come from Lillian Dellacourt. I know what you are.”Drake Cullum pounded the table. “Shafton, that will do.” The demon hunters’ leader stood rigid, narrow-eyed. He was formidable when he was calm, but enraging him was never a good idea. He was furious now.Had she gone too far? The idea she might have overstepped her bounds with Cullum was enough to make her relax the grip on her blade. Lillian turned and stormed from the dining room.Shafton yelled something about not having dismissed her from the meeting.Once in the hallway, she pulled her second blade and turned to go back in and finish what she’d started. It would be nothing to remove his pompous head from his shoulders.Cullum stood in the doorway. He smiled at her and closed the door, baring her reentry.Had she ever seen him smile before? No instance came to mind. She stomped toward the front entrance. She’d leave the damn castle, get her carriage, and ride like the devil back to London. Yet the one person in the world she could really talk to was a resident of Brendaligh. Holding her full skirts with both hands, she sprinted up the curved grand staircase.


About the Author:
A.S. Fenichel gave up a successful career in New York City to follow her husband to Texas and pursue her lifelong dream of being a professional writer. She’s never looked back.
A.S. adores writing stories filled with love, passion, desire, magic and maybe a little mayhem tossed in for good measure. Books have always been her perfect escape and she still relishes diving into one and staying up all night to finish a good story.
Multi-published in historical, paranormal, erotic and contemporary romance, A.S. is the author of The Demon Hunters series, the Psychic Mates series, and more. With several books currently contracted to multiple publishers, A.S. will be brining you her brand of edgy romance for years to come.
Originally from New York, she grew up in New Jersey, and now lives in the East Texas with her real life hero, her wonderful husband. When not reading or writing she enjoys cooking, travel, history, and puttering in her garden. Her babies are both rescues and include a demanding dog and a temperamental cat both of which bring constant joy and laughter.
Web Site- http://asfenichel.net/
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