Justine Elyot's Blog, page 21

Music For A Dark Frame Of Mind

Is this it? Can it really be over? Today I wave a sad farewell to the Noble Romance Authors Blog Tour – there'll be tear-stained handkerchiefs all over the blogosphere.

But first! Let's be of good cheer, because I have a truly terrific guest to welcome today, and I know you're going to agree with me. I'm thrilled to welcome the lovely Bianca Sommerland, who is going to talk about the relationship between her stories and music. Welcome, Bianca!

Sometimes, when I'm writing, it seems impossible to get into the right frame of mind. Music helps. Like most authors, I have playlists to suit different scenes. Lovey dovey songs for romance, tear jerkers for sad scenes, and–my favourite—songs that get your blood pumping for action scenes. These playlists work no matter what story I'm writing, because romance is romance and a brawl is a brawl.

But when things get real dark and intense, the tune changes. Because, in my mind, the emotions involved in those scenes are never the same. I can spend hours, even days sometimes, searching for the right song because nothing else will get me in the right mindset to write.

Then I find a new song and it's like the last puzzle piece snapping into place.

For one story, the song was Counting bodies like sheep, by A Perfect Circle. It's dark and kinda creepy. On repeat it made the words flow like the tears of lost souls. The prose was disturbing, as intended. I hadn't been able to get that into character in awhile.

Another story had me hunting until I discovered Within Temptation. Sharon den Adel, the vocalist, has a voice so haunting you feel chills up your spine as she holds a note and hope dies. It's very hard to write a happily-ever-after when I've written a scene that's required her particular brand of darkness. Quite often I need to take a big step back from the story and listen to something upbeat before I decided killing the entire cast is a very good idea.

To me, good writing is like method acting. How do you write a truly emotional death scene without feeling a thing? How do you write love between two characters if you're indifferent about them? How do you write fear if you've never experienced it, or–at very least–don't find some pleasure in making victims of your characters.

I don't think you can. I could be wrong, I mean, some actors manage to front emotion on a whim.

Most of their scenes are pretty transparent though. Scenes in books written by writers who pump out books with no heart don't bleed like the books of writers who really care. I love those books. I want to write books like that.

In the end, I believe music speaks to me in the same way I want my scenes to speak to my readers. If a song can make me smile, laugh, scream, or cry, then I can transfer that emotion to my characters.

So I'd like to take a moment to raise my glass to those talented singers out there that use melodies to move us all. I wouldn't write half as good without them. Cheers!

For more of me, go here: http://imnoangelauthorsblog.wordpress...

For the next stop in the tour, click here: http://sarahballance.wordpress.com/

Thanks, Bianca, for a fascinating post. You've made me want to check out Within Temptation. And here, for all you interested people, is the cover and details for Bianca's latest story.

Lydia awakes, bound and blind, to the whispered urgings of a man who has his hands on her. His words confuse her at first, but she soon understands they are both in the middle of a performance that will determine whether she remains in captivity or dies. The crowd must be entertained, and her cellmate makes sure it is.

Forced submission is not the only horror Lydia endures. She has no memories of life before her imprisonment, and Joe, her cellmate, is her only comfort as the powerful creatures that hold them captive torture and debase her. Together, she and Joe cling to the will to survive long enough to break free and seek revenge. Their desire to sustain one another triumphs over their wardens' efforts to destroy them. There is no pain, no suffering, that can tear them apart.

Beyond their cell, their love is tested. Can they hold strong in the face of the challenge of the new powers they have gained along with their freedom?

Special Content Alert: BDSM, forced sex, graphic violence, menage, dark erotica

Comment away – you could be one stop away from winning that hundred dollar Eden Fantasys voucher – then head off to Sarah Ballance's blog, where you'll find Mindy Mackay. And thank you for all your support!

Deep Indigo

Can it really be the last week of the Noble Romance Authors Blog Tour? So many prizes given, new friends made and interesting conversations had – but next week it will all be over *sob*.

But – until then – let's enjoy our swan song, and a wonderful interview with Indigo Skye, in her second guest appearance on my blog. She's welcome any time – Indigo gives great interview!

1. Welcome to the blog – can you tell me a little bit about how you came to be a Noble author?

It all started with Scarlet! I got to know the author Keta Diablo through her posts on the Scarlet forum. She works with Noble Romance, as well as several other publishing houses, and has been very supportive and encouraging. We corresponded, and she granted me an exclusive interview on my blog to help promote her book, Where the Rain is Made. Keta read one of my short stories, "Cherry-Boy," and passed it on to Jill Noble. This got my foot in the door-without an agent-and I submitted my manuscript for Her Captive Muse soon after. Keta was instrumental in helping me ready my manuscript for publication. She and the editors at Noble did a fantastic job of helping me make my story the best it could be.

2. My theme for 2011 is music. Is music important to you in your life and your writing?

My Muses love to listen to the blues. The words flow better when there's music in the background. Music makes its way into my stories and my dreams.

3. Do you have a song that sums up the situation or relationships of any of your characters? (feel free to post if there are no copyright restrictions)

I think the song that sums up Brendan Delaney's relationship with Morgan Roan is "Sweet Dreams," by the Eurythmics. Annie Lennox's vocals are amazing, and the lyrics really resonate with Brendan's situation. "Some of them want to abuse you/Some of them want to be abused…"

Oh, that's a big favourite of mine too, along with Love is a Stranger.

4. Do you listen to music while you write? Or have you ever been inspired by a piece of music to write a story?

I enjoy listening to all types of music. When I'm editing or working furiously to meet a deadline, I want something with a driving beat, so I'll spin punk, rap, or hip-hop. I'm obsessed with The Stooges' album, Fun House- a little Iggy Pop is better than a shot of espresso. If I'm working on a new creative project, I want something mellow in the background, so blues or jazz suits my mood when I'm in The Zone. I love Robert Johnson's voice- I can always work with him around.

5. What songs do you consider especially romantic?

"Wish You Were Here," by Pink Floyd. "Lilac Wine," by Nina Simone.

6. What songs get you in a sexy mood?

Fiona Apple never fails to turn me on. She has such a sexy, intense voice, and her music is amazing. I'm currently spinning a bootleg Morphine CD that was recorded at a Detroit show- perfect for slow, sweet love-making on a Sunday morning! Nine Inch Nails' Downward Spiral is a great album to get me in the mood for something kinky and wild.

Mmm, Nine Inch Nails…You have great taste, Indigo!

Here a little bit more about Ms Skye and her good works:

Indigo Skye is a writer and photographer living in the American Southwest. Her first novel, Her Captive Muse, was released by Noble Romance Publishers in January. Her work has been widely published online. Last fall, her short story "True Confession" was published in the anthology Uniform Behavior. A full list of her published works is available on her blog, Indigo Skye: Ink and Art- http://indigoskyeinkandart.blogspot.com.

Contact Information for Indigo Skye-

Email: indigoskyeinkandart@gmail.com

Blog: http://indigoskyeinkandart.blogspot.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/indigoinkandart

Buy Links for Her Captive Muse- https://www.nobleromance.com/ItemDisp... http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RYVKOU

When Brendan Delaney answered an ad for an artist's model, he was looking for an easy way to earn some extra cash. But Morgan Roan wanted more than just a model. Soon, Brendan finds himself caught in a web of deception and desire, lust and betrayal—her captive muse. What price pleasure?

Buy Link for Uniform Behavior-

Uniform Behaviour

Lucy Felthouse

The Olden Bill

It was a great day in my life.

Rounding the curve of my cul-de-sac in the London Borough of Merton, I noticed a police car parked up by the gasometer. Not an unusual site in my corner of the urban jungle, but it was only as I passed by that the reality hit me. That police officer on the pavement was no ordinary police officer. It was….TONY STAMP!

Tony Stamp from The Bill.

As it happened, it was only the first of many sightings of cast members from my favourite police drama. 'Sun Hill' – usually made out to be a lawless patch of East London – was actually pretty close to where I lived, in the shadow of the Colliers Wood Savacentre. I was practically a resident of 'the Jasmine Allen', the infamous badlands of the manor.

Tony Stamp was not my favourite character, but he was a totem of 'old' Bill days. When the show started in the mid-80s, it was a solid slice of unglamorous police life, twice a week for half an hour. By the time it was cancelled last year, it had turned into some kind of hyper soap, full of ex-Hollyoaks pretty-pretties, all of whom were involved in affairs with murderers, or murderous drug deals with colleagues, or…meh. Sun Hill was the worst police station in the world. I knew the rot had set in with the bizarre Gabriel Kent storyline, in which Mark from Eastenders played out a bonkers Oedipal drama with the formerly super-normal June. I couldn't love it like I used to after that.

I loved the old days, though, when whole half-hour episodes could consist of two constables eating pork pies in a squad car and moaning about filling in their timesheets.

And there was eyecandy! Lots of it. So here are some of my favourite Bill boys, just for the memories…

Wide boy detective, never out of trouble, but a bit of a twinkle in the eye…Phil Hunter!

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A good man in a tough job – top boss Adam Okaro

My great Bill love, I gather one I might have to fight several other women for, the swoonworthy Smithy

And – aha, now I remember why I was writing this post! – an oldie but goodie, and the model for Adam in Cat and Mouse, the dodgy geezer PC Ramsey

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I miss those boys in blue.

1888 Part 16

"May I take your cloak, Madam?"

For a moment, Molly failed to realise that the obsequious uniformed man to her right was addressing her. 'Madam?' She was Miss at best, and more usually 'Oi, you, girl'.

But then, so caught up was she in the pleasure of masquerade that she hardly took in the surrounding scenes until Sir Rupert extended the crook of his arm once more for her to take, drawing her into the red and gold room with its hum of conversation and the constant clink-clink-clink of coins tossed on to green baize.

Knots of finely-dressed gentlemen huddled around tables, engrossed in games of cards or dice, while tight-bodiced, feather-coiffed ladies fawned at their sides, very clearly a few degrees shy of respectable but none the less glamorous for that.

A gentleman played popular tunes on the piano in the corner while other low-decolletaged women floated about the room with silver salvers of champagne glasses. In darkened booths at the back of the room, private conversations and flirtations were taking place among people whose silhouettes were only just discernable.

Molly's eye moved away from them and up towards a huge and ornate golden chandelier that bathed shimmering light over the scene. She was used to the opulence of the Smythson home, but she still never failed to be impressed by magnificent surroundings, and she turned to Sir Rupert and beamed excitedly.

"Oh, Sir, what a fine place this is!"

"Hush, Molly, you must call me 'darling' while we are here – no standing on ceremony, dear girl. All who patronise this establishment understand the virtue of discretion."

"Then they will think I'm….your wife?" Molly's incredulous tone drew a chuckle from her titled lover.

"Oh, I don't think the people here labour under many illusions, Molly. But they all have exquisite manners and would not dream of voicing any suspicions in the open."

"Oh." Molly thought this through, finally realising that her status as Sir Rupert's mistress would be tacitly understood but never mentioned.

Sir Rupert took a glass of champagne for her and ordered himself a vermouth cocktail before escorting the saucer-eyed servant girl over to one of the more popular tables. Molly had never before seen this manner of game – the men placed coloured discs on a numbered grid before a wheel was set spinning and a ball thrown on to the whirligig, jumping and dancing between the ridged partitions until it slowed and stopped, to the accompaniment of elated shouts or despairing groans.

She watched it curiously for a few minutes, enjoying the fizz of the champagne but noting with a hint of alarm that the ball never seemed to land where Sir Rupert wished it to. Then her attention wandered across the room, back to the shadowy booths, wherein sat mysterious personages….oh. Crossing the room purposefully towards one of the unoccupied sanctuaries were two familiar figures. One was that Jessie's fella – the painter – such a distinctive man, with his hair so long he had tied it in a black ribbon. With him was Florence's dreamboat, the Greek Godlike Alex. What were they doing here?

Molly touched Sir Rupert's elbow. "Begging your pardon, S – darling, I need to powder my nose."

Sir Rupert waved an impatient hand at her without moving his demented gaze from the roulette wheel, and Molly slipped away, concealing herself behind a Chinese silk screen in the corner of the room, close to where the two young men had taken their seats.

"The strongest liquor you have," Vyvyan was saying to the waitress who hovered close to them. "I have need of fortification tonight."

"A whiskey for him and a red wine for me," clarified Alex, and the waitress swanned away. "Seriously, Stanford, don't you think you are taking this a little too much to heart?"

"You didn't see it," moaned Vyvyan. "It's not like Jessie to…do that kind of thing. Yes, she is a hedonist and a sensualist, but only among friends, Alex, you know that. She told me so many times that she only intended to sell her smile and her company, but if you'd seen the look on her face…" Vyvyan paused to shudder. "It was the face of a woman who had sold her soul."

Alex's voice cut in, low and assured. "Oh, that's very poetic, Vyvyan, but shouldn't you remind yourself why she is doing this. Every farthing she makes from this enterprise is for you – to support you, to keep the fire burning in your grate and the inspiration flowing from your brush. She loves you, Vyvyan, and everything she does is for love of you."

There was a lull in conversation while the drinks were delivered, and then Vyvyan spoke again, in a broken tone. "You didn't see her, Alex. If you'd seen her…."

Alex heaved a sigh. "You have had an unpleasant shock; you will recover. Do not go too hard on Jessie. But who is the man concerned? Did he give her a name."

"Oh yes, he gave her a name," said Vyvyan, now querulous and spoiling for a fight. "Hi, girl, another whiskey here! But the name was not his. He works on behalf of an Archduke Heinz-Werner from some tinpot Prussian fiefdom. Have you heard of him?"

"Heinz-Werner," said Alex thoughtfully. "Lower Teutonia, I think."

"Mmm, yes, I think so. Apparently the exalted Archduke himself merely requires Jessie's company, but his emissary took it upon himself to…to…sample the goods." Vyvyan spat out the last words, then took up the glass that had been refilled.

"So the man concerned was a foreigner? Well, you know, perhaps its some filthy germanic custom…"

"No, no," blurted Vyvyan. "Now you've mentioned it, that's a rather rum thing. He didn't sound in the least German. He sounded very English."

"Oh." Alex absorbed this piece of information before casually remarking, "Jessie's a spirited girl; if she's as tigerish in life as she is in bed, she'll have Heinz-Werner eating out of her hand…what was that?"

It was this sentence that had caused Molly to drop her champagne glass; its tinkling shatter was plainly audible to the young men in the booth, even the by now rather befuddled Vyvyan.

Alex left him to embark on his third double Scotch and leapt up, peering around the screen to find a very abashed and red-faced Molly wringing her hands there.

"Molly? It is Molly, isn't it? What on earth are you doing here?"

Molly scarcely knew where to look; she was filled with confusion. Could she admit to Alex that she was here with his flame's father? But if he was sleeping with Jessie, what was he doing with Florence? Should she be angry with him, friendly with him, afraid of him? It was all to much to consider at once.

Alex grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the booth, where Vyvyan was slumped, head on arm, moaning indistinctly into his shirtsleeve.

"Molly, I don't know what you've heard or why you're here but…I must ask you not to tell Florence anything."

"Why not? She is my friend. Why would I not tell her such a very important thing?"

"Ah, Molly, but it is not important, not at all. Jessie and I have had a friendly arrangement in the past, but you must understand that my intentions towards Florence are entirely serious. And honourable. Do you believe me?"

Alex's earnest agitation struck Molly as sincere. She nodded, her brown eyes huge.

"I hope I can trust you, Molly," he said. "Let me get you a fresh glass of champagne." He hailed a waitress and replaced Molly's drink. "Molly, I am a young man about town, and sometimes I have behaved in ways that might shock you. They would certainly shock Florence, I imagine. But I am not a bad person, and now that I have met your mistress, I have resolved to change my ways. I am a reformed character. I mean to make myself worthy of her, Molly. You would not dash a man's hopes, would you? I sense that you are a kind and gentle girl, Molly. Am I right?"

Molly, still blushing furiously, simpered into the champagne bubbles.

"I hope you mean it, Sir," she said softly. "Miss Florence's heart would break if you was toying with her."

He smiled, a row of perfectly even white teeth dazzling her with their uncommon uniformity.

"I shall make her my wife before the year is out, Molly. But you must swear that you will not speak a word of this to her. We have plans to meet tomorrow and I would prefer that she heard it from me!"

Molly was stunned. Why, they had met twice – could Alex really be considering marriage? Well, he was a poet, she supposed, and they were all for that wild love-at-first-sight malarkey. Still, she could not help feeling a tiny bit envious of Florence, to have such a handsome and passionate man at her feet.

"So then, Molly. May I ask what a sweet young thing like you is doing in a…." he lowered his voice to a whisper, blue eyes twinkling, "…gambling den?"

"Oh…well…I, er…I ought to get back to my…friend, begging your pardon."

Alex homed in on Molly's discomfiture, following the line of her anxious eyesight to rest on the somewhat dejected figure of Sir Rupert Smythson.

"And is your friend the gentleman over there with the fine waxed moustache?"

Molly was silent, in an agony of shame.

"Molly, surely he is Sir Rupert? Florence's father?"

"I'll bid you goodnight, Sir…" Molly made to rise, but Alex halted her, closing her forearm in one strong hand.

"Just a minute, sweetness. Don't look so frightened. There, now. I mean you no harm. Sit down."

She sat back down, hiding her face in her hands to conceal the unwanted beginnings of tears in her eyes.

"Molly, Molly." Alex's voice was gentle, if a little cajoling. "I fear for you, dear girl. Smythson is a rat; he will let you down. He doesn't deserve you. Please find yourself a new place, Molly, before he gets the opportunity."

Molly looked up, her face damp and stunned. "You know him?"

"Most people in London at least know of him," averred Alex. "A gambling womaniser, Molly. A weak and foolish man who would be in the gutter without the patronage he has benefited from. Find yourself a good, honest man, Molly, and escape his clutches as soon as you can." Alex reached over, brushed a stray lock of hair from her brow and she suddenly, instinctively grasped his wrist and held on to it as if it were floating debris on a treacherous sea.

"Don't let him ruin you," whispered Alex, before unclasping her and watching her scurry back to her illicit lover.

*

"Oh, you're back," said Sir Rupert vaguely, his brow furrowed and one eye twitching slightly. "I'm down, Molly. A long way down. I have no more left to wager."

"Should we go?" she asked shyly, needing to get to bed to turn over that extraordinary conversation in her head.

"Go? Gad, no. It's not yet midnight. Come over to one of the booths and sit on my knee, eh? I have need of a sweet pair of lips to rest my mind. And yours are the very sweetest I know."

The compliment knocked the rebellious wind from Molly's sails and she tripped obediently after the morally bankrupt baronet for a little slap and tickle in the dark.

Notes For Writing

Today's guest is having quite a week – J S Wayne is juggling Noble Author Blog Tour posting with promoting his new release, Angels Would Fall, which came out on Monday, so I'm very pleased he was able to take some time out to chat with me about how music fits into his writing life. Thanks for coming, J S!

My father is, among his many other talents, a professional musician. To be more specific, he plays the piano. Through nearly my entire childhood, he augmented his salary as the manager of a piano store with paying gigs playing alongside a percussionist and a brass player as part of a trio. I used to needle my father about having OCD with regards to his playing and practicing. I didn't appreciate the immense amount of time and study it took him to become as good as he is, and I didn't understand the practice he had to devote to keep his skills sharp. But I do now.

They were reasonably successful on the local scale, and Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights he would load up and head off for the ninety-mile round trip to Central City, South Dakota from Rapid City. The rest of the week it was a good thing he worked in a music store, because it afforded him a great deal of practice time he might not otherwise have had.

Because of his and my mother's musical tastes, I grew up exposed to a very broad range of musical styles and forms. It's because of that inoculation from a young age that my own musical tastes are as diverse as they are.

Today, music is very important to me in every facet of my life. My writing, particularly, demonstrates this influence. Those who are closest to me have a pretty good idea of what I've been listening to based on the work I turn out. I roam a vast spectrum of music, from the bleeding-edge Top 40 radio hits to classical, from movie soundtracks to songs that haven't had airplay on any serious level since 1976.

As just about every writer does, I have my own set ritual for getting ready to write. This invariably consists of the following steps:

1) Ensure the presence of caffeine in dosages that would kill a small child, typically in the form of Mountain Dew. If I have Stok creamers to lace it with (look it up), all the better.

2) Verify that I have a clean ashtray, cigarettes, and a lighter that actually works. There is very little that I find more irritating than being in the middle of a scene that's flowing well and then having to stop because I haven't had a cigarette in three hours and the fourteenth typo in three seconds makes me want to hurl my laptop through the (closed) window.

3) Assemble a writing mix. This is the most delicate part, to my way of thinking. The wrong song at the wrong time could blow the entire mood of the piece, depending on what I'm trying to convey at the time. Having Insane Clown Posse's "Hokus Pokus" or Disturbed's "Down With the Sickness" showing up in the middle of the XXX-rated love scene I'm about to delve into could be just as disastrous as Paula Cole's "Feeling Love" or Melissa Etheridge's "Angels Would Fall" wandering into the middle of a blood-soaked vampiric rampage. I have to really think about this part. Mark Twain said: "The difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." This is no different; the music rules the mood of my writing.

4) Listen to my "blanking" song. This is the melody that effectively makes my mind a suitable palette for writing. I have several different versions of it, ranging from two and a half minutes all the way up to a nearly fourteen-minute megamix of my own creation, depending on my mood, how much chill I need, and what I'm trying to do. The song? "Unicron's Medley," off the 1986 animated Transformers movie soundtrack. The fourteen-minute version also incorporates other tracks from the score by the amazing Vince DiCola. (And good luck finding it anywhere but on my MP3 player, because it ain't gonna happen.)

5) Sit down, shut up, and do the damn writing.

Since I'm sure someone's going to ask, some of the perennials on my writing list, in no particular order, are AC/DC, Montgomery Gentry, Insane Clown Posse, 2Pac, Snoop Dogg, Belinda Carlisle, TATU, Garbage, Juice Newton, Melissa Etheridge, Duran Duran, Tina Turner, Disturbed, Vanessa Williams, Metallica, Paula Cole, and ZZ Top. These are the artists who inspire me to produce the writing I do, at its top level and peak form.

But it all comes back, ultimately, to a guy who has sat at a different kind of keyboard and hammered those keys for over fifty years. The naysayers, the good deals that never quite materialized, and chasing the dream: He's been there, done that, and has every iteration of the T-shirt and matching coffee cup ever produced to prove it. If you see him, he goes by Wayne. If you're lucky enough to watch him tickle the ivories, you're in for a real treat; you're witnessing a master at work.

To me? He's Dad.

I want to give a huge thank-you to the incomparable Justine Elyot, for allowing me to be here and spend the time. It's been fun, y'all!

Until next time,

Best,

J.S. Wayne

Cheers, J S – and thanks! Now, I know you're going to want to know more about his new release, so here is the cover and some details.

Take one more, ferry her along. Soulbearer Moradiel recounts his duties while collecting his latest assignment, nurse Ariel. Tragic accident–seems simple. But in the RN's final moments asleep at the wheel of her speeding car, stirrings grip Moradiel's angelic heart. Stirrings so forbidden that to simply give voice to them is to risk expulsion from his Heavenly abode.

Out of time and faced with the most difficult decision in his eternal existence, Moradiel finds himself torn between saving the only woman he's ever loved or throwing the balance between Heaven and Hell into chaos. Duty or desire? Moradiel must choose . . .

Another way to sample J S' writing is to read his story in the Blog Tour anthology, Red Roses and Shattered Glass – Espiritu Sancti is powerful f/f gothic horror – find out more details here.

Well, it only remains for you to comment, then skip away into the verdant fields of Indigo Skye's blog, where you will find the fabulous H C Brown. Press that button!

Give It Up for Gianna!

I'm very excited about my next guest on the Noble Romance Authors Blog Tour – because Gianna and I have known each other since long before we both fetched up at Noble, as LiveJournal pals. It's really lovely and funny that we've wound up on this blog tour together – one of life's happy little coincidences. And now I'll leave Gianna to speak for herself!

I'm a born and bred Jersey girl who loves to get lost in other worlds or alternate realities with sexy anti-heroes and brave heroines. My interests range far and wide, when I'm not writing (or driving children somewhere), chances are you can find me poking into some fun places online, like Twitter, reading anything and everything, or watching old episodes of Highlander, Charmed and Dragon Ball Z.

Hi, Gianna – I know that music is one of your passions – all the Springsteen lyrics you post on Twitter on Friday nights is evidence enough of that! Can you tell us a little bit more about how it features in your life – writing and non-writing?

Gianna: 

Music has always been a big part of my life, but not in any formal way. I took the traditional piano lessons as a kid, and wasn't too bad, though I really didn't like it until I obtained the music for Bruce Springsteens's albums. And even then, playing was a chore for me. I'm much more of a listener. And listen I did, and still do.

I'm a girl with a rock and roll heart – I love all kinds of it, though I do also like club/dance music, and pop music. I grew up in a house where my mother always played classical music or operas, I even attended more than my fair share of them, but was never drawn in as mom was. Don't get me wrong, I have a tremendous amount of respect for and am always impressed with the talents of those who perform those genres, the gift of an incredible voice is something I've long wished I'd been fortunate enough to possess. Maybe that's why I love Pat Benatar so much – she is classically trained, her voice is incredible, and the woman can rock! She could teach a few things to some of the popular performers of today. Class and talent and the ability to rock as hard as any man. A hard combo to find.

But rock music is the soundtrack of my life – there are very few places where I don't have it playing. Car, house, work. One of the greatest inventions, in my opinion, is the ipod. I don't know how I lived without it – the idea of carrying 6000+ of my songs with me at all times just makes me giddy like a little kid. I play music at work, in the car, when I write, when I cook, when I watch hockey, no matter what. It inspires me, feeds my muse and can usually transform a bad mood. I have this one playlist that I like to listen to when I'm writing, I call it my Sexy playlist. Some of the songs on there include:

Bad Girlfriend by Theory of a Dead Man

Something in Your Mouth by Nickelback

S.E.X. also by Nickelback

Counting the Days by Collective Soul

Supermassive Black Hole by Muse

Shimmer by Fuel

Sexual Healing by Marvin Gaye

Let's Get it On also by Marvin Gaye

Cherry, Cherry by Neil Diamond

Superstition by Stevie Wonder

Higher Ground – two versions! Original by Stevie Wonder and the remake by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Daytripper by The Beatles

Rocket Queen by Guns n Roses

Slither by Velvet Revolver

We Got it Going On by Bon Jovi

Human Touch by Bruce Springsteen

Atlantic City also by Bruce Springsteen (there is not one playlist that doesn't have at least some Bruce appearing on it!)

It's a rather mixed collection, much like my taste. And not all of them are songs about sex, the music may have its own "sexy to me" sound, or there may be a line or two in there that inspires me. And there are a lot more songs on there as well.

Lyrics are a big factor for me as well – as far as I'm concerned, there isn't anyone who can write lyrics as beautifully as Bruce Springsteen. His words, combined with his music, paint a clear picture of what's happening and make you feel the characters' plights as if they're your own.

I've got entire books plotted around one line of lyrics. I've always been impressed with how musicians can say so much with just a few lines – takes me 1,000 times as many words to evoke some of those same feelings. But those few words can set the mood for the scene I'm writing, or inspire a completely new one. Or make me realize I need to take the story in a different direction than originally planned. That happens way more than I like to admit.

Speaking of Gianna's stories – trust me, they are hot! To find out more, check out these links:

Blog:  http://giannasimone.blogspot.com/

Twitter: Gianna_Simone

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=1523876745

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Thanks for sharing, Gianna – I love your list of classic rock inspirations (especially Muse!).

And now, leave your comment for a chance to win big prizes, then let the button whisk you away to Gianna's own blog, where she is hosting J S Wayne today.

Cat and Mouse in the House

I'm very pleased to announce the release of my novella Cat and Mouse, my first for Resplendence Publishing. They have been terrific to work for every step of the way and, with a stable of wonderful authors, I'd say they are definitely a house to watch.

This story is part of their Handcuffs and Lace line – steamy stories featuring law enforcement officers in romantic and erotic entanglements. Here's the cover and blurb, followed by a little teaser for you.

For Layla, it's a game. Scaling the highest buildings in her patch of East London so she can tag them with her signature takes her mind off the grim realities of her life.
For police officer Adam, it's an obsession. Ever since their first encounter ended in an unexpected kiss, he has burned to pursue and capture the light-footed Layla.
But she knows her territory very well, and the chase proves both exhilarating and frustrating—until the game turns deadly serious, and Layla is forced to realize that she can't rely on her own resources forever. Will Adam persuade her to step out of the shadows and take a chance on love with the man she has seen for so long as her nemesis?

The day this doesn't take my breath away, Layla thought, I will stop.

That day was still far distant, though, for Layla's reaction to the sight before her precipitated the familiar reactions—awe, wonder, fear, exhilaration. All around her, lights shone—the stars above and beyond, the beacons of the city below. Leaning over the safety rail at the edge of the roof, Layla looked down hundreds of feet to the sleepless streets. Pinprick pairs of headlights drifted along the roads here and there, while a cluster of dots appeared to be brawling in the closed-up shopping precinct. But all of that urban ugliness was far away from here. Up here, it all looked beautiful, from the brutalist-style tower blocks opposite her to the distant, shining curve of the River Thames.

She let her breath trickle out slowly, drinking in the nightscape, before stepping back and reaching for her backpack. Time was of the essence. She had to leave her signature and get out of here fast. She retrieved her spray paints and set to work, the intricate tag now coming easily to her where she'd once had to take time and care. The exquisite combination of hearts, flowers and barbed-wire knots decorated the roofs of dozens of the city's dilapidated, residential tower blocks. Layla meant to decorate each one before moving on to the greater challenge of the skyscrapers atCanaryWharf.

"Every helicopter pilot knows my name," she told herself with satisfaction, finishing her handiwork with a flourishing signature. Layla, 2011. "And so does he."

Speaking of whom…

Layla packed her paints and hurried back to the rail, looking down into the street. A blue flashing light advanced along the access road. Layla inhaled sharply—he'd been quick tonight. At least, she calculated, he would have to spend some time dealing with the hooligans outside the shops before he came up to try and find her. There was still plenty of time.

Hoisting her backpack over her shoulder, she shinned back down the skylight ladder, closing it carefully behind her. She knew better than to bother with the battered elevators, so she began a leaping descent of the twenty-three flights of stairs instead, keeping a sharp eye out for discarded needles or other dangers on the way.

She'd just made it down to the central lobby when she saw his uniformed figure, together with his partner, buzzing the concierge outside the heavy double doors. She squashed herself beneath the stairs and waited.

After much buzzing, an elderly man shuffled over to the doors, breathing stertorously and cursing under his breath. "Yeah, yeah, what now?"

"There's a girl on your roof, Sir. I don't know if you realized." Adam's voice, always so strident with that sardonic edge, rang through the dingy lobby.

"Girl? Eugh, better than that pirate radio station last month, at least. Go up. Oh, you want me to come up too? Oy. It's three o'clock in the morning."

"I'm aware of that, Sir."

Layla stifled a giggle, picturing Adam's face, one eyebrow wearily raised.

"Luke, why don't you stay down here and keep an eye on those youths—make sure they've dispersed. This'll only take one of us."

Ha! thought Layla. He wants all the glory for himself, of course. Mustn't let his partner share any of the credit.

She waited until Adam's impatient footsteps were distant echoes, followed by the heavier tread of the concierge, before crawling back out. She scanned the hallway for traces of Luke and, finding none, sauntered out onto the concourse.

She knew she would be well and thoroughly hidden in the maze of alleys and walkways that made the estate such a favorite of petty criminals before her pursuer had even made it onto the roof.

* * * *

Lying in her bed, she wondered, for the thousandth time, what would happen if Adam ever caught her? Even worse, what if he got a transfer or just gave up the chase? She had to admit that the thrill of her nocturnal activities would pall without that extra piquancy his dedication to her capture gave it.

She returned, yet again, to the memory of their first meeting—a memory that she couldn't resist worrying, like a loose tooth, taking pleasure in the danger of it.

She'd been new to her urban sport and inexperienced. One evening, months before, she'd climbed up a fire escape onto the roof of a derelict hospital building, taking some time after completing her tagging mission to enjoy the residual warmth of the summer air and the distant sounds of a calypso party somewhere nearby. She had lain down for a while and stared up at the stars, feeling part of the world for once, and at peace with it. She'd almost drifted off to sleep, but the sound of rough, male voices from somewhere under the roof had roused her to action.

Instantly, she was on her feet, grabbing her backpack and running on clunky, grippy soles toward the fire escape. She had just swung over the side of the building when the heads of two police officers had broken clear of an old trapdoor exit.

"He's going down the fire exit. Let's get back down and catch him at the bottom."

Layla wasn't sure which was the best way to run, so she simply pelted toward a clump of trees, as fast and as far away from the crunching gravel behind her as she could get.

They were shouting and hollering.

"Oi! You! Stop there!"

What a waste of breath all that was! Why didn't they just concentrate on catching up with her?

Unfortunately for Layla, she was a tiny, feisty, five feet two set against their combined lofty heights and long legs, and it soon became clear that they were gaining on her at an alarming rate.

"Luke, take the side gate. I've got him. He's mine."

From the corner of her eye, Layla saw one of the men peel away to her right, running in a wide arc toward what she presumed must be her only escape route.

Behind her, the thump, thump of the other man's regulation boots on the patchy grass was ominously close. She wasn't going to win this race.

In desperation, she whipped her wiry body around to face her pursuer, sending a fierce punch toward his face. At least, it would have been a fierce punch if he hadn't caught hold of her wrist, immobilizing her with insultingly little effort.

"Got him!" crowed her captor.

If Layla hadn't been so focused on her panic, she would have taken a moment to admire his sculpted cheekbones and sea-green eyes. But there was no time for that. She struggled in vain, her twists and turns only adding to the pain in her wrist.

The policeman pulled off her hood with a flourish, releasing a cascade of corkscrew, black curls and revealing Layla's kittenish face.

"You're a girl!"

He stared for a few seconds, and Layla sensed that his shock gave her a minuscule wedge of opportunity. She slammed her free hand down on his shoulder and levered herself up his body until she was able to snatch his lips with hers and press them into a thieving kiss. He made a strangled sound in his throat and jerked his head backwards. In that tiny window of the police officer's shock and confusion, Layla smelled her chance of escape. It would be a matter of milliseconds before his arm wrapped around her, imprisoning her against his chest. Layla didn't wait. She thrust her knee upwards as hard as she could.

The police officer howled and staggered backwards, clutching his crotch, those gorgeous green eyes wide with astonished pain.

"You little…" he gasped.

But Layla was on her way, hearing the other man running back to check on his friend.

"Adam! You okay, mate?"

"Oi!" Adam's enraged cry was like wind at her back, pushing her onward. "I'm gonna have you! You're mine!"

Knowing she was well out of range, Layla turned and waved. "Bye, Adam!" she shouted. "Sorry I didn't have time for introductions. If you want to know my name, check the roof."

Lying in her bed, she spoke those words to herself, once more, as she had done so many nights since.

"I'm gonna have you," she whispered intensely, her fingers working hard between her thighs, the memory juicing her up so sweetly, so perfectly. "You're mine."

She thought again about that ferocious, stolen kiss, the way his lips had been hard at first but with a hint of yield, the potential of voracity. What if he'd trapped her in his arms? What if he'd laid her down in the woods and covered her body with his muscular, uniformed length? What if he'd held her down and taken her, possessed her, made her belong in a way she had never felt before?

She came, sighing with a strange pleasurable regret, thinking Adam, Adam, Adam.

Before she drifted into her dawn sleep, though, the bad thoughts, the reality of it came back. He wanted an arrest that was all, a bit of revenge for his hurt pride and testicles. And she would end up where everyone had always said she would. Where she really belonged.

* * * *

Police Constable Adam Lydgate contemplated his reflection in the locker-room mirror.

He looked tired. Hardly surprising, since it was six o'clock in the morning, and he'd just come off a back-to-back shift. He pulled down his lower eyelids with his forefingers, dismayed at the red rims. He was pale as milk, and his blond crop, usually so neat, needed a wash and a comb.

He looked over to the door, nodding at the duty sergeant as he came in to get changed for his morning shift at the custody desk.

"Long night, Adam?"

"Long day, then long night," said Adam laconically, unknotting his tie.

"Aww, and you were so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when you joined us. Job getting you down?"

"Nah." Adam rolled up the tie, put it in the locker then got to work unbuttoning his once-crisp white shirt. "Not really. It still beats working in insurance."

Sergeant Crow chuckled. "I can imagine. We need more of your kind at this nick. Later entrants, more mature."

"Oi, I'm only twenty-eight." Adam shrugged off the shirt, frowning at his abdomen. Flat as it was, he thought he spotted a fraction of flab. He'd have to get back on the rowing machine tomorrow.

"I'm not saying you're past it, mate. Just, a little bit of life experience goes a long way."

Does it really? thought Adam wryly. Then why am I obsessing like a teenager over that little vandal, Layla?

"Don't suppose you managed to collar your mysterious lady of the night, did you?" asked Sergeant Crow lightly, as if he'd read Adam's thoughts.

"She got up Carrington Point tonight!"

"And she got down again, I take it?"

Adam sighed, stepping out of his trousers and reaching in the locker for his jeans. "She's like bloody Raffles or something. I don't know how she does it."

"Yeah, well, don't get too caught up in it. She's just a kid with a spray can, mate. Not worth all the effort you put in, in my humble opinion."

Adam buttoned his jeans, turning away from the Sergeant in case his face was giving away the whirling of his mind.

"She's not a kid," he said levelly. "Got to be twenty, twenty-one, at least." And she certainly doesn't kiss like a kid.

"Luke thinks you need to take a step back. Maybe let another copper answer the radio when she's up to her antics."

"Well, thanks to Luke for his concern, but I know what I'm doing." Adam pulled a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head so violently he almost ripped a stitch.

"I'm sure you do, mate, I'm sure you do. Forget I mentioned it."

But forgetting anything to do with Layla was a tall order for Adam, now. Even before he laced up his civvy shoes and left the locker room, he knew what would be on his mind when he eventually crawled into bed.

That small, taut body clinging to his, those lips deceiving him with their counterfeit desire, that laughing face, bright teeth against milky-coffee skin, before she waved and disappeared into the trees. These were the images that haunted his journey into sleep and sometimes even turned up in his dreams.

But what would I do if I caught her? The question interrupted the firm strokes he gave his shaft, her features materializing on his bedroom ceiling. I couldn't just grab her and do what I wanted with her. There'd be paperwork, a trip to the cells, a caution, then that would be it. I could have her prosecuted for assaulting me, and she'd hate me even more. Face it, mate, this is no more than a fantasy.

Conceding this point, he returned his attentions to his cock, enjoying, in his imagination, a less mundane version of the final arrest scene that ended, not at the custody desk, but with Layla panting up against a wall, and Adam teaching her the error of her ways with long, slow thrusts into her warm, tight cunt.

Will they, won't they? The answer is available here, at the Resplendence site, or at AllRomance.

1888 Part 15

It was not merely the dagger-sharp frost of the night that pierced Jessie's skin with coldness on the following Wednesday evening.

A chilling anticipation seemed to whiten the air around her in the Swanson's attic room. She had never met a 'gentleman caller' in a bedchamber before, and even before he had arrived, she was sensible of a jarring impropriety. Thus far, she had not had to do much more than share a meal or a box at the theatre, attend a few parties. There had been some optimistic groping hands in carriages, but nothing she could not handle with a tinkling laugh and a swat of her fan.

But he had promised hard cash; a potential income of forty sovereigns a month, over and above her earnings at the Savoy, if she would grant this gentleman her exclusivity. But what would it entail? She was not entirely sure she would be able to give her body for money, for all her brave words. She had quite shocked even her Bohemian companions on the evening she had professed to admire prostitutes for their unabashed rejection of buttoned-up bourgeois morality – but now it came down to it, she realised that she did not understand one tenth of their desperate motivation.

Over and over again, her eye followed the pattern of the wallpaper – a repetitive stripe of forget-me-nots twisted into a heart shape – until it met a round mirror, over-ornately decorated with ugly brass curlicues. She charged herself to remember that Vyvyan lay beyond that offending glass, and he would hear her scream should anything untoward be threatened. Vyvyan loved her. She was loved.

This comforting thought sustained her, until the doorknob began to turn and she found herself breathing sharply in and thrusting out her chin, wrapping her shawl tightly around her. She was not sure whether to remain seated or to stand, but the way the gentleman raised his hand when she moved indicated that she should stay in her armchair.

He was not as old as she had expected, perhaps forty to forty-five. He was tall, angular of feature, with luxuriant hair and whiskers and a waxed moustache. He was wearing an unfamiliar uniform; perhaps some foreign princeling? However, when he spoke his accent was decidedly English; his voice, though quietly pitched and low, did nothing to reassure her.

"Miss Carter? Please remain seated. Let me get a good look at your face to begin with."

Jessie's skin crawled as she was subject to an intense and unblinking scrutiny. What had she expected? Hasty words of passion? A polite request for her society? The offer of a drink? Perhaps, but certainly nothing like this….this cold and dispassionate sizing-up. She was well-used to being the object of an artistic gaze, but this was entirely different, as different as the Mona Lisa was from a fish on a slab.

"Yes," murmured the gentleman, "my man was right. You have that exact Titian shade we require. The eyes and skin are both perfect. He has done well; I shall reward him."

Jessie cleared her throat. "Ahem, excuse my curiosity, but…what do you want from me?"

The man sat down in a seat opposite and poured himself some whiskey from a decanter, failing to offer Jessie any.

"Miss Carter, I act on behalf of the Archduke Heinz-Werner of Lower Teutonia. I am his envoy and his personal secretary. While he resides in London as the guest of Her Majesty the Queen, he has need of a lady to be an…escort. Not to the great Balls and Society gatherings, you understand, but for less exalted entertainments, such as gaming houses, music halls, low-class dining establishments, he needs a vivacious and beautiful girl to accompany him. His Royal Highness has a somewhat…voracious interest in the, shall we say, underbelly of this great city. Who better than a chorus girl to show him around?"

"You want me to act as…a tour guide?"

"Of sorts." The man was running one long, pale finger around the rim of his glass, his expression guarded but ruminative.

"And that is all he wants from me? My company?"

"My master's tastes are unusual. He will probably not require you to share his bed."

"Oh, is he queer?"

The man glared at her as if she had uttered an obscenity.

"I don't mean anything disrespectful!" she gibbered fearfully. "It doesn't bother me in the slightest – why, some of my best friends are…you know, inclined towards the Greek ways…"

"He is not a homosexual," stated the intimidating man witheringly.

Oh, thought Jessie, then perhaps he is impotent? But she thought better of saying so this time.

"Indeed," said the man briskly, setting down his glass and rising to his feet so that he towered above Jessie, "he has asked that I make a thorough examination of you, should he be minded to…sample your wares."

The sneering tone of his last words caused Jessie to bristle. "I am not a low-class whore," she exclaimed. "I am clean and free of disease. And I doubt that you are a physician!"

"No, that is not what I meant. Stand up, Miss Carter."

Fighting an absurd urge to refuse, Jessie rose to her feet. Her velvet draperies swished and brushed the floor. The man seemed unimpressed with the loose fit of the sea-green fabric and curled his lip.

"Take off your clothes."

Jessie caught her breath, widening her eyes in alarm. "You mean…?"

The man made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue. "I was given to understand that you pose naked for all the impecunious art students of the city. Surely you don't suffer from false modesty?"

Jessie's cheeks flamed. She could not deny it – she had displayed her gloriously nude form in front of at least a dozen young men. Why did this seem so horribly different?

She cast her eyes around the room for a screen, but there was none. She looked up again at the man, feeling wildly disadvantaged and powerless before him. His face brooked no resistance. And forty pounds a month…

She untied the loose golden cord around her waist and stepped out of the velvet robe, then shucked the underskirts and camisole over her head until she was left in nothing but woollen pantalettes, her upper torso exposed and goose-pimpling in the draught.

"Everything," prompted the man, and Jessie bent forward to remove the final vestment, shaking her hair forward over her face in an attempt to deflect the hated watchfulness of her client. She spent longer than she needed neatening the clothes at her feet until the man snapped, "Straighten up. Look straight ahead, shoulders back, please. Feet slightly apart."

Jessie had not realised that her thighs had been clamped together for dear life until he gave the command. Reluctantly, she parted them a little and shook the hair out of her face, deliberately blurring her vision so as not to have to see the man's face.

He walked up to her slowly, his boots jingling a little as they trod the floorboards. Soon he was close enough for her to smell him; starch and coal tar soap and a hint of the whiskey he had just drunk. And metal. Cold steel. Looking swiftly down, she noted with alarm that he carried a sword. How had she not noticed that before? His face and form were so mesmeric taken as a whole that one missed the details.

Now he was circling her, three times, excruciatingly slowly until he halted behind her. She flinched slightly, feeling warm breath on her shoulder, then he had taken a handful of her hair and was running fingers through it as if it were material at the dressmakers. He twisted it and pinned it at the top of her head, one finger returning to trace a slow line down the nape of her neck until it rested between her shoulder blades.

"Now we can see properly," he breathed, then he was back in front of her and she yelped when he forced her chin up higher. "Look at me," he hissed. "We aren't looking for some coy ingenue, Miss Carter. We want a bold girl, a girl who can look us in the eye."

Jessie was bemused by the plural – was she to be shared? – but the thought flew out of her mind when his other hand descended to her right breast and took a good squeeze.

She gasped. "That….hurts!"

He shook his head, tutting, and took the other, holding them both as if weighing them, then tracing their outline as if he were a corsetière estimating their size. Jessie continued to look up at the fuzzy cornicing, trying her hardest to imagine herself elsewhere, but this was difficult when a strange and frightening man was pinching and flicking at your erect nipples with the tip of a thumbnail.

"Yes," he said. "Very nice. Good hips too – on the boyish side but none the worse for it. And as for your arse…"

Jessie was scandalised – such language from a gentleman! – and even more so when he returned to her rear and took both bottom cheeks in his hands, kneading them a little before spreading them apart and massaging the inner sides. "A good handful, my dear. Now, for the last part of our inspection, I think it best if you return to your chair."

He pointed with a finger – a finger that had touched her intimately enough already – and she subsided back into the chintz armchair she had recently vacated. Her nipples were throbbing and her face still flooded with mortification, but she laid her head back on the antimacassar and awaited the next instruction.

"Spread your legs wide apart and place each of your feet on the arms of the chair."

Jessie bit her lip – this would leave her completely open to his prying eyes, in a position she had never had to adopt for her artist friends. All the same, she swallowed down her shame and fear and lifted both legs until her heels rested either side of her ears.

The man came to stand between them, staring down at the display for eternal seconds, even minutes, without so much as a flicker of animation crossing his countenance. Then he bent towards the stretched lips of her sex and slowly ran a finger around their outer edge. The circuit was langourous and tormenting, even more so when the finger slipped closer to her centre, its touch phantom-light and yet completely unignorable. Jessie squirmed in her seat, suddenly and shockingly aware of arousal. This man was so clinical, so exacting and yet…his touch was exquisite. Was it the control, the discipline that her ardent boyish lovers lacked? He seemed almost unmoved by the contact, and yet it was making her embarrassingly wet.

His close study ended with a faint but devastating brush against her clitoris, and she bucked forward against her will and judgement, as if her body begged for more without the permission of her head.

"Oh?" he near-whispered, placing his head quizzically on one side. She responded with an animal whimper. "I think we shall have some sport with you, Miss Jessie Carter. Of course, you aren't a virgin." Without any warning, he thrust two fingers sharply up inside her. She squealed, then remembered Vyvyan next door, and tried her hardest to muffle the sound. "You are terribly wet, Miss Carter," he informed her. "Do you find this arousing?" He began to work a third finger inside, then he commenced a languid in-and-out movement which Jessie tried her hardest to speed up by pushing her bottom up to meet the intruding digits. "It seems you do." His other hand returned to her saturated spread, stroking it with more earnest intent this time. "You enjoy being exposed and stripped bare, do you? You like to have your breasts pinched and your arse squeezed and your cunny fingered by a complete stranger, do you? You like the shame, the humiliation of it, do you? Oh, he is going to love you, you filthy little treasure…take it now!" With a final scissoring plunge into her depths, the man's fingers flung Jessie into howling completion, her head tossing and her bottom rubbing furiously against a rather scratchy cushion.

She was still panting, exhausted and aghast at herself, when Vyvyan bolted into the room, his face pale and agitated. "What is he doing to you….oh."

He stopped dead and watched the gentleman unhurriedly putting on a pair of white dress gloves.

"And who the devil, may I ask, are you?"

Jessie was shaking her head and grimacing violently, so Vyvyan coughed and apologised. "Sorry…just took the room next door and thought a lady might have been….hurt…"

"You are quite wrong. Now please get out."

"I'm sorry." Vyvyan, his eyes troubled, backed away from the scene, banging the door behind him.

"I shall be in touch, Miss Carter. Please do not take any future commissions from anyone other than the Archduke, if you please. Oh, and Miss Carter…"

He paused in adjusting his sword belt and stared fiercely at the dishevelled naked Venus before him.

"Discretion is completely of the essence. You must not divulge the name of your client to any living soul. Do you understand."

"Yes," she panted. "I understand."

The man left the room and Jessie gave herself up to tears of release. She could not account for what had just happened, nor did she know if Vyvyan could forgive or forget what he had seen.

Try To Comprehend That Which You'll Never Comprehend

Today I welcome a lady who aims to thrill you – the delightful Mindy MacKay. Take it away, Mindy!

Hi there, everyone! Well, as you've probably figured by now, I'm Mindy MacKay, author of Fallen from Disgrace, here for the Noble Blog Tour, here to give my two cents on Justine's theme of music. So, let's talk music!

People who know me personally know that music is one of my various obsessions, and a rather large one at that. Ordinarily, I've got entire playlists for my novels and works in progress. Fallen was a special case, though. Despite the libraries upon libraries of music on my computer, I could only find one theme song in particular that seemed to fit.

The title of this post is a lyric from the song. It's called Bleed Like Me, by Garbage. I played it on repeat quite a few times during the editing process, and I feel it captures the feel of Fallen perfectly. The song is essentially about a bunch of misunderstood people who sublimate their problems in different, and in some cases, destructive, ways–anyone who's listened carefully to the lyrics will recognize references to Avalanche's eating disorder, the self-injurious Doodle, and JT's alcoholism. Try to comprehend that which you'll never comprehend is an appeal to the listener, and above all a call not to judge. That's exactly the attitude I was trying to get across when I first conceived Fallen.

Don't get me wrong. My protagonist, Rosella, (I don't use the word heroine here because she doesn't have a heroic bone in her body), gets closer to irredeemable than any other character I've ever written. The thing about her characterization, though, is her monstrosity is mostly due to society's alienation. All it takes to turn her around is for someone to try to comprehend. In essence, I've spent 50k+ words attempting to humanize the seemingly inhuman, and hopefully I've done a decent job.

Well, that's my timeslot for today. Drop by, Youtube the song and share your thoughts about the composition, and thanks so much to Justine for having me!

Thank you for coming, Mindy – I love a bit of Garbage too and the book sounds fascinating – I'm always interested in an anti-heroine.

Now push that button and find me…I'm waiting for that special poster to give a $20 AllRomance voucher to!

My Cherie Amour

She's here, she's super and she's sexy – please welcome the Naughty Novelist herself, Ms Cherie de Sues.

Chérie De Sues is a "critically acclaimed" and "award winning" author of thrillers, paranormal and contemporary suspense romances from sensual to sizzling heat levels. When Chérie takes a break from writing novels, you can find her at book signings, online, or traveling to research her next novel. She shares her home in San Diego, California, with her Irish terrier, Reilly.

 

 

Welcome to the blog – can you tell me a little bit about how you came to be a Noble author?

 

Thanks for the invitation, I'm excited to be here. I became a Noble author rather quickly with my first novel. I sent out "Tales of the Red Moon Clan", a paranormal suspense, to 4 publishers I respected. Jill Noble got back to me quickly with a contract and 2-6 weeks later, the other 3 publishers wanted to publish the novel. Noble had "Tales of the Red Moon Clan" in eBook format before 2 of the publishers sent their emails. What a great program Noble has for authors. I really enjoy working with Jill and the staff.

 

My theme for 2011 is music. Is music important to you in your life and your writing?

 

I think music is capable of changing my mood, influencing my writing and giving me perspective on my life. I'm a watercolor artist, a writer and I play the drums. I hear rhythms and beats in nature, when people walk, or the ocean as it comes to the shore. I would say music is definitely important in my life.

 

Do you have a song that sums up the situation or relationships of any of your characters?

 

"Tales of the Red Moon Clan" is about a Navajo shapeshifting bounty hunter and an assistant DA out of Portland, Oregon. They are on a run for their lives through the forest and on a raging river. The music for the book video trailer fit the characters perfectly. See for yourself.

 

 

 

Do you listen to music while you write? Or have you ever been inspired by a piece of music to write a story? What songs get you in a sexy mood?

 

I do listen to music on occasion when I write, but find that silence allows my mind to stay connected to the story I'm creating. Music has definitely inspired my stories, just as my dreams have as well. I'm a creative person and need an outlet to express that part of me. Sometimes I use art when I'm thinking about characters, and plots. I listen to all types of music from classic rock to jazz and new age.

 

What songs do you consider especially romantic?

 

That depends on the man and my mood. The Gypsy Kings have inspired me and so has Candy Dulfer's saxophone on her CD, "Saxuality". If I want to write an especially sexy part of my novels, I'll light candles, drink wine and listen to Parisian Café music or some tunes from the Germany's well-known Love Parade…very sexy.

 

Thank you for those terrific answers, Cherie – I must agree with you about the excellent response times at Noble,  something that really puts them a step ahead.  And now I'm itching to find out about your latest release.

The Seduction of Simone by Cherie de Sues

Simone Devereaux has inherited an estate on the Northern California coast after her Aunt Celeste meets with a sudden, mysterious death. The hot neighbor, Trent Grayson, insists Celeste was murdered, and wants to be more than the man-next-door. When clients arrive to pose for their nude portraits over the weekend, Simone realizes she's inherited more than an estate. Two randy poltergeists enter her dreams for a lusty ménage, and a budding serial killer threatens her sanity.

Now her Wiccan mother and gypsy father are coming for a visit, just in time to watch Simone lose her heart . . . and possibly her life.

 

Here's an excerpt:

 

She climbed the spotless carpeted steps toward the master bedroom. Creaks from the old, wooden stairs brought back pleasant memories of playing cat and mouse with cousins. Weekends with Aunt Celeste had always been a great adventure, especially when she pulled out the tarot cards and read Simone's palm by firelight.

Celeste had encouraged her to read tarot and became enthusiastic with her attempts. Her aunt believed she could be a natural and someday would read true from the gypsy blood coursing in her veins.

As she neared the top of the stairs, a deep growl made her stop in rigid fear. She gripped the banister as she quickly looked down the stairs for a dog.

Nothing.

She frowned, looked at the landing above and caught sight of two large, marble gargoyles. Simone's gaze flicked from one to the other, then she whispered a protection charm. When the low growl stopped, she moved slowly up the remaining stairs.

The gargoyle sentinels were new since her last visit. Why would Celeste need to guard her home so fiercely with gypsy magic? As Simone turned left toward the master bedroom, she shook her head at the amazing ability her aunt possessed to conjure such a powerful protection spell.

The question of why Celeste needed so much magic nagged at her as she walked down the long hallway. Her gaze followed the walls, lined with mirrors and portraits of long-dead family members. Celeste had a talent for drawing out the essence of a person's character in her art. The skill had been another similarity they shared, but her own journey never included painting portraits of ancestors.

At the end of the hallway, Simone stopped at a closed door and laid a hand on the glass doorknob. As she turned the handle, an unexpected pressure-change occurred and frigid air burst past her into the hall. Blinking at the chill on her face, she entered the bedroom. The presence of her aunt filled her senses.

Familiar scents, wall hangings and Celeste's favorite colors of rose and cream were everywhere. Simone crossed the room, pulled back the heavy drapes and found an open window. Whoever had cleaned must have left the window open for fresh air before the storm hit.

Drops of rain on the windows warned her that the storm out at sea would come toward the estate. The odor of uprooted seaweed lying on the wet sand below floated up on the tiny droplets of sea spray. The turbulence of the ocean farther out would do more damage before the day ended.

She ran her fingers along the wet edge of the windowsill, looking for the crank. The stiff, metal handle complained loudly from rust.

Satisfied the room would now warm up, Simone turned to assess the furniture. The bedroom looked spacious, regardless of the antiques from her great grandparents. The hand-carved, four-poster bed had always been her favorite piece. The polished wood had a bright sheen, and ever since she was a child, it had reminded her of princesses in fairy tales.

The king-sized bed rose high from the ground, with three steps to reach the mattress. The light-rose bedspread and canopy coverings were subtle and feminine. Simone ran her fingers across the silk material and purred. Her hand-me-down stuff in the Jeep would never pass muster in this room. Maybe she could use her cotton sheets in one of the spare bedrooms downstairs.

"Aunt Celeste, I can feel you in here. I miss you." Her heartfelt words didn't travel far and almost seemed absorbed by the room.

Simone sighed and took in the large armoire, perfect for hanging delicate clothing. The two matching dressers, designed for a married couple, were bookends to a wide, gold-framed, full-length mirror—an identical match to the one in the library. Simone rubbed at the prickly hairs standing up on her neck, feeling eyes, once again, watching her. She chewed her lip and turned on the old, Victorian lamps on either side of the bed. She didn't want to run into anything tonight when she moved her things inside.

The house would also be cold. Simone stepped over to the fireplace against the wall. She crouched to make sure the flue would open then closed it again. She should be grateful Cavendish had arranged for logs and matches for her first night. She had no idea if there were any other methods to heat the estate. There didn't seem to be thermostats in any of the rooms. She'd need to ask Cavendish tomorrow; he might know of the earth-friendly heating method her aunt preferred.

At least she'd have a hot bath. Celeste had bragged in one of her last letters that she'd remodeled the bathroom into a spa and enlarged the closet space. With a deep breath of anticipation, Simone walked inside the bathroom and spun around with a grin.

"Hot damn."

The room looked outrageous. A sunken spa ready for four people, hand-painted, Italian floor tiles and a double sink with cabinet space galore. Simone cooed at the window next to the spa, that looked out to sea. In her opinion the breathtaking view cried out for lovers and candlelight. Her gaze traveled to the ledge around the spa and found oils, bubbles and candles already in place.

Celeste's libido obviously hadn't been suffering. Who had she been entertaining? With a satisfied smile, Simone backed out of the room in hunt of the closet. The door lay open. She switched on the internal light and inhaled a rush of air at the sheer size of the space. As big as a small bedroom, the closet had more hanging space, shelves and drawers than she'd need in a lifetime.

Simone appreciated that Cavendish had the cleaning staff empty the closet and chest of drawers. Having those items stored away in the basement gave her the chance to go through Celeste's things later. The task would be too hard until she finished moving in and made the house her home.

She turned off the light and came out of the room quickly, right into the arms of a tall, muscular man. Shocked, she pushed against tight abs and strong arms, which seemed determined to keep her imprisoned.

"Let go!" Her heart pounded from an injection of adrenaline.

The stranger relaxed his hold and tilted her back from him.

Green eyes framed by dark lashes stared down at her with a curious expression and the twinkle of a smile. Simone roughly pulled away and stumbled back in fear.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Her voice projected anger as she edged to the side, hoping to make a run for the bedroom door.

The ruggedly handsome intruder stepped agilely to the side to let her pass. "Sorry, I knocked and called out, then heard noise upstairs." He put his hand out in greeting. "I'm Trent Grayson, and I'd say you're family of Celeste's?"

His smile and easy charm seemed harmless enough, if she didn't count his impressive physical attributes. He had to be six-two easy.

"Yes, I'm Simone Devereux, Celeste's niece; I'm moving in today."

Her hands fisted, and she tried not to be lulled into believing the man could be safe, just because he looked gorgeous. Simone watched his eyes widen, as if her words had leveled a great blow.

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