Marsha Canham's Blog, page 10

Vanity Press vs Self Publishing vs Print Publishing

Everyone knows it's hard to break old habits. Ask any smoker. Ask anyone who was raised in the 50′s why they cringe when a six year old comes up and says "Hi Marsha!".  I was taught that all adults are addressed as Mr. and Mrs. It was a matter of respect, plain and simple. The newer generation thinks of that as being old fashioned, but since when is respect old fashioned? I've stayed in touch, over the many years, with neighbours who were good friends with my parents back when I was a kid.  They were always Mr. and Mrs Solarski to me, and to this day, even though they've told me a bazillion times to address them by their first names, they are still Mr. and Mrs Solarski to me. My tongue would fall out of my head if I ever said "Hi Stan!"

Okay so how does this relate to Vanity Press? Simple. All the years I was being published in print, there was a distinct trend to turn up ones nose at authors who could not get a contract with a publisher and went the route of having their book printed themselves. There were stories of writers with garages full of unsold books because, of course, book stores and major distributors like K-mart etc wouldn't take those self published books. It was costly as well, not like the print on demand books we have now. Then you had to commit to the press printing X number of copies and you had to pay up front for the whole lot.  Very very very rarely were these "vanity press" books ever noticed by a publisher who then waved a *real* contract at the author and agreed to publish the book mainstream.  For most, they had to pretty well had to sell the entire inventory in order to make any money, which meant a lot of slogging around visiting bookstores (mostly independent booksellers who, coincidentally, also began vanishing as the Big Boys like Borders and Chapters and Waldenbooks began to flourish), sending out letters (no email back then), making phone calls etc etc etc. The failures far outnumbered the successes and I'm betting there are still garages full of unsold, cheaply printed books out there gathering dust and mites.

These days, it's all changed. An author who can't, or doesn't want to go the traditional route through a publishing house, now has the option of publishing the book herself through distributors like Amazon and Smashwords and Barnes and Noble.  The Ebook has come into its own, shaking up the traditional publishing houses as much as it's shaken up the huge bookstore chains, (bye bye Borders) the distributors, the industry on a whole. Amazon has emerged as the new Goliath, opening its doors to authors, giving them an alternative to contracts that tie the rights for a book up for decades, to royalties that don't even meet the bare minimum wage, to the deeply ingrained belief that to be a *real* author, you have to be published in print.

Ballocks.

Most self published authors these days have seen the light. They've seen the monthly paycheckes that come as regular as clockwork and earn them 70% royalties on every sale. They scoff at the old system of being paid an 8% pittance twice a year and speak boldly of this new revolution. Authors like myself who had books that had gone out of print saw a whole new generation of readers willing and eager to read their backlist…books that were big and bold and lusty that had gone out of style with all the cutbacks and editorial controls imposed by publishers in the past decade. They discovered the freedom to write and publish what they wanted, not what some suit inNew Yorkdeemed to be the next hot trend.

That was why I was so surprised a few weeks back to see a discussion on a chat room board about agents and publishers.  These same new wave indie authors were swarming like flies around an agent I had never heard of, eager to sign with him, eager to give up 15% of their earnings…for what? For the miniscule chance they might be picked up by a publishing house and offered a print contract?

It was apparent to me that old habits die harder than I thought.  Some of these indie authors, who months ago strode boldly into the new world of self-publishing and lauded their bravery and success… still think *real* success means having a book on a store shelf. They still think it *validates* them as an author to have an agent, to sign contracts that will tie up the rights to those books for years into the foreseeable future, and for what? 8% on print, 25% on ebook sales?

Self publishing is no longer considered vanity press.  It's practical, it's profitable, it offers complete freedom to writers as well as readers who are tired of the same old same old cookie cutter books that follow the current *trend* dictated by that suit  in New York. It also gives the author total control over everything from the content to the cover, to how long the book can remain in distribution. With a click of a key that book can come down off Amazon or Smashwords or Barnes and Noble. Try that with a print book. *snort* The same wave that brought ebooks and indie publishing surging over the stodgy world of print publishing also woke authors up to the hell and angst of having to fight, beg, plead, and cajole to get the rights back to books that hadn't been in print for ten years or more. Print contracts come with clauses that grant the publisher exclusive rights to that book for as long as the book is on sale somewhere on the planet.  What that means is that a book that has been languishing in print for years, and is still available through Amazon—and I'll use myself as an example—such as The Pride of Lions, only has to meet the bare minimum of copies sold required by the contract for Dell to retain the rights. The bare minimum in PoL's case was 300 copies in a 12 month period.

Let me say that again.  300 copies sold over a 12 month period. Royalties on that? Less than a thousand dollars, from which I still had to deduct the agent's 15%.

The book was originally printed in 1988 by a company that went bankrupt, so not much of a ripple made there. The advance was 10 thousand, which was never earned out…meaning I never saw another penny over and above the 10K. The second issue was through Dell in 1997—to the mathematically challenged, like myself, that was 14 years ago.  I made that sale on my own, without going through my agent, who had told me "it's an old book, no publisher is going to print an old book".  Okay. Right. He didn't take into account the brazen hussy part of my character that badgered my editor until she crumbled and said yes, okay, we'll reprint POL and Blood of Roses! The advance was 25K, because it was a reissue, and it did earn out within about 6 years and sold consistently for another few years but after that it fell off to just a trickle, and in the last two years, barely met the 300 minimum.

Along came the Kindle, the  iPad, the Nook, and the ebook revolution. A few of us were quick to climb on the wave and quicker to see where it was heading. Quick enough to dash off letters to publishers asking innocently for the return of rights to our backlist books. When I attempted to get my agent to do the dirty work for me, thinking it might expedite the process, the answer I got was:  "Why would you want the rights back? Even selling a few copies a year is better than nothing."

Duh.

End of agent.

So I had to do it myself. One of my books was selling an abysmal 35 copies in a 12 month period, but the publisher still held the rights because…hello…they don't voluntarily give them back. The author has to put the request in writing, the request has to go through the proper channels which could take upwards of nine months.  All for a book that sold 35 copies in 12 months.

I dashed off letters to Dell and to NAL, the two publishers who held the rights to my backlist. The Dell letter was aimed at two of the lowest selling books, but at the last minute, I added the titles of all but the three Scotland books which had shown a slight increase in sales for the 6 months prior to my request (due to ebook sales, I would later discover) so I didn't think I had a chance of getting those rights back.  I was lucky. I got back the rights to all the books I asked for, including the two from NAL and one from Harlequin—which, as any Harlequin author knows is like pulling teeth from an alligator.

Within a few weeks of getting those rights back, I had done some light revisions (another benefit of self-pubbing) made covers, formatted them and reissued them myself as ebooks on Amazon and Smashwords, joining dozens of other authors who had backlist books and were discovering this exciting new venue to reach a whole new generation of readers.

The past year, since I first dipped a toe in the water with the ebook edition of China Rose, those dozens have become hundreds. The old adage  "if it looks too good to be true it probably isn't"  doesn't hold true, for once. Amazon promises 70% royalties and it delivers. Amazon lets the author set the price, lets the author design the cover, lets the author decide if the book stays up for sale or comes down, thus giving us complete control of content and rights.

So why do some of these indie authors…ones who have already seen a measure of success selling through Amazon (and I'm talking thousands of copies) why would they actively seek out an agent (who will deduct 15% from all sales) or a contract with a print publisher (who, if they're lucky, will offer a 5K advance against 8% royalties on print editions and 25% on ebooks, and tie up the rights for years into the future)?

Beats the hell out of me.

Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with wanting to see your book in print, nothing wrong with aiming for the NY Times Bestseller list, nothing wrong with wanting to walk into a bookstore and see the shelves loaded down with your books.

The chances of that happening for an unknown, untried author is slim to none. Selling five thousand ebooks at $2.99 does not translate into selling five thousand paperbacks at $10.99 or five thousand hardcover books at $25.99. I broke down the royalty numbers in another blog so I won't do it here again, but you can easily do the math. 5K at 70% of $2.99 vs 5K at 8% of $10.99 minus 15% for the agent.

Self publishing is NOT vanity press. Self publishing is smart, clever, practical, and profitable. I suspect it's the publishers and out of work agents who are trying to maintain the appearance of offering *validation* for an author.

Dear readers, I was *validated* 25 years ago and I would not go back to print publishing. The book I am working on now—happily so, having been told by a print publisher that it was unsellable because no one buys high seas adventure stories anymore—will be going directly to ebook, as will anything and everything I write in the future.

I validate myself.

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Sample Sunday, guest blogger Cynthia Wright

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I'm back from Florida…to cold, rain, and wind. Blah. Not unpacked yet, probably won't do that for a couple of days *snort* and I have 121 recorded TV shows to catch up on.  However, Sample Sunday is alive and well and my guest blogger for today is Cynthia Wright with a cool excerpt to follow.  Enjoy!

Hi everyone!

How fun to be here on Marsha's blog, which I enjoy reading so much.  (Thanks for having me here, Marsha!)  Many of you may remember me from a few years back – I wrote 13 historical romances for Ballantine Books, including CAROLINE and SILVER

STORM.  I'm having a ball bringing them back as eBooks and reconnecting with readers!

I'm going to share YOU & NO OTHER, my latest e-book release.  It's set in enchanted Renaissance France and

stars one of my very favorite couples – in fact, readers tell me that St. Briac is their favorite historical romance hero!

I love this book and am delighted that it's back, all freshened up with a fabulous new cover.  If you like a hero

with a twinkle in his eye and an ability to face life with humor, you'll love YOU & NO OTHER.

The book opens in 1526, as King Francois I is

returning to France after a year's imprisonment by Emperor

Charles V.  One of the many people

waiting for him is his childhood friend and favorite knight, Thomas Mardouet,

seigneur de St. Briac.

They go off with the rest of the court to the king's hunting lodge in the

forests of Nieui where this excerpt begins, as free-spirited Aimee de Fleurance

is resting in the grass and reading poetry…

Less

than a quarter hour passed, during which the only sounds were her bites of

crisp bread. Thus, when other distant noises reached Aimée's ears, she paused

to listen. From deep in the woods the crashing drew nearer, until suddenly a

magnificent stag vaulted in a high arc across the clearing. Pieces of parchment

and cheese scattered as Aimée scrambled to her feet in alarm, just in time to

avoid being run down by a half dozen barking hounds that thundered through the

clearing in pursuit of the stag. Horrified to realize that someone meant to kill

one of the most splendid creatures in her woods, she didn't hesitate for a

moment when the two hunters galloped into the clearing.

"Monsieurs.

Arretez! I beg you to halt."

Somehow

the men were able to rein in their horses quickly. The nearer hunter turned in

his saddle and bowed from the waist, sweeping off a soft velvet cap with a

frothy plume.

"We

are at your service, mademoiselle. How may we assist you?"

Aimée

had been appraising the situation. Obviously, the men were not of noble birth,

since they rode without the usual accompaniment of grooms, huntsmen, and pages.

Still, the man who spoke was richly garbed in a slashed doublet and

haut-de-chausses of forest green velvet. His blue jerkin was trimmed with sable

and set with emeralds. The eyes that regarded her with a mixture of concern and

impatience were hazel, slanting upward slightly at the corners as though prone

to laughter. The man's face was hardly handsome yet arresting all the same.

Aimée thought she had never seen a nose quite so large; it grew like a pale

zucchini nearly down to the poor fellow's mouth. All the same, he gave off an

air of bold confidence.

"Did

you understand me, mademoiselle?" the hunter prompted. Glancing over at

his companion, he touched a finger to the side of his neatly bearded chin and

sighed.

"Yes,

m'sieur, I understood. I was just waiting to reply until I was certain the stag

was safely away. Pray forgive me for spoiling your sport, but I couldn't allow

you to kill him."

The

green-garbed hunter stared thunderstruck.

"You couldn't allow

me?" He swiveled in his saddle to address the other man.

"Did you hear that? Did you? This

girl couldn't allow

me to kill a stag!"

"My

friend, do not misplace your ready wit. After all, this could have been an

ordinary day like any other, but instead we have encountered a lovely wood

sprite who bravely protects the creatures in her forest." St. Briac gave

Francois a carefree grin.

"Hmm."

The king glanced back at Aimée. A burnished sunbeam poured over her gleaming

ebony curls, thick-lashed green eyes, rosy lips, and softly curving figure.

"I see your point, St. Briac. No doubt such a compassionate maiden would

offer comfort to disappointed hunters as well?"

Aimée

was flooded with relief. "Oh, yes. If only you will not be angry with

me."

The men

exchanged grins and swung down from their horses. Watching them approach, Aimée

experienced a tiny pang of apprehension. The man with the large nose was very

tall, with a strong body, yet his companion was even taller and stronger. She

regarded him closely and could scarcely believe what she saw. He was

astonishingly handsome, with crisply curling dark hair and a rakish

close-trimmed beard, dark turquoise eyes that crinkled with humor, sculpted

cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and a compelling smile. He wore a simple

yet rich doublet and snug breeches of gray velvet set off by ivory linen

revealed through the slashings. His hunting boots were of the finest leather.

Suddenly

Aimée realized that she had been staring, and she looked quickly toward the other

man. "I will be glad to provide what comfort I can, m'sieur, but I fear

that all I have to offer is some wine, bread, and cheese… and the soft green

grass upon which you may relax."

The

king turned to St. Briac. "My friend, I put this situation in your

hands," he murmured evenly.

"You

are too kind," came the ironic reply. For a long moment he regarded the

enchanting girl, wondering what her game might be. It was obvious that she was

of simple birth and surely old enough to have mated, probably married. Was it

for gold that she teased them? "I suggest that we sample the wine and

cheese and explore this matter further."

Uneasily,

Aimée wondered at the man's air of mischief. She watched the two men settle

themselves in the grove of birch and then brought them her basket. When she

bent over, two pairs of male eyes burned the creamy swell of her bosom, sending

a hot flush through Aimée's cheeks. Something was wrong.

"I

apologize for the simplicity of these refreshments," she murmured. "I

hope you will not object to sharing a cup."

Francois

could barely conceal his distaste. Watching her fill the pewter cup with what

was doubtless some sour peasant wine, he thought longingly of the elaborate

repast that waited for him at his hunting lodge. St. Briac appeared to be

amused by this ridiculous farce, yet the girl hardly seemed on the verge of

shedding her dress so that the three of them might frolic together, and he

would never resort to force.

Aimée

had reluctantly taken the place indicated by the handsome man and now found

herself bracketed by two pairs of wide shoulders. By the time the food and wine

were gone, she was feelng anxious.

"You

seem nervous, my sweet," the long-nosed man remarked with what sounded

like impatience. "Don't you like men?"

"I—"

She swallowed. "I suppose that some men are rather agreeable."

The

king raised his eyes to meet St. Briac's over her head. Thomas realized that

bolder measures were called for. "What about the king? Surely you have

heard that he is delivered from his captivity in Spain?

What would you think were your path to cross his?"

At last

a topic of conversation that Aimée could sink her teeth into! "I have no

use for the king! I understand that his charm is great, but I have seen so many

poor, suffering people that I can feel only disdain for a monarch who could

waste so much time on extravagant, frivolous pursuits."

St.

Briac had gone pale under his tan, and Francois could only gape. Fearing for

the foolish girl's life, St. Briac made a valiant attempt to smooth things

over. "Are you not aware that our king has spent many years at war? His

courage is legendary. In fact, he was in the thick of battle at Pavia

when taken prisoner."

Aimée

rolled her eyes and made a gesture of dismissal with one pretty hand. "His

involvement of France

in these silly wars is proof of our king's childish male vanity. Why does he

not concentrate on improving the lot of his own country instead of always

attempting to take someone else's away? The poor man's character is obviously

hopelessly shallow."

Francois

had begun to cough and then choke, and Aimée turned worried eyes on him.

"Oh, dear. Are you all right?"

When he

could breathe again, the king said hoarsely, "That will teach me to eat

the stale bread of a peasant wench!"

She

straightened slim shoulders. "I

beg your pardon, m'sieur!"

St.

Briac was torn between amusement at this scene and concern for what it might

lead to. Fortunately, he was spared further involvement by the far-off sound of

his huntsman's horn. "There's Perot, my friend! Let's be away to join the

others."

The

king was already rising. "No, no, St. Briac. I insist that you remain and

accept all the comfort from this charming wood sprite. I for one have had my

fill." He gave them both a terse bow, mounted his horse, and galloped off

through the woods.

Cringing,

Thomas lay back in the lush grass, closed his eyes, and then let the laughter

rise irrepressibly in his chest.

"Your

friend's behavior was quite odd," Aimée observed. She reached for the

basket and began to replace flask, cup, and linen serviette. "Has he some

special regard for the king?"

"You

might say that." The smile that curved St. Briac's mouth was at once that

of a devil and a little boy. Slowly he began to laugh, remembering all that had

happened.

Aimée

looked on in consternation. Obviously both men had been lost in the woods for

too long. Still, she couldn't deny that this tall fellow stirred confusing

feelings within her, feelings she had believed to exist only in poetry or in

her sister's romantic fantasies. She stared at him. The thick gray velvet of

his doublet was tailored so that it stretched taut across his broad shoulders,

strong tapering chest, and flat belly as he continued to lie back in the grass,

helpless with laughter. Finally he raised one hand to brush tears from his

sparkling eyes and sought to regain some composure. Aimée noticed that his

fingers were long, clean, and aristocratic yet sun-darkened like those of a

peasant who had no use for gloves. Glancing over, she discovered that he was

watching her. Curiosity mixed with humor in his gaze.

"I

apologize, mademoiselle," St. Briac said softly. "You must think that

my friend and I are quite mad."

"The

idea has occurred to me," she admitted. When he chuckled again, she

couldn't help smiling in response. The man exuded something much more potent

than charm. "Why were you laughing so? Don't you share the regard your

large-nosed companion feels for our monarch?"

St.

Briac stared in delight and then put a hand over his eyes and shook his head in

an effort to contain his mirth. "Large-nosed companion?" he echoed.

"My little wood sprite, you are wonderful. Tell me your name."

"I

am Aimée de Fleurance, m'sieur."

"It

is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Aimée. To answer your question,

I do in truth feel real affection and respect for King Francois, but at the

same time I see the truth in much of what you said." He found himself

fascinated by this piquant, outrageous girl and couldn't help wondering whether

he had fallen from his horse and was dreaming this entire episode. Never had

St. Briac seen eyes as green as the spring leaves or such thick, feathery black

lashes. Her eyebrows arched delicately, betraying a quick intelligence, yet the

minx was spellbindingly feminine. Flushed cheeks bespoke her awareness of him

as a man.

Aimée

dropped her eyes under St. Briac's open regard. When he lifted her chin with a

long finger, she shivered.

"You

are very lovely, mademoiselle," he murmured. He was seized with a longing

to hold her in his arms in the fragrant grass, to taste her sweet mouth and

creamy skin.

Aimée

felt chilled and then burningly hot. Frightened, she drew back, her eyes wide

as a fawn's. "I, I—" In horror, she realized that the peaks of her

breasts were outlined against her thin bodice and that St. Briac's eyes were on

them like a brand. "I have to be getting home. I'm quite late as it

is."

He

realized then that Aimée was completely innocent; they had misjudged her.

Sighing, he helped her rise.

"Merci,"

Aimée whispered. "Again, I am sorry about the stag, at least I am sorry if

I spoiled the afternoon for you and your companion. Also, I would appreciate it

if you would convey my regrets to him. I did not realize that my opinion of our

king would upset the poor man so."

St.

Briac grinned again, his eyes crinkling. "Think nothing of it. My

large-nosed friend is oversensitive."

"Well, adieu," she said primly, and

extended delicate fingers. They were lost in his strong, dark hand.

"Mademoiselle

de Fleurance, I beg you grant me one favor before you leave." St. Briac's

eyes were soft, melting her resistance. "I never met a wood sprite before

today, and I crave a kiss to remember her by."

She

opened her mouth but could summon neither words nor breath. Gently, the man was

drawing her into his embrace. For a moment he held her against his chest, one

hand caressing her small back as if to soothe her fears. Aimée was conscious of

steely muscles against her cheek but also of warmth. A faint, pleasantly

masculine scent assailed her senses from the velvet doublet, and she heard the

slow thump of his heart.

"Fear

not, miette," St.

Briac whispered, tilting her chin up so that he could search her wide

leaf-green eyes. When his lips touched her own, Aimée thought wonderingly that

they too were hard yet warm, but then she forgot all else as his arms

tightened, crushing her breasts against him, and his mouth slanted over hers. A

wave of delicious sensations broke over her body. His lips had parted,

demanding that she reply, and she tasted his tongue. She was shocked yet

exhilarated. One of his arms encircled her waist like a steel band, while his

free hand slid into her glossy curls. Through her simple frock and petticoat

she was suddenly aware of something rigid pressing against the unfamiliar ache

between her thighs.

A horse

whinnied and stamped behind them, followed by an exasperated voice. "God's teeth! It would seem that I

cannot leave you alone for a moment."

Aimée

broke free and whirled around to glimpse a small, thin man with white hair. He

was clad all in black and sat astride a restless dappled horse. Humiliated and

confused, she instantly scrambled across the clearing to snatch up her basket;

then she lifted her skirts and disappeared into the woods without a backward

glance.

St.

Briac stared after her and then pivoted to confront his manservant.

"Gaspard, you fat wit! When will you learn some manners? Have you no sense

at all?"

"More

than you, I think," Gaspard LeFait replied calmly. "The king will

have your head for consorting with a treasonous female if you are not at the hunting

lodge in time to dress for tonight's festivities."

St.

Briac grimaced. "The maiden is no traitor. She didn't realize she spoke to

the king himself." Remembering, he tried to repress a smile. "Has the

king told everyone what happened?"

"No,

he's far too embarrassed. He related the story of your lost stag to the rest of

the hunting party, but only I heard of the insults that chit heaped upon his

royal head." Gaspard's lips twitched. "When you didn't follow him

immediately, he bade me save you from the madwoman."

Swinging

into his saddle, St. Briac gave a snort of wry laughter. "More likely he

was imagining what he was missing."

Before

turning Sebastien in the direction of the hunting lodge, he glanced once more at the empty

clearing and felt a surprising pang of regret.

 

I hope

you'll visit my website/blog at http://cynthia-wright.com/  I did a special post about the story behind

YOU & NO OTHER, with photos of my research trip inFrance.

And I'd

love to see you on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/cynthiawrightauthor

 

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Sample Sunday, guest blogger Susan Page Davis

First a word with regards to me being AWOL from pithy posts and tangient thoughts and just plain fun blogs about irreverent stuffs.  I'm on vacation and dealing with a laptop, which drives me so bonkers I only use it when absolutely necessary. Besides that, there's sun and beach, good friends, good food, sun…did I mention beach? So if I've been a little tardy flooding the airwaves with shameless self promotion *snort* be assured it will resume again after the 14th *G* For now, however, please enjoy the sample sent in by this weeks guest blogger…

Inside Story, by Susan Page Davis

 Hi, everyone!  Marsha, thanks for having me in as your guest.

I'm Susan Page Davis, author of thirty-six novels and novellas. I write in various genres—historical romance, mystery, romantic suspense. I've even got a couple of young adult books. The one thing that runs through them all is a thread of faith. I believe people in difficult circumstances look most often to God for help and guidance. That's an important part of my life, so I put it in my books, in hopes my readers can relate to it.

The book we're looking at today is Inside Story, a contemporary military romance with quite a bit of action and suspense. The print version was a selection of the Crossings Book Club. In Romantic Times Book Reviews, January 2009 edition, reviewer Melissa Parcel said, "Davis has a gift for action. Stunning foreign locales combined with military intrigue make for a thrilling adventure. Davis communicates her faith message brilliantly, without being heavy-handed, and the enchanting romance fascinates." 

I hope you love Claudia's story as much as I do. Some of the characters appear in two of my other books, Frasier Island (which was a selection of Books-A-Million's Faithpoint Book Club and was nominated for Romantic Times's Reviewer's Choice Award) and Finding Marie (also a Crossings Book Club selection). Both are available as eBooks.

Here's a little bit about Inside Story:

Claudia Gillette is a prize-winning journalist at a high-profile magazine. She prides herself in her cool independence—setting schedules, traveling the globe, beating the deadline. Landing the interview with Heidi Taber, the only female in an elite U.S. Navy special operations unit, is yet another rung on her ladder of career successes.

Lieutenant Bill White is not happy about the journalist standing in front of him in the midst of the Philippine jungle. He has no time for public relations campaigns—certainly not now that their training maneuver has changed to a covert mission to rescue a well-known aerophysicist from terrorists.

As shells explode and tracer fire streaks the air, Claudia finds herself caught up in a danger she never expected…or wanted. With lives at stake, Claudia fears her presence in the unit is their greatest obstacle to survival. Will she find the strength to live through the nightmare…or has her ambition cost lives?

 

And now for an excerpt:

0615 hours, August 13, Basilan Island, Philippines

 

Bill heard the shouts behind him and stopped cold. Over Dryden's raging, he

heard the boat's engine puttering away. Claudia stood where he'd left her,

alone in the shadow of the bamboo trees. Beyond her, Stu was silhouetted

near the radio equipment staring out to sea, and Dryden marched toward the

landing place.

Squeegee and Heidi slithered out of the brush and stood beside

him.

"What happened?" Squeegee asked.

"The boat left the civilian here and took off without her. The

commander's gone ballistic."

"White!" Dryden turned and shouted to him. "Bring your team down

here. Now."

Bill, Heidi, and Squeegee ran toward the beach. As they passed

Claudia, she stepped into his path.

"Bill?"

He paused only a second. "I can't talk now."

"But I—"

He dodged around her and kept going. Dryden, Stu, Heidi, and

Squeegee were staring out at the departing boat.

"I am going to kill someone," Dryden said in a tight, controlled

voice.

"Sir. . ." Squeegee stared up into the cloud-strewn sky. The sun

made a brave showing, but off to the south another bank of dark clouds moved

in.

Bill looked where Squeegee looked, stepping out from under the

foliage. He heard another thrumming—not the boat engine.

The sudden, unmistakable whine of an aircraft engine sent them

all scrambling for cover. Peering out from beneath a pine's low branches,

Bill suddenly wondered about Claudia. He looked around. She still stood in

the same spot, staring upward. The plane zoomed low over their landing place

with a roar and then turned its nose toward the sea. They half stood to

watch helplessly as it flew over the departing boat. Gunfire rattled from

the boat, and they could see the tracer fire. The plane circled, and a

moment later a waterspout rose near the boat.

"They're targeting the boat," Stu said. They watched helplessly.

A small explosion poofed, and orange flames rose from the stern of the boat.

"Direct hit," Heidi whispered.

Suddenly the plane turned and sped toward the island.

"Take cover!" Dryden pushed Heidi ahead of him and rushed back

to help Stu shove the radio equipment toward the overhanging rock face.

Bill ran through the brush, grabbed Claudia's wrist, and yanked

her out of the small clearing. He shoved her into the thickest underbrush

and threw himself on top of her.

"Keep your head down." He smashed his face into her back. She

had no helmet, but at least his body armor could protect her, to some

extent.

"I can't breathe!"

He barely heard her protest as the plane roared directly over

them. As the sound of the engine grew a little less unbearable, Claudia

wiggled, and he raised himself on his elbows to give her more mobility.

"That was close." She tried to shove him away.

"It's not over," Bill said grimly.

"What do you mean?" The engine noise grew louder.

"They went straight for the boat, then made a pass looking for

us. Come on, move further into the woods."

"What—"

Too late. Sporadic gunfire erupted as the plane swooped over

their position again. Bill pushed her down and hid his face again. A couple

of the men on the ground opened fire on the plane as it skimmed the

treetops. A shell exploded only yards away. Bill jumped and held Claudia

down in spite of her wriggling. Another hit farther away, then another.

At last all was quiet. Bill cautiously raised his head, pushed

back on his knees and looked toward the shore. Sound returned in a jumble.

He rose and tried to sort out the noises that assaulted him. The receding

plane engine, moans, and shouts.

"Can I get up now?" Claudia's tone was more exasperated than

afraid.

Don't you get it yet? "Wait here."

Bill ran the last few steps and made out Stu kneeling beside the

commander. Before he reached them, he saw the mangled mass of the officer's

lower body. Blood pooled around them.

"Dryden's hit." Stu ripped open the officer's camo shirt.

Bill knelt and put his fingers to Dryden's throat.

"I didn't get a pulse," Stu said.

Bill lifted the commander's wrist and tried to catch a sign of

life.

Stu looked up at him. "Too late for him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. What do we do?"

Bill inhaled deeply. "Call whoever you called before. We need

new orders."

Visit me at my website and view a book trailer for Inside Story on the Romantic Suspense tab: www.susanpagedavis.com . I also have a drawing for free books at the end of every month. Use the painless "enter the monthly contest" form on the left sidebar. My FaceBook page is at: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Susan-Page-Davis/139580589399172?v=wall  

Inside Story is available as an eBook for Kindle:

 

Sample Sunday, guest blogger Virginia Henley

I first met Virginia nearly thirty years ago *faint* when we were both new authors starting up the Avon Ribbon Romance line.  The line faded out but Virginia and I have been great friends ever since. We've gone to conferences together, gotten chickens drunk on margaritas, danced on tabletops, sung opera in hotel lobbies and sometimes…sometimes even wrote some pretty good award winning books along the way.   While I went on hiatus a few years back, Virginia kept going, and her newest book is The Dark Earl.

Welcome, Virginia *s*

********

Three years ago, when the only stories my publisher was interested in were Regency historical romances, I finally decided to set my next book in that time period. But I vowed to write about real historical people, and expose the real-life scandals of the nobility, which to me are far more interesting than fictional peccadilloes.

THE DECADENT DUKE is the story of Lady Georgina Gordon, the youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Gordon, whose four sisters had all married dukes or earls. Her mother, Jane Gordon, was not only a political hostess and personal friend of Prinny, the Prince of Wales, she was also London's foremost matchmaker. She determined that Georgina should marry wealthy Francis Russell, the Duke of Bedford, who owned Woburn Abbey. When he died suddenly, Jane decided that her daughter would marry his brother John Russell, the new Duke of Bedford. It caused a scandal and Jane Gordon was portrayed by the caricaturist Cruikshank, 'Chasing the Bedford Bull with a lasso."

The following year, I decided to write a sequel. THE IRISH DUKE is the story of Lady Jane Russell, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Bedford, who married James Hamilton, the Irish Duke of Abercorn.

My editor liked these books so much, she asked if I would write a third book in the series that we decided to name: Peers Of The Realm.

THE DARK EARL, which has just been released is the story of Lady Harry Hamilton, who falls in love with Shugborough Hall owned by dark and dangerous Thomas Anson, the Earl of Lichfield.

Here is an excerpt. I'll skip over the prologue where the pair meet when she is a child, and give you the first chapter.

 

 

Chapter One

 

Hampden House, London.

June 1854

 

"Oh, Bugger and Balls!  Sometimes I wish we were back in Ireland."  Lady Harriet Hamilton removed the second hat she had tried on and flung it across the room.  "Living in London is far too repressive.  I have no freedom to do anything."

Her sister Lady Beatrix laughed.  "It hasn't curtailed your swearing."

Harry joined in her laughter.  "Nor my wagering, or flirting, or roaming about the city unescorted."  She looked in the mirror and wrinkled her nose.  "It's these bloody fashions set by the queen.  They are hideous!"

"You're nineteen, going on twenty, so you can't possibly go bareheaded."

"Well, I abso-bloody-lutely refuse to wear a bonnet.  They make me look like Old Mother Hubbard."  She was totally unaware that her long dark hair and pale green eyes gave her a rare and striking beauty.

        The Duchess of Abercorn swept into her daughters' bedchamber.  "Aren't you ready yet?  I usually insist on being fashionably late, but today that's out of the question.  Victoria and Albert are officiating at this grand opening of the second Crystal Palace, and we cannot insult the queen by walking in late."  The Duke of Abercorn was Prince Albert's Groom of the Stole, and for the last eight years also had been his friend and confidant.  "This official opening, which marks the beginning of the Season, has already been delayed a month because the male statues were considered too shocking for the queen's sensibilities."  She gave a sardonic laugh.  "Since Victoria has had eight children, I'm sure she's more than familiar with male parts."

"It is utter desecration to ruin beautiful statues by chopping off their genitals and replacing them with fig leaves," Harry said with disgust.

"Oh, the fig leaves were subsequently considered too offensive, so now they've draped all the statues with cloth."

Harriet and Beatrix rolled their eyes.

"Do you think Prince Teddy will be there?" Jane, who was seventeen, asked with apprehension.

"Of course he'll be there.  He's the heir to the throne and his doting parents think the sun shines out his arse," her mother replied.  "What's he done now?"

"When we were at Windsor last week, he touched my breast," Jane declared.

"But he's only thirteen," Harry said.

"What the devil does age have to do with it?" her mother asked.  "He's a male, and already randy by the looks of him.  Don't be alone with him, darling, or he'll have your drawers off."

"Royalty has its privileges," Harry quipped.

"Too bad he isn't a bit older," Beatrix said with a wink.  "If you play your cards right, you could end up a princess."

Jane blushed.  "You are a devil, Trixy!"

"All three of you are devils.  What's the hold up here?" their mother demanded.

"Harry refuses to wear a bonnet," Trixy complained.

"Well, I should think so," the duchess declared, plucking the decoration from one of the discarded hats.  "Pin this bunch of cherries into your hair.  Always remember, we don't follow fashion, we set it."  She touched the crimson ostrich feathers on her own hat to prove her point.

When the fashionably gowned quartet emerged onto Green Street, they found sixteen-year-old James waiting by the phaeton.  He opened the carriage door for the ladies.  "I'm sitting on the box with Riley.  Your crinolines leave no room for me."

"Just don't let your new top hat blow away," his mother warned.

James shut the door.  "I wish you had let me take the train.  It lets you off at the main gate to the palace grounds."

"The railway was built to accommodate the masses.  There will be such a crush of hoi polloi today, you wouldn't be able to breathe," the duchess declared with a shudder.

"I'll ride the train with you later in the week, James," Harry offered.  "I rather like the hoi polloi."

James climbed up beside their driver.  He turned, winked at his sister, grinned at his mother, removed his hat, and held it in his lap for safekeeping.

"You have a tender heart, Harry.  I put it down to the time your father was the Lord Lieutenant of County Donegal and the ruinous rains came.  One end of Ireland to the other became a vast wasteland of putrefying vegetation.  I took you with me on my mercy visits to the poor, and you've championed the down-trodden ever since."

"I'm following in Uncle Johnny's footsteps."  Lord John Russell, the Duchess of Abercorn's half-brother, had served a six-year term as England's Prime Minister until two years ago.

"Our family has decidedly bad timing.  Johnny had been in the House of Commons thirty-three years before he became Prime Minister.  Ireland hadn't had a chance to recover from the tragic potato famine when he took office."

"But he was still able to do lots of good things," Harry reminded her mother.  "Not only did he abolish the Corn Laws, he was able to limit the working hours for women."

"Oh let's not talk politics, Harry.  The Season officially opens today and it's supposed to be a celebration," Trixy declared.

"Every other year, the Season opens in May.  That's another delay we can blame on Her Gracious Majesty," Harry said with disgust.

"Speaking of celebrations, I don't understand why I can't make my debut with Harry and Trixy.  Think of the expense it will save if we all have our Season together."

"Since when did you start caring about expenses, Jane?" her mother asked dryly.  "A coming out ball tells society that the young ladies making their debut are ready for marriage.  Since Harriet and Beatrix are only a year apart, they are having their Season together."

"But I'm seventeen.  I don't want to be left out," Jane pleaded.

"You're hardly out of the school room.  It would be scandalous of me to throw you onto the marriage market.  Just be happy that I will allow you to attend their ball."

Harry poked Trixy in the ribs with her elbow.  "D'you hear that?  We are to be thrown on the marriage market.  Sold to the highest bidder, I warrant."

"Sounds like an exciting adventure to me," Trixy teased.  "A guinea says I get more proposals than you."

"Marriage proposals, or the other kind?" Harry asked.

"Don't jest.  You'll get plenty of both," their mother warned.

"You shock my sensibilities.  Society's morals have changed since the decadent Regency era, when you came of age, Mother.  Gentlemen today treat ladies as if they were saints.  They want their females to be pure and innocent, and will do everything in their power to protect them from being tainted by the wicked world."  Harry gave a mock sigh.  "Queen Victoria has taken all the fun out of everything."

"Rubbish!  Gentlemen may pay lip service to pure and innocent, but in reality nothing could be further from the truth.  Beneath the facade of respectability, lust and

licentiousness lurk.  The male of the species will take advantage of any opportunity."

Harry winked at her sisters.  "Is that what Father did?"

Lady Lu smiled her secret smile.  "None of you would have been born if he hadn't.  The last thing I wanted was a child."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise.  "How did he persuade you?"

"He promised that if I gave in to his passionate advances, he would give me a girl."  Her wry gaze swept over her daughters.  "If I'd known he would give me three daughters in a row, I might have resisted."

The Hamilton sisters laughed.  Their mother had always said outrageous things and she encouraged them to follow in her footsteps.

 

When they arrived at Crystal Palace Park, there was already a crush of carriages. Riley drove the phaeton as close to the front entrance as he could manage, and the Hamilton family alighted and made their way inside to await Her Royal Highness, Queen Victoria and Albert, her prince consort.

They made their way past the series of ornamental fountains and ascended the dais built especially for the ribbon-cutting ceremony.  Within minutes, the royal family came into view with its retinue of attendants.

Harry's glance was drawn to her father who walked directly behind Albert.  Not only was Abercorn taller, but he was far handsomer in her opinion, since the prince consort's hair had receded alarmingly.  She watched her parents exchange an intimate glance.  They are still in love with each other.  That's the kind of marriage I want.

       As Queen Victoria delivered her speech, extolling the Crystal Palace as a showplace for the industrial, military, and economic superiority of Great Britain, Harry's mind wandered back to the summers at Barons Court, their Irish estate.  Vivid memories of her father rowing her mother across the fairy-tale lakes, or taking her up before him on one of his Arabians filled her head.  He's still wooing her after twenty years of marriage.  Harry sighed.  How utterly romantic!

       Her thoughts were brought back to the present when she saw young Prince Teddy edging close to her sister Jane.  Harry murmured to her brother, "Teddy can't keep his hands off Jane.  When you get him alone, thump him on the nose."

He whispered back, "I may be reckless, but I'm not raving mad.  Teddy will be king one day.  It pays to have friends in high places."  He glanced at fourteen-year-old Princess Vicky.  "It must run in the family.  The Princess Royal can't keep her hands off my private parts."

"Well, I'll be damned!" Harry exclaimed in utter shock.

"We declare the second Great Exhibition open to the public."  Victoria cut the ribbon and the throng cheered, "God Save Our Gracious Majesty!"

The fountain water jets suddenly rose up over a hundred feet in the air.  The spectacle caused the crowd to step back, and only the privileged spectators on the front row were anointed by the spray.

Harry lost no time making her getaway.  But as she left the dais, she paused before Prince Teddy and smiled sweetly.  "I dreamed about you last night, Your Highness.  You touched Jane's breast, and I shoved you on your arse!"

It took him a moment to gauge her meaning; then he threw back his head and laughed with glee.  "That's why I didn't touch yours, Harry."

She shook her fist at him and hurried off, eager to see the fantastical displays that had been brought from around the world.  An entire wing of the glass building had been divided into courts depicting the history of art and architecture from ancient Egypt through the Renaissance.  Harry drank it all in, moving slowly so she could appreciate the fine details.  She stopped to look at a display of extinct animals from around the world.  She stared at some ugly green creatures made of plaster.

A deep voice from behind her said, "They are called dinosaurs.  Do you like them?"

Harry turned around to see who addressed her.  The gentleman was tall and extremely dark.  There was something vaguely familiar about him that stirred her memory, and suddenly she was swept back to Shugborough, the mansion that had stolen her heart more than a decade ago.  She could even smell the jasmine and honeysuckle.  "I would call them monstrosities," she drawled.  "I much prefer centaurs."

Their eyes met, and held.  "So, you know who I am."

"And you, obviously, are aware of my identity."

Green eyes stared into pewter, as the male and female took each other's measure.  Harry saw a man in his late twenties.  Though handsome, his features were stern and unsmiling.  He carried himself with a great deal of unbending pride, and had an animal magnetism that was fatally attractive.

"I think it unwise to wander about alone in this crowd.  May I escort you back to your family, my lady?"

"You arrogant devil!"  She laughed in his face.  "I would be offended if you weren't so ridiculous.  I do not conform to the rigid rules of propriety, my lord!"

He looked pointedly at the cherries adorning her hair.  "It is evident that your upbringing has been remiss.  Your father should have taken you across his knee."

"And tanned my arse?  If I remember correctly, that's what you threatened to do the last time we met."

It was clear the young beauty was mocking him.  She had been outspoken as a child; now she was downright brazen.  Thomas Anson was tempted to take her by the shoulders and shake the insolence from her.  He clenched his fists to keep his hands from violating her.

Anson possessed a supreme air of authority that rubbed Harry the wrong way.  She threw him a contemptuous smile and turned away.  Before she had taken a dozen steps, she came face-to-face with D'Arcy Lambton, the young Earl of Durham.  He was the grandson of Lord Earl Grey, and a close family friend.

"Hello, Harriet.   You look ravishing today."

"D'Arcy."  She gave him her hand and he took it to his lips.

"Did you know they have a circus set up in the center transept?"  He pointed in the opposite direction.  "Oh, there's my friend Thomas.  Come, let me introduce you to him."  He led her toward Anson, and greeted him warmly.  "Allow me to present Lady Harriet Hamilton…This is my good friend Thomas, Lord Anson."

The corners of Harry's mouth lifted with amusement as she offered Anson her hand.

He took it stiffly, and bent his mouth to her fingers.

"You're supposed to kiss it, not bite it," she warned with a gurgle of laughter.

"You know each other?" D'Arcy asked with surprise.

"Thomas and I have been acquainted for years.  We once conspired to steal some paintings together."

D'Arcy laughed.  "I warrant they were valuable.  Thomas is an authority on art."

Anson glared at her with disapproval.  "You are incorrigible," he muttered.

"Flattery, begod!" Harry teased.

"Harriet and I are going to take a look at the circus.  Why don't you join us?"

"Oh, yes, please do," she urged.  "I hear they have a tightrope walker."

Anson accepted immediately.  Since he knew her invitation was insincere, it gave him perverse satisfaction.

Harry, flanked by the two handsome lords– one fair, the other extremely dark– made her way through the crowd to the center transept.  Trumpets blared, followed by a drum roll, and as everyone raised their eyes they saw a man ascending a narrow metal ladder.  He didn't stop until he reached a dizzying height; then he took a firm grip on a long, thin pole and stepped out onto a high wire that was almost invisible.  The crowd below gave a collective gasp.

"His name is Blondin.  If he walks the tightrope successfully, it will make him famous," Thomas predicted.

"A guinea says he doesn't make it all the way across!"

D'Arcy coughed uncomfortably.  "Thomas doesn't make wagers.  He is opposed to any kind of gambling on principle."

Harry felt her cheeks flush.  She knew she had made a faux pas.  Instead of apologizing, she said recklessly, "Surely when a male wagers, it shows courage."

Thomas's features hardened.  "And when a female wagers, it shows vulgarity.  As a matter of fact, I find this entire display rather vulgar."

"If you are referring to Blondin's tights, I think they display his manhood magnificently."

It was D'Arcy's turn to flush.

Harry gritted her teeth.  There was something about the dark devil that made her behave outrageously.  She saw Anson's eyes narrow.  The look of censure he gave her was threatening.  If we were alone he'd shake me until my teeth rattled.

Harry slipped her arm into D'Arcy's, using him as a shield.  "Did you receive your invitation to our ball?  The guest list was extremely selective, but since you are an earl, we made an exception in your case," she teased.

"You and Lady Beatrix are making your debut together.  I assume you'll be spending the Season in London and won't be going to Barons Court until later in the year?"D'Arcy asked.

Harry sighed.  "You assume correctly, more is the pity.  I miss Ireland."

"What is it that you miss?" Anson asked pointedly.

"I miss the people.  They have an irreverent sense of humor.  They are not straight-laced like the English, who worship at the altar of respectability."

"To the Irish, drinking and gambling are virtues," Anson said dryly.

"Indeed they are.  I am grateful that they taught me to do both."

His dark eyes were filled with censure.  "You revel in audacity."

"You have guessed my secret, my lord.  Since I discerned your secret years ago, I warrant we are even."

A cry of alarm from the crowd drew all eyes upward, where Blondin swayed precariously, before he regained his balance.

"Oh Lord, I can't bear to watch.  If he falls, it will make me ill.  It's outrageous that a man is forced to do such things for money."

Anson's grim expression softened.  "You've just revealed another secret…you are tenderhearted."

"Yes, I do take pity on those less fortunate."  Her green eyes glittered with mischief.

"So you may consider yourself invited to my debut ball."

"I admit to being guilty of showing my disapproval, Lady Harriet, but surely such cruel punishment doesn't fit the crime."

She threw back her head and laughed.  "You do have a sense of humor after all!"

Check out Virginia's website at http://www.virginiahenley.com/

Sample Sunday, welcome Karen Rose Smith

Todays guest blogger is Karen Rose Smith, another member of the BacklistEbook group loop.

 

The Cinderella fairy tale has intrigued women since they were little girls. Married for 40 years, I still believe in it. So writing about this fantasy was easy for me.

In the past decade, I've listened to country music more and more. Who knew I'd be writing a country song along with a Cinderella romance? Last year I wrote a refrain and summed up an imaginary song in my Montana Mavericks release. In that book I introduced the hero of  HIS COUNTRY CINDERELLA, mega star country singer Zane Gunther. In this romance, Zane needed a special song so I wrote one to fit.

Excerpt

They were standing in an empty movie theater!  At least Jeannette thought it was empty until she heard footsteps, looked up at the stadium seating and saw Zane coming down the stairs toward them.  He wore a huge grin.  "Are you ready for a Disney flick?"

"What's a flick?" Jonah asked.

Zane laughed, stooped down and tipped her son's hat back. Jonah wore it whenever she let him.  "It's a movie and one I think you'll like.  Why don't you go pick out a seat?"

"Anywhere?" Jonah asked.

"Anywhere you want.  The place is all yours."

Jonah ran to the first row.  "I wanna sit here.  Can I, Mom?"

"That's fine.  But I think Zane and I will sit a few rows behind you.  Okay?"

"Before you watch the movie, you have to sample some popcorn."  Zane produced two huge containers of the treat from a seat on the row where they were standing.  He handed one to Jonah.  "Now don't eat it too fast.  And if you get thirsty, I have drinks back here, too."

"Soda?" Jonah asked hopefully.

"If your mom says it's okay."

Jeannette told her son, "This is a treat tonight, so a little bit of soda will be okay."

The lights suddenly dimmed and a brilliantly bright introduction to the movie flared on the screen.

Hugging his popcorn, Jonah went to the first row and sat, waiting for all of it.

Jeannette wasn't exactly sure what this was all about, but she was sure Zane was going to tell her.

He offered her his arm.  "Can I escort you to your seat?"

"You surely can.  I wouldn't want to miss any of this."

They sat three rows behind Jonah.  Her son glanced over his shoulder at them, grinned and ate a handful of popcorn.

"He's going to love this."

Zane's shoulder brushed hers.  Neither of them moved away. They sat quietly, watching the beginning of the movie.  Zane offered her popcorn.

"Maybe later," she whispered.

As the movie played, Jonah's laughter and squeals of delight made them both smile.

Taking off his Stetson, Zane laid it on the seat beside him, ran his hand through his hair and sat up a little straighter.  He was wearing cologne tonight, a woodsy and musky scent that immediately brought to her mind the picture of him splitting wood.  His arm was solid beside hers and, as always, she felt strength emanating from him.  Yet tonight she sensed something else, too, something not quite comfortable, something that was uncertain.  Who they were when they were together?  If they should even be together?  Was this simply a giant gesture to please Jonah?

Tonight she kept silent instead of asking any of the questions.  She knew innately that tonight required patience and she had to let it unfold however it would.

Finally Zane took something from his pocket and handed it to her.  That's my SAT phone number in case you need it."  Then he leaned closer.  "I thought about what you said the other night."

She whispered back, "Which part?"

"The part where you thought I was using you for an escape."

Her heart seemed to turn over.  Was he admitting it?

"I do escape when I'm with you," he confessed in the same low voice.  "I forget who I was, what happened before I came to ThunderCanyonand what I'm trying to leave behind.  But that happens because of who you are and who I seem to become when I'm with you.  So to answer your question, you are an escape for me right now, just likeThunderCanyon is, or that log house up on the hill.  But I like you, Jeannette.  I think you're beautiful and sexy and smart.  And just being with you makes me feel happy."

Jeannette's face was close to his shoulder.  She brought her lips to his ear.  "If we slept together, what would happen afterward?"

This was the most intimate conversation she'd ever had in a public place.  But in some ways it was a private place, too.  Nothing Zane did would ever be ordinary.

He turned his head until his lips were almost against hers.  "You want me to predict the future.  I can't do that.  Short term scenario, we'd have an awful good time while I'm inThunderCanyon.  Long term scenario…  That's what I want you to think about tonight.  That's one of the reasons I brought you here.  Before all this happened, I didn't have an ordinary life.  I doubt if I'll have one in the future."

"Tell me what bringing me here tonight was supposed to prove," she requested, needing to know what was in his head.

"I want you to think about a life where you're separated from the rest of the world.  There's a reason why stars have huge estates with everything on them they might want or need.  If they go into town, they could get mobbed.  At the least, they get stopped by fans.  In a public place it's hard to finish a meal without someone coming over to the table, not to mention what could happen on the street.  I have a bodyguard for a reason, or at least I had one.  It isn't because I like it, it's because he was a necessity.  If you're with me anywhere, all this will affect you, too.  You'll be subjected to reporters and tabloid journalists and photographers with long lenses.  If you want to go shopping, you'd better do it online so someone doesn't ask you if you're going to wear that dress when you go out with me.  This isn't about ego here, Jeannette. It's about being on display maybe 90% of the time.  It's about a life that requires separation from people close to you, odd hours and maybe telephone sex instead of being together."

"Are you trying to scare me off?" she asked.

Even though the theater was dark, in the light flashing from the screen she could see the doubts in Zane's eyes.  "I'm telling you what life dating me would be like, not only for you, but for Jonah."

In other words, if she wanted to try on being with Zane what harm could come of it?  But if Jonah were with her, what would happen with him?  Of course she didn't want him exposed to the publicity.  What mother would?

"Up until now, I wondered if I was dazzled by you.  You just took the dazzle away."

"And?" he asked, not moving a muscle.

"And, without the dazzle, I still like who you are.  I'm still very attracted to you.  But I do have to think about the consequences for me and Jonah.  Especially for Jonah."

"If I have to go through a trial, life is going to get even more hellish.  I won't be able to stay away from public places—I'll be right in the center of them.  Why would you even want to consider getting involved in all that?"

Why, indeed?  She felt torn by the need to keep her and Jonah safe, but by other needs, too.  She longed for a man to hold her at night.  She longed to be in love.  With Zane she felt sexy and more of a woman than she'd ever felt.  He understood the way she mothered and her need to place Jonah first.  In a situation like this, should she weigh the pros and the cons?  Or should she go with her heart?  In the past, going with her heart had brought her pain.

Jeannette watched the movie, but she didn't absorb very much of it.  Whenever Jonah laughed, her gaze fell on him, but she was constantly and consistently aware of the tall man beside her, his muscled physique and heat evident even as he sat still.

"I can't tell you not to think this time," Zane said, leaning close again, his jaw almost brushing her cheek.  "But when you do think about us, feel those kisses again, too.  I'd kiss you now to remind you, but I'm afraid I'd get lost in you in the dark and Jonah would catch us."

"Would that be so bad?"

"Not if we knew what we were going to do."

But they didn't know…because they both had a lot to think about.

They watched the rest of the movie, sitting close but not being close.

When the movie was over and the credits rolled and the lights came up, Jonah ran to them, happy and excited.  "That was great!  I like the movies, better than TV."

Zane laughed, but there was a restrained quality to it.  She knew this was hard for him, too.  Should he get close to Jonah or should he not get close to Jonah?  Did he even want to think about becoming a father?

He said, "I'm glad you liked it, but I think it's already past your bedtime."

"Are you coming home with us?"

Zane looked at Jeannette and then said soberly, "Not tonight, cowboy."

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Turns out the knife was dull. *snort*

Just an update for those who sent along best wishes for my surgery today.

Arrived at the hosp just after noon, at the appointed time…checked in…had blood sucked out of my arm, had electrodes stuck into various body parts, had the prerequisite meeting with the physiotherapist, then sat around in a fetching, backless hospital gown for three hours, getting a  headache from not eating or drinking since 7:pm last night.  Around 4ish, a harried intern came to the waiting room  and told the poor sap next to me, who had already been hooked up to an IV drip, that his surgery was going to be postponed. The doctor was behind, complications with earlier surgeries, then an emerg case with some idiot who had fallen asleep at the wheel of his car and had intercourse with a telephone pole resulting in, among other things, a broken arm.  Then the intern looked at me.  I narrowed my eyes and looked back. I said don't even tell me.  He said yes, you too.  Cancelled.
The nurse offered me orange juice. I asked if she had vodka to go in it.  Apparently not.
 So I have to rebook.
And the fun bonus? I had to pay $17.00 for parking.
AUGH!

Going under the knife again

I'm enjoying my last day of walking around limp-free. Tomorrow I go under the knife again, getting the "bad knee" scoped to try and buy it some time before it gets replaced and goes bionic. Augh.  I'm not a great fan of hospitals or doctors and certainly not of laying on a cold table and looking up at all those big OR lights. Last year, just before Christmas (great timing it was too *snort*) I had the "good" knee scoped to fix a tear in some little do-dad in there.  Being the good knee, it wasn't supposed to be the one that suffered the knife first, but suffer it did.  Happened one morning when I was stretching.  Just stretching. One of those glorious I'm awake, the sun is shining, the dogs let me sleep in stretches that goes from fingertips to extended toes. Heard a snap and felt a pop in my right knee and that was that.

The left knee has been pampered since I was in my early 20′s.  Popped the kneecap out on that one. Was I skiiing? Was I playing some dangerous sport? Was I climbing Mt Everest in a blizzard?  Nope. I was dancing.  Yep, dancing. I turned one way, my partner twisted me the other and suddenly my kneecap was around at the side of my knee instead of in front.  First instinct was: it doesn't belong there!  So I grabbed it and shoved it back into place.  Apparently you're not supposed to do that. You're supposed to lay there in agony staring at a sideways knee and wait until a bunch of blitzed party-goers hoist you into a car whilst still wearing a long flowing frock (it was a dressy party), and drive you to a hospital so that you can hang around a waiting room in Emerg for a few hours until some overworked intern comes and shoves it back where it belongs.

That was the beginning of the downfall for that knee. Six months in and out of casts, surgery to take out a bone chip and repair ligaments, then months of therapy…all resulted in me pampering that sucker for the next 35 years or so.  The doc who did the surgical repair gave it five years before "something else might have to be done" which put the fear of the knife into me, so that puppy was guarded, pampered, massaged, therapized and whatever…anything to extend that five year warranty.  And it worked! I couldn't run, but I could walk miles and miles. Never did dance a tango again and come to think of it, never did dance with that particular partner again.

About seven or eight years ago the arthritis set in really badly.  Knobby things started growing on one side of the kneecap and going up stairs sounded like walking on gravel. I had a really bad fall on some ice and the shin bone got bruised so badly, another lump sprouted there, nothing to do with the knee, but after two months, when the lump was still on the shin bone, I figured I would point it out to my GP on a visit for some reason or other. She bypassed the shin lump and probed the gnarly knee and uttered those fateful words: I think you should see an orthopedic specialist about that.

Great. Warranty was up. So I shlepped to the ortho's office, she did the xray thing and the probing thing and peered at me closely and said those other fateful words: The knee has to be replaced. Double augh.  This time, however, there was a "but" and in this case I liked the sound of the "but".  But, she said, even though I'm a surgeon and my first choice is always surgery, you have the option of waiting another year or two. You aren't impeded much, you aren't in pain, and you're still a bit too young for the proceedure.

Huh? Too young?  Woo hoo. Hadn't heard those words since I tried to sneak into a night club when I was 17!!!

Too young in this case meant she didn't like to replace body parts like knees until a person is in their 70′s. If it wasn't critical, if it wasn't a case of having the ability to walk or not walk, she preferred to wait because knees, unlike other bionic parts, are usually only good for ten years then have to be replaced again. However, if I *WANTED* it done, she would do it because the knee was, after all, in pretty bad shape.

So then the question became, did I *want* to have a bionic knee? Did I *want* to go under the knife and have my bones sawed off and a plastic/metal/whatever knee bolted in place?  Voluntarily? As in yeah, sure, whack me open, saw me in half, screw on a Steve Austin part and hear me go tch tch tch as I run to the sound of bionic-type music.

Of all the things I could think of doing voluntarily, including eating liver every day and dancing naked on top of the CN Tower, doing the bionic thing was way way waaayyyyyyyyy down on the list.  So she nodded sagely and we agreed to annual appointments and xrays to watch the progress of the arthritis and the gnarly knob.  It's been a good run for three years now, but on the last visit, even she was starting to lean toward it not being voluntary decision any more.  She did give me three options, however. A shot of cortisone, which may or may not buy me another six months of comfort (yeah, okay, it's starting to get painful, I admit it);  the bionic option, replace the sucker;  or third…because the results on the other knee were so good, where she tried some newfangled process of drilling teeny tiny holes in the bones to get them to produce more cushion-y goo to lubricate the joint (which worked, by the way. No grinding, no grating, no pain and I could skulk around in stealth mode if not for the orchestra in the other knee.) *we* ( and I love how they use the collective we when talking about one person wielding a knife while the other is out cold like a beached whale) … *we* could try scoping out the bad knee, cleaning out the arthritis, doing the pinhole drilling thing again and maybe, just maybe it would buy another couple of years.

Just call me chicken little.  I opted, once again, to forgo the bionic bit. Had a cortisone shot once, years ago, on another body part, and it was fine for a month then pfffffffft hurt worse than before. That left option number three. Scoping the sucker.

So tomorrow is D day, and if it goes as well as the other knee, I should be able to hobble around for short distances within a day or two unassisted. Still not looking forward to it because I hate, loathe, and detest being immobile, and as I recall, even for the *good* knee it was a month or more before I could walk without a noticeable limp.  Even worse than the prospect of limping and wincing and standing at the bottom of the staircase and wondering how the hell to get to the top… is the dread of all things to do with anesthetics and pain meds. I don't do well with either one.  Touching every scrap of wood within arms reach, the last time was a charm. No nausea, no ugly side effects. Hopefully they kept records of what they gave me so they can do it again the same way, cuz instead of hanging over the side of the gurney in the recovery room with my head in a barf bucket, I was sitting up and having cookies and coffee.  Fingers, toes crossed.

Augh. Just augh.

Wish me luck.

 

Emmy frocks, good and bad.

We delay the posting of another chapter for Through A Dark Mist by the far more crucial posting of Emmy frocks.  I'm one of the dinosaurs who loves seeing Hollywood go back to being glamorous, so there were a lot of hits and not too many swan-suit misses.  I must say, however, I was hard-pressed to find a true number one because there were so many that tied for the top spot.  By a nose-hair though, I think my vote has to go to ….Sofia Vergara

Red seemed to be the theme, because most of the frocks I liked were in varying shades thereof.  Kate Winslett looked stunning. Martha Plimpton glittered in glam. Glee girl Lea Michele looked gorgeous…love the sleeve caps and the back which wasn't shown much.

 

I wasn't keen on Kerry Washington's red dud…I'm not a fan of see through skirts on the bottom, just looks like you wrapped your mother's bedroom sheers around your waist before you dashed out the door.

Clair Danes always looks great, and this blue number stood out bee-youtifully

Unlike this bridesmaid-gone-bad frock Cobie Smulders was wearing.

And while we're talking bridesmaids…

While I loved the color of Archie Panjabi's frock, it looked like it was falling off her boobs…what boobs she has.

Same criticism of Cat Deeley's choice. She's over six feet tall, you would think she'd go for something stunningly bright, not drab fleshy shades, and again, the top looks like something about to slide off a cutout doll.

Is this really Kelly Osborn?  Did aliens finally snatch the goth girl away for good?  YAY!!!!  She looked gorgeous and all grown up. Finally.

Maria Bello…stunning dress, she could have at least combed her hair.

Jennifer Carpenter…same thing. What's with the schleppy hair? Sheesh.

As for Katie Holmes, she needs to learn to stand up straight, shoulders back, don't look so gaunt, don't try to hide your height just because you're married to a short-ass, and don't wear that shade of blue.

Now for the worst of the lot….Heidi Klum…. and I can only guess she wore one of the Project Runway designs, and this was the best of the lot from a bad challenge. Blah.

Picture her beside Alan Cumming and WOWZA.

There were more…good and not so good, but these were my pics.  Come on award season!  We need more red carpets *G*

Sample Sunday, guest blogger Darlene Gardner

I don't know about anyone else, but this is sort of nifty getting to peek at different genres, different writers, different styles. A lot of these ladies and gents I've met through the BacklistEBook group and if you follow that link, it takes you to the spiffy new website. It's still under construction, but you can see what it's all about.

And before I start rambling, on to today's guest, Darlene Gardner *s* She even sent along a picture so you could see who's talking.

You've probably heard the saying that you are what you eat.

I think I am what I write.

For much of the summer, I revamped three single-title romantic comedies from my backlist. I discovered not only can I make myself laugh, but laughing puts me in a very good mood.

I'm currently writing an angst-filled book for Harlequin Superromance about a woman who thinks she might have been snatched from her family when she was a child, but the happy feelings persists. That's because the three comedies are now available for Kindle, Nook and other e-readers.

The Misconception is about a misunderstanding of biological proportions. The sperm donor an evolutionary biology professor hired is AWOL, so who's the man in her bed?

In Bait & Switch, a cop's identical twin persuades him to change places to catch a criminal but doesn't mention his girlfriend.

And, finally, Snoops in the City features an amateur PI who wonders what she should do when she falls for the man she's investigating.

Here's an excerpt from Snoops in the City, which is selling for 99 cents for a limited time:

Tori spent the drive to Mayor Honoria Black's house trying to dream up a legitimate excuse for following Grady Palmer. She came up with a big blank.

Okay, then. An excuse might not be the way to go. Outright denial sounded like a better strategy.

"Me, follow you?" She placed her hand on her breastbone and affected a fluttering laugh. "You're sadly mistaken, sir."

Like that would work, she thought with a roll of her eyes.

She hadn't come up with anything better when cars parked on the street and in the circular driveway of a sprawling contemporary alerted her they'd arrived at their destination.

Located in a pricey enclave of homes that hugged the Intracoastal Waterway, the Mediterranean-style house had a multi-level stucco exterior in pale coral and a barrel-tile roof in a slightly darker shade.

Dramatic ground-level spotlights highlighted the forty-foot-tall palm trees in the front yard and shone on the covered, double-door entry. Every arched window was illuminated from within, attesting to a party going on.

Tori had heard homeowners in this part of Seahaven acquired older waterfront houses, demolished them and replaced them with pricier versions.

Although she thought it a shame to tear down history, she couldn't help admiring the dynamic, resourceful, self-made mayor.

A recent profile in the Seahaven Gazette told of the killing the mayor had made investing commissions she earned as a Realtor into property she later resold at a substantial profit.

If private investigation didn't work out, Tori thought as she parked behind Grady's SUV, maybe she should consider a career in real estate.

She wiped her damp palms on her slacks. She needed to stop this nonsense about taking up an alternative career and concentrate on convincing Grady he had it wrong.

She might even manage to turn a negative into a positive. Taking a man's measure had to be easier face to face instead of in the shadows observing from afar.

Besides, by process of elimination, she had to be good at something. Why not PI work?

"You're full of surprises," he said when she joined him in front of the house. He'd jammed his hands in the pockets of his khakis, lending him a deceptively casual air. "I didn't think you'd come."

Not coming had been an option? She'd been so rattled that hadn't occurred to her. But fleeing would only have made him more suspicious.

"I'm not exactly dressed for a party." Her slacks and blouse were of good quality but were both brown. She would have worn the more correct black, the better to blend into the surroundings, but the color caused her to look washed out.

"You look great to me." His eyes skimmed over her, and her pulse skittered. "That's not what I meant. I wasn't sure you'd come now that I know you've been following me."

Her time of reckoning had arrived.

"I need to set you straight about that." She only had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes, which surprised her. He seemed larger than life but probably fell just shy of six feet. "I wasn't following you."

"Is that why you took off at the golf course when you saw me coming?"

Oh, no. She'd thought the floppy hat and sunglasses had kept him from recognizing her. Start bluffing, a shrill voice inside her head screamed. Now.

"That had nothing to do with you." She airily waved a hand. "I left because the event was almost over."

He didn't reply. She nervously chewed her bottom lip, thinking she should elaborate to make her story more believable.

"There wasn't much more to see," she said.

Still no response.

"And I remembered something else I had to do."

Was that suspicion she saw in his beautiful eyes?

"Something vitally important," she clarified. There. That should allay his distrust. Except he still looked puzzled. "I needed. . . to feed my cat."

Oh, great. Had she really said that?

"She gets hungry if she's home alone too long."

He tilted his head quizzically. "Why don't you leave food out for her?"

"Because. . . I don't want her to stuff herself. You know what they say about a number of small meals a day being healthier than one large meal."

"I thought cats stopped eating when they were full."

"Not this cat." She spread her hands wide. "This is one fat cat."

"As interesting as all this is," he said slowly, "we were talking about you following me."

Adrenaline rushed through her like river water after a storm, and she recognized it as the fight or flight instinct. Flee, her mind screamed.

She nodded toward the etched glass front door. The muffled laughter and music behind it sounded like salvation. "We should go inside so we don't miss out on the fun."

"Not until we straighten this out," he said, and she looked wildly about for help. A car door slammed somewhere down the block, but they were alone on the front lawn. "I want to know why I've seen you four times in the past few days."

"You couldn't have," she cried. She'd adhered to the instructions in the paperback to a T, donning dark glasses, being careful not to get within twenty yards of him, sticking to the shadows.

"Let's count them." He held up one hand, then raised his thumb before unfolding his fingers one by one. "At the post office, across the street from Palmer Construction, at the golf course and in my neighborhood. How do you explain that?"

"It sounds like a coincidence," she ventured.

He snorted. "You obviously don't watch crime shows on TV."

"Why's that?"

"The cops never believe in coincidence."

"That's silly," Tori said. "If there were no such thing as coincidence, there wouldn't be a word for it, now would there?"

"If this is all a big coincidence," he said, taking a step toward her, "why are you so nervous?"

Her sweating palms, fast-beating heart and shallow breathing made denying it pointless. She'd never perfected the art of lying anyway. She doubted she could convince a three-year-old there was a Santa Claus.

"You might as well admit it," he pressed. "You were following me."

"Okay," she snapped. "You win. I was following you."

"I knew it." His baby blues narrowed and his luscious lips thinned. He could challenge Arnold Schwarzeneggar for the starring role if they ever made a movie called The Intimidator. "What I want to know is why."

She resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. She'd had such high hopes that she could excel at private detective work. Yet here she was on the brink of failing not only herself but Eddie and Ms. M as well. The thought of it made her feel like weeping.

"There's a simple explanation," Tori hedged as she desperately cast about for one.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm waiting."

One of the artificial spotlights shone down on him, adding light to his captivating features. Her eyes widened, the way they had the first time she'd seen his likeness. That's it, she thought. The perfect explanation.

"The truth is," she said and took a breath for courage, "I think you're hot."

**************

Check out more about Darlene's books on her website:  www.darlenegardner.com

Snoops in the City: http://tinyurl.com/3ed95xy

Bait & Switch: http://tinyurl.com/3ew5rza

The Misconception: http://tinyurl.com/3m4y3nl

It's that time of year again

Apologies to those in Texas and Florida who are, I'm told, still sweltering in the heat, but up here, north of the 49th, the nights are dipping toward 40 degrees, the garden plants are starting to wilt a bit…trees are showing signs of red and orange on the leaves, and my burning bush, which the usual indicator that I should hussle my butt and bring in all the house plants that have enjoyed the summer on the deck, inside.  Patio furniture has to be shifted to the garage, outside water taps turned off, windows have to be latched shut to seal out the drafts and horror of horrors….the furnace has been turned on.

*sigh*

I do love where I live. It's a small blip of a town north of Toronto, traffic is minimal, crime is non-existent. There are enough malls and outlets around that I haven't ventured into the Big City for a couple of years, and then only to see a play or a baseball game. It used to be at least a once-a-year trek to see all the lights and displays in the store windows, but that novelty has worn off, as has the yearly excursions to the CNE.

Nope. I pretty much have everything I need within a ten mile radius.  Well, okay, the David Duncan House is a bit farther, and the Ashley Warehouse Sale is still an annual event, but they're both located midway between me and the Big City.  I think back to when I first started working, back in the days of stone tablets and no computers. My first job was in a big hospital right smack downtown Toronto. It seemed like nothing to take the bus to the subway station, then ride the subway 15 stops, transferring lines once in rush hour, dumping out on Queen Street and walking the three blocks to the hospital.  I used to volunteer for the night shift a lot because it was quieter, and back then, a girl on her own could walk down a city street at midnight and not have to carry an Uzi for protection.

Anyone remember the Lilly Tomlin routine where she sat at the switchboard with all the tubes and plugs and wires, and the fashionable little black headset and mouth piece? That was me. I worked the hospital switchboard like a pro and it was fun, because at night you could plug in all the lines and have a 12-way conversation with all your friends.  I worked those lines for two years before they changed over to regular phone banks, which took most of the fun away.  These days kids hardly know what a telephone is, and very few have even seen a dial-up model.

When I was a kid and the weather was turning, we actually looked forward to snow.  Augh.  Mind you, summers back then seemed like they were 9 months long because we were outside all the time inventing games and digging holes to China, and spending the day in the forest building forts and playing Robin Hood.  There was no such thing as staying inside all day watching TV. There were only three stations anyway *snort*.  Rainy days we shlepped to the library and got out armloads of books. Really hot days we walked…WALKED…to the public swimming pool, which was a mile and half away, spent all afternoon cooling off, then sweated our way home again.  When fall came, every backyard had a fire to burn the leaves and it was that smell that was the signal that summer was over.

I actually have a bona fide stone firepit out back and its heaped up with plant cuttings etc waiting to be burned. I have to get a fire permit at the beginning of each year, cuz there's no such thing as just making a fire these days.  Try it and you get three firetrucks out the front of your house and the threat of a thousand dollar fine if you do it again.  Er…not that I would know that from experience or anything.

Kind of like the time I had a full SWAT team surround my house…

*chuckle*

Anyway, just rambling with a few thoughts, looking out the window at the trees starting to turn, thinking… it's that time of year again.