Marsha Canham's Blog, page 9

Saying goodbye to a dear soul.

My big beautiful gentle girl died yesterday. She was an English Springer, big and goofy and loveable. Scampi was named after shrimp scampi, don't ask me why, it just suited her, but as it turned out, shrimp was one of her favorite things to eat.  We weren't sure how old she was when we got her, Austin picked her out of the pound the year after we moved into the new house, and that was in 2000. I foolishly promised him we could get a dog when "Grammy got grass". The weekend the builder put grass down, Austin got in the car and said okay, lets go get my dog. We went to the pound, and I was thinking small dog, small dog. But the only small dog had a huge sign on the cage saying "Not good with children." Most of the others were Rotweillers or labs or Shepherds, and we were about to leave, when Austin spotted Scamp. She was the only dog that wasn't barking, the only one that just came to the end of the cage, with her head down, peeking up at us, and when Austin put his hand out, she licked it.

We were done like dirt. She had us.

The vet wasn't sure how old she was, she guessed no more than two. But she walked through the front door that first day and just sat on the rug shaking, like she wasn't sure what she was expected to do. That lasted about a day, then it was wahhhh hooooo I'm home!

We honestly thought she was psycho the first couple of years, she was so full of energy. I had to buy a separate wading pool for her because she would climb right into the kids' pool as soon as I filled it and she wouldn't get out.  She'd just sprawl out like she owned it and the kids had to play around her. She loved the kids, was never rambunctious around them, would let them use her for a pillow or a big moving toy. She had a lot of buddies in the neighborhood too…Woody–a big lab up the street whose owners tied him off to cement blocks to deter him from wandering down the street.  Pretty much every day though, Woody would come loping down the road dragging the blocks behind him. Dudley lived across the street, a big English Sheepdog, and another great friend of Scamp and Woody. They're both gone too, so I hope they've found each other over that rainbow bridge and are playing havoc like the three caballeros again.

Five years ago, when I brought Suzie into the house, she was just a little black furball, barely 8 weeks old, and looked like a mouse beside Scampi. But Scamp instantly took on the mother role and from that day on they were inseparable.  Slept together, ate together, walked side by side wherever they went, usually with Suzie dashing and weaving around Scamp's legs.

Unconditional love, that's all she ever gave. I don't think there was a person she didn't like, didn't lick to death, didn't snuggle up beside. Yeah, she thought she was a lap dog, all 45 lbs of her, and she thought her rightful place in a car was behind the wheel. She loved going for rides, the longer the better, and didn't even care whose car it was. Several times people came to visit and left the car door open a few minutes too long while they said goodnight…they'd drive out, reach the end of the driveway, and pull back in, open the door, and throft Scamp out.

Unfortunately she went to live with Stupid last winter and I haven't seen her since last January when I went south. There was a size restriction in the park in Florida, and she was too big to go down with me. She was almost completely deaf by then and slowing down, but she always loped to the door to meet me when she felt the vibrations from the door slamming.  Her one flaw, if you could call it that, was that she adored him.  She was by my side all day, but the minute he came home, I was forgotten, so at least I know she was happy her last few months.  He promised to bring her over to visit a few times, but never did. It took Suzie a while, after we got back from Florida in the spring,  to stop looking for her in the house or out in the yard. It took me a long time too. I still get out of bed carefully at night so as not to trip over her, then have to remind myself she's not there.

She was a great dog, and I hope she meets Walter over the bridge too. I'd retype the poem here, The Rainbow Bridge, but I don' t think I can cry anymore tonight.

Bye Scamp. See you over the bridge.

Comfort food

Coming up on Christmas, time to do all the baking and cooking, planning what to do in advance, what to cut off the list this year because it went over like a 50lb sledge hammer dropped on the toe.  Pretty much all of my baking has that result.  For some unknown reason I decided last year to bake a multitude of Christmas cookies, including merangues, shortbreads, lemon things, and delicious (I thought) red velvet cookies. Yeah. Well.  I think the last time I put on a baking spree I was living back in Eden Pit and Jefferson was four or five and the neighbours decided to have a cookie exchange. The idea of course is to bake 6 dozen cookies and bundle them in packets of 6, then you leave your dry, lumpy blob cookies there for some unsuspecting sap to pick up while you take home 6 dozen cute, decorated, delicious kinds of cookie.  I had six people ask me wtf it was on the plate. Several of the laughed. Not sure any of them actually put them out for company.  They were my comfort cookies. Oatmeal peanutbutter chocolate chip raisin, and they were the only thing I could bake that my family said were good.

I can cook. I can whip up almost any kind of meat, potato, veggie, turkey, chicken, rib dinner, Italian Chinese or Polish influenced for 40 people in two hours!  But I can't bake.  Nope. Give me a cake recipe and you get the deer-in-the-headlights look. Of the three deserts that I *make* that get rave reviews, two involve no baking, just toss the stuff together and put it in the fridge. That would be the ubiquitous no bake cheesecake, the recipe for which I cut out of a TVGuide magazine about 35 years ago and still keep hermetically sealed in an equally ancient tupperware container.  The second one is the Birthday Cake.

Amusing story behind the Birthday Cake. When Jefferson was about 5 we went to New Jersey to visit my favorite uncle. We had never been to New York and thought it would be cool to combine a family visit with sightseeing in the Big Apple.  Stupid and I took in our first Broadway show, which was A Chorus Line, he and Jefferson climbed up into the Statue of Liberty and waved from the torch, we walked through Central Park and stepped in horse poop. I recall standing on a corner somewhere near Wall Street checking a map in relative normal street traffic then boom, five minutes later we were clinging to lamp posts for dear life as the street flooded with people. Tourists. Stupid and I were at different posts… he'd been swept along in the crowd of office workers rushing for home until he managed to snag another pole…and we were shouting over their heads to stay in contact.  That little experience affected his bladder and while he was in a questionable little restaurant easing the tension, apparently a tall black gentlemen stood at the urinal beside him, got distracted, missed the bowl and splashed all over Stupid's foot.

So when we got back to Mountainside, where my uncle lived, he instantly went downstairs and washed his foot and his sandals. My aunt, who had been greeted with "Excuse me, I have to go wash my foot" just looked at me and rather calmly asked if he always did that, and was it a foot fetish?

But anyway, ramble aside, it was also Stupid's birthday and she had thoughtfully made him a birthday cake while we were fighting the hoards in NYcity.  It was a delicious concoction of angel food cake and an icing that had us drooling. When I hesitantly asked her for the recipe, she snorted and told me the cake was store bought, the icing was a tub of Cool Whip with smashed up Crunchy chocolate bars mixed in.  That was it.

SO. Ever since that fateful day, the Crunchy cake has been our Birthday Cake, and over the past 30 years, no one has gotten tired of it. I've had to double the recipe,as our numbers increased with DILs and SILs and grandkids,  making two cakes and using two tubs of CW and five chocolate bars, but there's never any left on the cake dish to suggest I stop making it.

The third desert, recently added to my arsenal is Key Lime Pie.  Years ago, before marriage even, Stupid and I took a trip down to the Florida Keys.  We went all the way to Key West and stood at land's end just so I could say I stood where Hemmingway had stood. At one of the tiny diners we ordered Key Lime Pie and it knocked my socks off. It was the perfect blend of sweet and tart, had a firm consistency, and not a speck of meringue in sight.  I've been searching for that pie for nearly forty years, trying it in every place that advertises "the best" or "prize winning" key lime pie, but all of them are made like lemon meringue pie, with squooshy pudding filling that sort of tastes like a lime if you close your eyes and imagine it real hard.  The few…very few..that have come close have avoided the meringue topping, but still….missed the mark completely.

Last winter when I was in Orlando, one of the snowbird neighbors found a recipe for Key Lime Pie on the internet that she wanted to try. Being the Key Lime guinea pig, she brought a piece over to me to taste and OMG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  It was my pie!!!!!!! It was that perfect blend of sweet and tart, the perfect consistency, taste, everything!!!!!  I had found it.  Like the prodigal son who wanders up to the door and says yo! I'm home.

So I made it rather tentatively for the family when I got home and BOOM!  Instant hit.  Even the grandkids dig in and ask for seconds. They like to toss a swirl of whipped cream on top, but I like it plain, I like to savor the pleasure of eating something I searched so long to find. So thank you Carolyn. *s*  The DIL has even requested the Key Lime Pie for our Christmas dinner dessert this year in place of the ubiquitous no bake cheesecake. She's even volunteered to whip the cream!  Bonus!

In a way I feel a bit bereft.  That pie, after all, was like my quest for the grail, and gave me an excuse to try every key lime pie offered in every diner between here and wherever I travel.  It's now firmly entrenched with the Best BBQ Sauce ever on the planet…the only other recipe I have kept for over 35 years… and my salmon dip, which is really made with chicken but still called salmon dip. It's only about 20 years young, but still qualifies as Canham Family Comfort Food

So…anyone else have a grail food or a comfort food they couldn't imagine doing without?

Sample Sunday with Shirl Henke

Sample Sunday is back with a real old friend of mine. Real old. As in… old. Did I mention she was old? I'm not, of course. I'm very young. Sort of. In dim lighting. Anyway, please welcome Shirl Henke to my blog. She has a story timely for the season.

From Shirl:

When my long-time writing buddy and fellow "Troglodyte" Marsha very kindly invited me to be a guest on her "Sample Sunday," I was very grateful for the opportunity. Although Marsha refuses to call herself the savvy promoter of ebooks that she is, I am the genuine troglodyte, unlike the gal who has put together this fabulous site. I admit in my author's bio that I only learned to use a computer after writing my first twenty books in longhand. It is impossible to get good quills these days, never mind that Marsha and I began writing with chisels on stone tablets.  [blog owner's note: her tablets were older than mine too *snort*]

I became hooked on historical romance back in the 1970's, but did not work up enough nerve (I can hear Marsha snorting in disbelief now) to try it myself until 1983. However, when a storyteller begins stringing words together, she's as unstoppable as a runaway freight train. I had completed three books before the first of them sold. After that I have twice been a RITA finalist and have won seven ROMANTIC TIMES Awards. In fact, the magazine's founder Kathryn Falk and current publisher, Carol Stacy, gave me an idea for one of my favorite scenes in the "sample" I chose from SURPRISE PACKAGE, which is, appropriately enough, a Christmas novella. They were good sports to allow me to write them into the story.

SURPRISE PACKAGE combines romance, comedy and a pair of lovers who hide embarrassing secrets from each other. I don't often have the opportunity to write contemporary fiction, as most of my thirty plus novels are historicals, but once I got the idea for this story, I ran with it and really had fun. I hope you laugh and sympathize with Gilly and Jeff as they fall in love during "the most wonderful time of the year."

Please visit me at my website www.shirlhenke.com for book news and information about the life of a writer with a husband who's even crazier than she is. I promise to answer every email. If you "friend" me on Face Book, I can only promise to try communicating. I haven't figured out that medium yet. Remember, Marsha is the Cyber Queen. I'm still a Troglodyte in training. Hey, I even had a difficult time mastering the chisel!

"Surprise Package" opens with Gilly and her best friend making a rush for the subway during an early winter cold snap inNew York City:

"Someday my prince will come," Gilly Newsom muttered fiercely. "If nothing else, he can rescue me from the five-twenty rat race."

Her companion, also elbowing her way through the rush-hour crowds thronging the subway platform, grinned good-naturedly. "Romance is still alive in your cynic's heart, then?" Charis Lawrence asked.

"Not really. Look around you, girlfriend. Most people are toting bags of holiday goodies, while I'm lugging twenty pounds of manuscript—three of the mere two dozen I'm currently assigned."

"Stop whining. Look at it this way—no need to go to the gym," Charis said, patting her briefcase full of marketing reports. "Besides, it's called paying our dues inNew Yorkpublishing."

"Easy for you to say when you're going home to Bill, not a cold, empty flat inYonkers. I don't even have a dog, for Pete's sake. You have William Channing Lawrence, Esquire."

A dreamy look came over Charis's pert, pretty face. "True, Bill is very special, but someday there'll be a guy just as great waiting for you. Well, maybe not quite as great—nobody could be."

"You wouldn't be just the least bit prejudiced in the matter, would you?" Gilly teased. Charis had always been able to lighten her mood, ever since they met back atOberlinCollegenearly nine years earlier. They'd quickly become best friends as well as roommates in spite of the fact that they came from such diverse backgrounds. Charis's family was upstateNew Yorkold money, while Gilly's folks were rust-beltOhioblue collar.

The subway car—already packed, as usual—pulled into the station, and both women shoved inside with the negligent ease of seasoned New Yorkers. "At least it's semi-warm in here, with all the bodies doing the 'subway sandwich.' The temp may be twenty-two degrees, but the wind chill makes it every bit as cold as northeastOhio," Gilly groused. "Too crowded to hope for a seat. I could use this time to edit."

"Oh, yeah. I know you're just dying to get back to Gwendolyn Gleeson's Spanish-American War opus," Charis said, rolling her eyes as she held fast to a subway strap when the car started up with a lurch.

"God save me from first-book authors like her. That manuscript is filled with almost as many historical errors as it is with purple—no, fuchsia—prose," Gilly replied, shuddering.

"Just because she had the hero going toWashingtonto consult with the Defense Department and the Pentagon in 1898? Picky, picky."

"That one was easy. I just substituted War Department and let it go. But when I came to her description of the heroine's breasts as 'a milky sea of white velvet topped with wild rosebuds,' I wanted to write in the margin, 'It sounds as if you're confusing a window display at Bloomingdale's with an ad for the Dairy Council.' "

Charis whooped with laughter. "Almost had you ripping your bodice with frustration, huh?"

Now it was Gilly's turn to roll her eyes. "I suggested that the phrase was a mixed metaphor, that she'd be better off with something a bit less flowery, like 'ivory with pale pink nipples.' If only I could enjoy my job as much as you do yours."

"You're the one who wanted to be an English major," Charis reminded her.

"I still love to read, and I'm a darn good editor—"

"Just underemployed." Charis had heard this lament before. While she loved her job as assistant director of marketing at a small paperback genre fiction publisher, Gilly was frustrated with hers as an assistant editor. She ached to be in the big leagues, to work for a prestige hardcover house editing literary fiction. "I know it's hard for a Phi Beta Kappa who graduated summa cum laude from Oberlin to edit historical romances, but this is just a stepping-stone for you."

"More like I'm the stone. Honestly, Charis, I've had nearly five years of hearts and flowers. I want a real job."

"What you want is a real hero. A man to bring some romance into your life, so you can believe in it again."

"If I ever did." Gilly had seen enough of men like her father, Whalen Newsom, even before her one time love Frank Blane delivered the final blow to her girlish dreams.

"Next month is Christmas, and you're thinking of Frank again, aren't you?"

"Frank was a loser. I'm much better off without him." Gilly repeated the mantra.

"You've got that right. Imagine having both a wife over inJerseyand a kid with his girlfriend here in Midtown. You were lucky to find out when you did."

"Yeah. Almost as lucky as I was when Brian Schwin dumped me to marry that cheerleader our senior year at Oberlin. Let's face it, Charis, I'm just not cut out for happily ever after, which is probably why I dislike editing romance so much. Forget the heroes; I'll settle for a brilliant career in publishing."

"Now all we have to do is figure a way to get Farrar, Straus & Giroux to hire you," Charis replied, tapping one well-manicured nail against her cheek.

"Wouldn't that be sweet?" Gilly said, swaying as the subway began to slow. Then a staticky voice announced, "Forty-Second Street," and she gasped, "What was I thinking? This is my stop!"

Charis gave a puzzled look. "You live all the way up inYonkers."

Already working her way toward the opening doors, Gilly called over her shoulder, "The library won't have late hours again until next Monday, and I have to check that reference book on the Spanish-American War they're holding for me or it'll vanish into the abyss again! See ya tomorrow."

Desperation lent strength to her slender five-foot, three-inch frame when she caught the door just as it started to close on her. Escaping its jaws unscathed, she scooted quickly through the crowd, slinging her heavy tote bag over her shoulder. She began climbing the steep stairway to the cold, windy corner ofFifth Avenueand Forty-Second Street, near where two giant stone lions guarded the entrance to the New York Public Library.

Winter had come to the Big Apple early in November this year. The icy slush ofmiddayhad once again solidified into diamond-hard shards. Here and there the city snowplows had scraped paths as smooth as greased tinfoil, but lacking ice skates, Gilly opted to walk on the refrozen slush. Like most New Yorkers, she wore sensible shoes while commuting—in this case sturdy Eddie Bauer lace-up boots with rubber grip soles—and left her heels at the office, safely tucked in the bottom drawer of her desk.

A sudden gust of wind almost knocked her off her feet as she neared the daunting series of steps up to the library. Clutching her tote like a talisman, Gilly put her head down and walked into the gale, feeling the crunch of ice beneath her boots. Lord, it was cold! Her breath came out in burning white puffs, her lungs seared from the frigid air being forced into them. She would go back to working out at the gym—she would…just as soon as the holiday crush was over and Gwendolyn Gleeson's interminable manuscript went to copyediting!

Jeff Brandt did not see the small figure laboring up the steps directly in his path until it was too late. Like her, he'd had his head lowered against the wind, watching the treacherous steps beneath his feet. Then a small booted foot somehow just appeared in the exact space where his big, sturdy Adidas was coming down. At the precise same instant that he was trying to rearrange his feet, a small woolen bundle smelling faintly of vanilla careened into his belly.

"Oomph!" was all he could manage before they went down together. Somehow the fact that the unguided missile in his path was female and much smaller than his six-foot, two-inch frame must have registered. He turned them in midair so that she fell on top of him rather than the other way around, the only chivalrous thing to do.

When they landed, he was no longer so certain chivalry had been the hot tip. She—or something attached to her person—landed on his gut like a Chuck Norris kick. Then Jeff became a human bobsled, he and his "rider" rocketing down the steps, his head clunking on every stair.

By the time they reached the sidewalk, he couldn't even manage a strangled "umph," just a low, feeble groan as he stared dumbly at the canvas tote gouging his ribs. Its contents were partially spilled, pages of something or other fluttering against the rubber bands holding them together. Above him, he could hear her voice, soft and breathless, concerned. A nice voice, he decided. Then his eyes focused on her face, pale in the artificial lighting from the street. Wind-kissed pink cheekbones set high over softly plump lips, a small button nose, and wide eyes of some light color he could not discern—blue or green. Slim, delicately shaped eyebrows arched with chagrin.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I ran right into you, practically knocked you down. This stuff is so heavy. I hope I didn't break your ribs or anything," she babbled breathlessly as she crawled about, frantically scooping chunks of paper back into the tote.

To Jeff, this looked about as easy as stuffing cooked spaghetti into a long-neck bottle, but somehow she accomplished it, all the while talking in fast little spurts. His skull pounding, he raised himself up on his elbows, observing her until he had recovered enough wind and presence of mind to say something himself. He considered asking, What the hell have you got in that bag, lady, an anvil? But he refrained. She was obviously flustered enough, and he had been raised to be a gentleman…sort of.

Gilly tried to conceal her embarrassment. She could tell the tall stranger had deliberately twisted her around so that he took the full force of their fall—a fall she had caused by not watching where she was going. He was nice looking, too, drat the luck. Why did she always mess up at times like this? He had a square jaw and dark, serious eyes, magnified by wire-rimmed glasses, which were now perched catawampus on the end of his straight nose. His features were angular, striking in a scholarly way, offset by shoulder-length black hair that gave him a hippie sort of look. No, make that a university student sort of look. Double drat. He's probably younger than me.

"The collision was as much my fault as yours," he replied. "In this wind, everyone is looking down, trying to breathe without frosting their lungs. Besides"—he grinned—"I'm a lot bigger. A little thing like you couldn't hurt me—although the stairs may have flattened the back of my skull."

He admired the view for another instant, trying to decide if her body was as shapely as he hoped beneath all the layers of winter clothing, then sat up and reached for her hand, helping her to her feet.

He was right about their size difference, Gilly saw. She wore flat-heeled boots, and he towered over her. She would definitely need "power" heels to measure up to this guy. Then her bemused train of thought came to an end when she realized that she stood with her gloved hand still held firmly in his grasp, staring up into his face as he reached with his free hand to straighten his glasses.

I must be gawking like a banked carp! She closed her mouth and broke contact, then stooped to pick up her tote—just as he scooped it up to hand it to her. Quickly catching herself, Gilly straightened up—just in time for her head to connect with his jaw. The heavy woolen cap she wore softened the blow, but she could hear his teeth click together. He touched his tongue experimentally against the bleeding edge of his lip.

Great! Maybe I could render him unconscious and drag him back to my apartment to have my way with him! "I'm so sorry. Does it hurt? What am I saying—of course it hurts. You're bleeding! Here, let me…" She began to root frantically in her tote, searching for a handkerchief. All she managed to come up with were a couple of dog-eared grocery coupons and a lipstick-smeared tissue.

Jeff dug a handkerchief out of his back pocket and daubed his lip, grinning once again at her flustered agitation. "You know, we might be able to form a really funny circus act, except no one would insure us." Before she could begin apologizing again, he said, "I'm Jeff Brandt. We may have, er, gotten off on the wrong foot, but that's no reason we can't start over."

"I'm Gilly—Gillian Newsom. My friends call me Gilly." Idiot. She was babbling again.

"Then I hope I can call you Gilly. The least I can do is buy you something hot to warm you up after that tumble on the ice. There's a little coffee shop down the next block. I'll even carry your tote. It looks pretty heavy."

"That's very sweet, but I have to do some library research for a book I'm editing." The minute the words tumbled out, Gilly could've kicked herself. How often did she get an opportunity like this dropped into her lap—or, rather, her lap sort of dropped into it.

"But I could—"

"I could—"

They both spoke at once. When she stopped, he started again. "What I meant was that I'd be happy to wait while you do your research. Actually, I was just taking a break. I have at least two more hours to put in myself, reading back issues of the Times for a sentencing class."

"You're a law student?" She did some quick math in her head. The most he could be was twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. By comparison, her own twenty-eight seemed positively ancient.

"Yes. I finally managed to finish a B.A. and get into the NYU law program after four years in the Navy. I'm afraid you're looking at one of those long-on-the-vine Gen-Xers who couldn't decide what he wanted to be when he grew up…until he was pushing thirty," Jeff said ruefully. "On the plus side, though, if I graduate in the top ten percent of my class, Bradford, Trent and Lange have an opening in criminal law. Very, very snotty outfit, but it would be quite a coup if they made me an offer." Not that I'd accept it, but damn, it would—will—be sweet.

He wasn't too young for her! Gilly brightened. But his next question caught her off guard.

"You said you were editing a book? Do you work in publishing?"

"Yes." She paused then. This was always the hard part for her, explaining that she edited historical romances. Most people took romance editors about as seriously as they did romance writers, which was to say, not at all. She had heard more than her share of condescending remarks. Just what kind of research are you doing? Wouldn't it be better to conduct it someplace a teensy bit less public than the library? Say, like your bedroom?

"I have a cousin who works in marketing for Houghton Mifflin. Where do you work?" Jeff asked.

"FS&G. Farrar, Straus & Giroux, that is." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. Then, to make matters worse, she found herself adding, "I edit history and literary fiction. Right now I have to do some research on the Spanish-American War for a book I'm working on." Well, that much was true.

"History, huh? My undergrad work was in American Studies. I even did a senior thesis onRoosevelt's Rough Riders. We have something in common, Gilly."

"Uh, yes, I guess we do."

"Then we'd better get right to work," he said with another heart-stopping Colgate smile, taking her tote and gently leading her up the icy steps to the library doors.

When they entered the reference room, Abbie Kunsler, the librarian, greeted Jeff by name. Obviously, he had used the facilities often over the course of his academic career. Gilly felt reassured. After all, this wasNew York, and she was by nature cautious. They both went to work on their separate projects, he scrolling through reams of old newspapers while she took careful notes from the antiquarian, non-circulating tome she had found to be an excellent resource to draw upon when correcting Gwendolyn's historical vagaries.

Within two hours she was finished. Jeff was still deeply engrossed at his computer terminal. Gilly walked over to Abbie's desk. The older woman smiled and adjusted her sharply delineated trifocals so she could make out Gilly's face. How to say this? Gilly cleared her throat nervously.

"Uh, Abbie, I was wondering…"

"About Jeffrey Brandt?" The reference librarian didn't exactly smirk, but there was a definite look of amused smugness on her angular, horsy face. "He's such a nice young man. Studious and polite. Been using our facilities ever since he was an undergraduate. I believe he lives somewhere down in the Village, not too far from NYU." Abbie paused to see if Gilly needed more data.

The information she had given Gilly was reassuring. The rest of what Gilly wanted was a little stickier. "I was wondering, Abbie, if you would do me a favor—well, not so much do a favor as…er…well, not do something." At Abbie's puzzled look, Gilly sighed and confessed quickly before she lost her nerve. "You know where I work, but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't mention that to Mr. Brandt. He's under the impression that I work for FS&G."

"Oh?" One thinly penciled eyebrow rose above the trifocals.

Abbie wasn't going to help her out here. Gilly struggled on, knowing her face was getting as red as the wild rosebuds on Gwendolyn's milky sea of white velvet. "Well, I sort of gave him the wrong impression—not that I don't plan to correct it, but…well, I'd rather do it in my own time." Like by getting that job at FS&G.

"I never gossip, Gillian," Abbie replied primly.

Before Gilly could speculate whether or not that meant the librarian would keep quiet, Jeff came ambling over to them. "All done?"

"Yes. I have my notes complete."

"Good. Then do you want to get that coffee, maybe a sandwich?"

They thanked Abbie for her help and left the cavernous library. Once again braving the icy streets, they walked quickly to a nearby greasy spoon onForty-Second Street.

The place was small and crowded. Here, too, everyone seemed to know Jeff. The waitress, a frowsy, mid-fortyish blonde, handed them laminated menus that looked only slightly newer than the Dead Sea Scrolls.

"The cheeseburgers are very good, but the chili dogs are my personal favorite," Jeff said while the blonde scribbled his order.

"I've always had a weakness for cheeseburgers—with Swiss, if you have it?"

The waitress looked at her as if she'd asked for fois gras, then nodded curtly and wrote up the order, adding the two cups of black coffee they requested. Gilly was careful to place her tote with the Gleeson manuscript on the floor where Jeff couldn't see it. Gwendolyn's working title was Cuban Ecstasy.

"So, when will you take the bar exam?" she asked.

"My coursework should be wrapped up by the end of this year. I'm planning to take a few months to review everything, then go for it."

"Got to make that ten-percent cut." She nodded, sipping the steaming coffee the waitress had deposited on the chipped Formica table a moment earlier. "It must be very exciting to have a top-level law firm interested in you. I imagine your family is really proud."

He looked down into his cup, then took a swallow before replying. "Yes. BT&L has always been my father's dream."

Was there something in the tone of his voice, a faint hint of irony? Gilly couldn't be sure, but she was curious. No more involvement with mystery men who had relatives—like wives and children—about whom she knew nothing. "Do your parents live nearby?"

"Scarsdale," he said dismissively. "I don't see them often. It's much more…convenient to stay close to school. I live inManhattan, near NYU in the Village."

"I know," she blurted out, then blushed. "Er, Abbie mentioned it. Tell me about your family. Any brothers or sisters?" Any wives or children?

"One sister. Older, married. Two kids and a husband who's a broker on the Street."

His answers might have been a little on the laconic side, but it was quite apparent that he came from money. "Let me guess. Your dad's a lawyer, too?"

"Definitely yes, but retired now. He and my mother travel a lot. Right now they're inBermuda."

"Sounds wonderful on a drearyManhattanday like this. I'd love to travel if I had the time." And the money.

"It's greatly overrated. I saw a lot of the world during my tour of duty. Everyplace fromTaiwantoRio. The rich play, and the poor starve. Just like home."

Gilly cocked her head and smiled. "Do I detect a strain of social activism here? It may be passé now, but I like it. Sort of fits you."

He grinned. "How so?"

"Goes with the long hair and wire-rimmed glasses, not to mention the beat-up old Adidas and the necklace." She eyed the tooled leather with elaborate beadwork hanging partially revealed at the open collar of his shirt. Swallowing, she looked away before the sight of the dark chest hair peeking out around the odd piece of jewelry had her any more flustered. God, I'm acting like one of Gwendolyn's virgins!

"This?" He held up the small pouch, smiling. "It was a gift from a friend, David Strongswimmer, an Iroquois construction worker. His father is a shaman. He makes these to keep the wearers safe from harm."

"If they work high iron, I can see the need," Gilly said, shivering. "Personally, I get a nosebleed on the observation deck of theEmpireStateBuilding."

Jeff was not too keen on heights either, and he had given up a really well-paying job with Dave and his dad because of it. But he didn't want to talk about his jobs any more than he did his family. Instead, he switched the conversation back to her. "Tell me about Gilly. You aren't a native New Yorker."

"My Midwestern accent gives me away, doesn't it? I graduated from Oberlin six years ago and came to the Big Apple to set the publishing world on its ear."

"Seems like you've done a pretty fair job so far," he said, taking a huge bite out of his loaded chili dog.

They'd agreed jokingly on ordering onions ahead of time, since he loved them chopped on his hot dogs and she couldn't imagine a cheeseburger without a slice. It was a mutual passion, he'd said, laughing as they trudged through the slush to the coffee shop. Gilly took another bite of her burger, using her fingers to catch the stringy wisps of Swiss cheese before they stuck to her chin. "I want to be an editorial director someday."

"You'll make it," he replied, lifting his coffee mug in a toast to her.

When he asked her about her family, she debated. Then, remembering that his father was an attorney fromScarsdale, she reverted to the story that made life a little easier for her. The story she'd told everyone inNew York. "My parents are dead now. I have a sister living out on the West Coast. I'm afraid we're not very close." No lie about her and Liv, that was for sure. "I was born and raised in a little town in northwestOhio—you know, picket fences, apple trees, and Fourth of July parades. Pretty dull stuff to a native New Yorker."

"Oh, I don't know. There is a certain appeal to living a quiet, traditional life. AndScarsdale's not all it's cracked up to be." His dark eyes studied her intently over the rim of his cup, noting the way her pale reddish-blond hair curled in spite of the heavy woolen hat she'd pulled off when they entered the warm coffee shop. Probably natural curl and color. It fit with her light green eyes and the faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of that adorable little dumpling of a nose. "Any current relationships?" he asked, surprising himself.

"N-no." She cleared her throat. "I broke up with my fiancé six months ago."

"And haven't replaced him?" He looked dubious.

"No time." Not to mention no heart, since Frank had pretty well fractured what little was left of it.

"So, a lady married to her career." His smile could have melted the polar ice caps.

Her heart did a funny little flip-flop as she raised her mug in return. "Here's to passing the bar." Gilly, girl you're in deep, and this barely even qualifies as a first date!

 * * * *

           "So, he's a real babe," Charis mumbled through the mouthful of bagel she was wolfing down.

Self-consciously, Gilly looked around the crowded deli where she and her friend usually grabbed a bite before they went to work in the next block. Once they were at their desks, there was seldom time for lunch. She still found it disconcerting that New Yorkers could sit two feet from a person and completely ignore the most private conversations. "No, he's not a 'babe.' I don't go for the 'babe' type."

"Reminds you too much of cover model hunks, huh?"

Gilly rolled her eyes in disgust. "Just because I mentioned that he had longish hair. Believe me, he bears not the faintest resemblance to 'The Blond One.' He's going to be an attorney. His family's fromScarsdale, for Pete's sake. He's scholarly and…" She groped for the right word.

"Sexy," Charis supplied helpfully.

Gilly sighed. "He's too good to be true, Charis. We talked for hours in that coffee shop. He's sweet, very bright, ambitious, and has a great sense of humor."

"Must be fate."

"I don't know. My track record with men has pretty much stunk my whole life."

Charis nodded. She knew all about Gilly's family background, as well as her ill-fated love life. "I'm not saying fall on the guy and grope him after one date. Just give him a chance. Get to know his family. It's a real plus that they live so nearby. No wives or fiancées hiding in the closets if he takes you home to Mama."

"We're hardly at that stage. He only asked me to take in a movie tonight."

"Hey, it's a beginning. Lighten up, Gil. This may be the one."

 * * * *

             It looked as if he was. Over the course of the next few weeks, Gilly and Jeff went to see films and plays and ate dinner in ethnic restaurants. They discovered they both loved old Bette Davis movies, Robert Browning's poetry, and tandoori cooking.

On the first Friday night in December, they saw The Barretts of Wimpole Street at a small art theater onSecond Avenue. The city remained unseasonably windy and bitterly cold, although the snow had finally melted. They found a small Italian restaurant more notable for its dimly lit corners than for its food, but neither was hungry…for food. They lingered over glasses of Chianti, discussing the romantic old film, poetry, and history—everything but what was really on their minds.

"I know it's an old line, but candlelight does become you," he said softly.

"Isn't the line 'moonlight'?" Gilly was suddenly breathless when he took her hand and held it over the checkered tablecloth. His large fingers worked the pulse point of her wrist with maddening delicacy, slowly circling the slim expanse. She knew he must be able to feel her blood racing. Then he raised her hand to his lips and leaned forward to brush her knuckles.

"This table's too big," he murmured, even though it was tiny. He stood up and stepped from behind it, never relinquishing her hand. Then he slid in on her side of the secluded booth. "Now, where were we…?"

"The table was too big," she replied helpfully, amazed that she could even remember his last words, much less repeat them. The heat of his thigh seemed to be searing hers. Their shoulders brushed, and Gilly was aware of how large and hard his frame was compared to her own slenderness. She could feel the tension coiled in that big body as he leaned nearer, but he pressed no farther, giving her the opportunity to withdraw.

"I think I want to kiss you now. What do you think?" His light caressing of her fingers continued, his thumb working that magic circle on her wrist as he drew her hand once again to his mouth.

The feeling of his warm breath on her skin made her practically salivate. "I think it's a great idea…absolutely sensational…brillian—"

His mouth moved closer to hers, and she raised her face, eyes closed, as their lips met. The pressure was light as gossamer at first, warm, very faintly moist. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to respond as he drew her closer in his arms and pressed her back against the wall in the dimly lit booth. Gilly's arms just naturally fit around those broad shoulders, pulling him closer, her fingertips kneading hard muscle.

His lips traveled from the edges of her mouth up to her blissfully closed eyelids, pressing soft kisses against the fluttering lashes, then moving over to one small ear. His tongue scalded it with a swift whorl, then retreated, moving downward to her neck. He's a devil for finding pulse points—should've been a doctor, not a lawyer. The thought flitted through her mind but evaporated when he returned his concentration to her mouth, which by now was open, breathlessly panting.

He tasted of the Chianti, spicy and mellow and male. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled him closer, giving him some tongue in return. When he growled low and intensified the kiss, Gilly felt her head spin. Whoa! Too much wine…too much man, theOhioside of her brain reminded her. However, theNew Yorkside, a side she had until now never had much occasion to notice, utterly ignored it.

Gilly ran one hand through his hair, twining her tongue with his, darting it into his mouth, as her other hand glided down his neck to the open collar of his shirt. Her fingers sank into the thick black hair that had so tantalized her. Before she realized what she was doing, several of his shirt buttons were undone, and her hand slid inside. His skin was as hot as a tenement roof in July, and his heart pounded against her palm.

When he slid his hand up under her sweater and cupped one breast, she moaned and arched against him. Dark little restaurant or not, Gillian Marie Newsom had never in her life put on such a display. And she was loving it! They twisted and writhed with wild abandon until the obligatory wicker-encased bottle with the candle in it began to wobble precariously on the tabletop.

Jeff came up for air just as the waiter, an elderly Italian man with bushy white eyebrows and a sweet, gold-toothed smile, cleared his throat. He stood patiently with the bill in his hand while the young lovers quickly uncoiled. When he reached nonchalantly to steady the bottle, Gilly felt like slithering under the table with embarrassment. Her sweater was pushed above her waist, and her bra was unfastened! Damn, Jeff had clever hands. She could feel her face flame as he paid the check and the little old man disappeared.

"I think we'd better put ourselves together and leave so Signor Monserra can close up," he said, refastening his shirt buttons. All the while his eyes never left her face.

She could feel the scorching heat of them as she fumbled with her bra, then smoothed down her sweater. "Believe it or not, I don't usually get so…engrossed…at least, not in public."

He grinned. "I'm relieved to hear you don't rule out in private. Next time we decide to do this, let's pick a better place."

But since he lived with a roommate, they had no better place. Gilly's apartment inYonkerswas small, cheap, and dingy—all she could afford on an assistant editor's pay. She kept meaning to fix it up but never seemed to have the time. Even if it had been beautiful, like Charis and Bill'sPark Avenuepenthouse, Gilly was still wary of becoming involved too deeply before she found out more about Jeffery Brandt. Already he had far more control over her senses than any other man she'd ever slept with—of course, there had not been all that many.

Gilly didn't like to think of herself as a prude. Even if Charis said she was one. After all, she had been the only girl in her high school to reach her senior year still a virgin. Ken Planzer had taken care of that one night in the backseat of his father's Olds 98. That had been enough to get her to swear off sex until her sophomore year at Oberlin. The two guys she'd become involved with in college were no great shakes as lovers, although after Ken, they seemed better than they were by comparison. Then she met Frank Blane and knew, for the first time, sexual gratification. Oh, Frank had been practiced all right—with good reason. But he'd taught Gilly a valuable lesson. She wasn't going to fall for a guy again just because he sent her hormones into overdrive.

So she and Jeff had settled into a pattern of meeting when she got off work and he finished studying. Sometimes they spent evenings working in the library, then went for a quick bite at the coffee shop down the street. Whatever they did, the fiery interlude in the Italian restaurant was not repeated. Maybe Jeff, too, was having second thoughts about becoming romantically entangled. That thought did not console Gilly one little bit.

But what would happen if they really were right for each other? She'd told him a series of whoppers. Admittedly, they were the same sort of fabrications she'd resorted to with most people she'd met inNew York. Frank Blane was the only man to whom she'd told the truth. The irony of that did not escape her. She would just have to wait and see what happened between her and Jeff.

 * * * *

             One brisk, sunny Sunday afternoon Gilly and Jeff strolled casually along a path inCentral Parkwhen a jogger approached with two big rottweilers trotting obediently beside him. "I'd love to have one of those." Gilly sighed as the dogs passed by.

"You had rotties back inOhio?"

"Not exactly, although I'm sure there was some rottweiler in Belvedere—he had a little of everything mixed in."

"Belvedere?" Jeff's tone was teasing. "You are a serious literary type."

She shrugged, kicking a pile of ice-crisped leaves. "I was twelve years old and had just finished reading Morte d'Arthur. I figured he'd be the last dog I had before I left home."

"You had lots of dogs growing up?"

"Three, counting old Rufus, who died when I was a toddler. I don't remember much about him except that he licked off the food smeared on my face. Then there was Spike. He liked to chase cars. What about you? Any pets allowed inScarsdale?"

"My mother raised Afghans." She made a face, and he laughed. "Okay, so they aren't the brightest creatures, but I had an English sheepdog that was smarter than some of my law professors. Come to think of it,Raleighwas smarter than most of them."

"I miss having a dog. That's one of the tradeoffs for living in the Big Apple, I guess."

"Why? Surely you could get a small dog of some kind. Look around you. There are people with dogs all over the place," he said, indicating a sprinkling of various breeds, leashed and unleashed, roaming around the park with their owners.

"True, but they don't have Danny DeVito in drag for a super."

Jeff burst out laughing. "This person I'd love to see."

"No, you wouldn't. She's just like Louie on Taxi, only not nearly as nice. And she hates dogs. Says they bark and wake up the other tenants."

"Sounds as if the walls are as thin in your place as the shack where I live."

Uh-oh. Gilly had been very careful to evade any questions about her apartment. After all, what FS&G editor would be living in a dump inYonkerslike hers? Since he lived and went to school in lowerManhattan, she had insisted that they meet in the city for all their dates. And, for work and home, she had given him only her cell-phone number. "No, actually, the place is really cool—it's just Mrs. Kleinschmidt who's the problem."

"I'd like to see your place…one of these days."

His words were laced with meaning as he looked into her eyes. But since he shared his apartment with a fellow student who was almost always home studying, that left him no privacy to bring in a date, and there was no way she could invite him to her place in Yonkers.

They shared a smoldering look. There had been a lot of those since that first kiss. But what could they do? Come to think of it, they both knew what they could do. Just not where they could do it!

 * * * *

             The music started, not the gyrating sort of hokum Gilly had been expecting at an office party strip show, but a popular holiday song. The man who had been ushering in the publishing house revelers was now wheeling a low, wide cart down the aisle. On it sat a large package, gift-wrapped in red and white foil with a huge red satin bow on the lid. When he reached the center of the room, he stopped and set a hand brake on the very substantial-looking vehicle that had transported the "entertainment."

"Ladies, I give you Gentleman Johnny Jackson!"

With that, the emcee stepped away, and all eyes fastened themselves on the big box stage center. Slowly the lid began to rise and slide ever so slowly over to one edge. Every female present seemed to hold her breath, Gilly included.

It must be the screwdriver. I never could drink without getting giddy. Her eyes were glued to the top of that box just like everyone else's. When the lid began to fall, a female sales rep sitting in the front row jumped up and caught it in her arms, peeking inside the box with a squeal of delight. A red satin top hat appeared first, tossed casually over the rim of the box by a white-gloved masculine hand. Now every woman leaned forward on her folding chair. The top of his head emerged, followed by a pair of broad shoulders encased in a form-fitting red satin tux. He was facing the opposite side of the room as he slowly stood up, revealing…

"Buns of steel!" a copyeditor sitting next to Gilly breathed in awe as the aforementioned tush began to move, ever so slowly, ever so sensuously, to the beat of the music.

The red satin tux pants looked spray-painted on his body as he stepped over the edge of the gift box and jumped lithely to the floor. He scooped up the top hat with one hand and placed it on his head at a rakish angle. Everyone was hypnotized by Gentleman Johnny.

"I never thought I'd say it, but I think this guy has a better bod than Bill—oh, God, don't you dare tell him I said that!" Charis whispered without taking her eyes off the long-legged man in red satin.

Flexing his knees and ever so subtly moving his hips to the music, he swung the jacket over one shoulder and strode across the floor like a devil-may-care hitchhiker, Clark Gable in It Happened One Night. When he lowered the jacket around the shoulders of the contracts manager, she nearly swooned before he whisked it away and sent it flying into the box. Then he pulled off his tie and tossed it to the back row. There was a veritable feeding frenzy as women clawed each other for the small piece of red satin.

All the women gazed avidly as he popped the rhinestone cuff links from his shirt and put them provocatively into one tight pants pocket. Then he started flipping the rhinestone studs from the front of his shirt into the audience. Joan Rivers might have said that if God had intended women to get down on the floor and exercise, He would have strewn it with diamonds, but in this case rhinestones worked even better. A dozen women were on their hands and knees, seizing the faux gems as he unfastened the cummerbund at his waist and used it playfully like a back scrubber, all to the beat of the music. He applied the sash to a few other more imaginative places, then tossed it, too, into the box.

By the time he had the shirt peeled open, revealing a dark thatch of hair that narrowed enticingly at the waistband of his pants, the women were shrieking and stomping like Greek maenads. Cries of, "Do it, Johnny, baby!" "Bare your soul," and, "Yesssss!" echoed around the room, almost drowning out the music.

He left the shirt gaping open and turned his attention to his shoes. How the hell could a man taking off shoes and socks be sexy? Oh, it was, it was. "Oh, God, even his feet are gorgeous!" a young billing clerk whispered breathlessly to her companions.

At the rear of the room several high-ranking publishing executives stood in the shadow of the door. None were certain whether to be horrified or amused by their employees' enthusiasm. Deciding to go with the holiday spirit, they exchanged a few hearty chuckles and ordered more martinis.

"Omigod, he's going to do it!" Charis whispered to Gilly as he began slowly lowering the zipper, but then he stopped, raising it once more.

Everyone groaned. He teased them again and again as he made his way around the circle, playing the largely female crowd for all it was worth. There was a palpable sigh of satisfaction when the zipper finally stayed down. He let the fly gape open, revealing the pattern of black hair arrowing past the navel in his washboard abdomen to disappear tantalizingly below. His narrow hips gyrated in slow sync with the music, emphasizing the way the skintight red satin pants clung to his lower body as he shrugged off the white silk shirt and flung it onto the growing pile of clothes inside the box.

"I wouldn't have to do any Christmas shopping for my boyfriend if I could get my hands on that box," one editor said to another. "But then again, I'd a hell of a lot rather see Johnny wearing those clothes than Sam."

"I'd rather see Johnny not wearing them," her companion replied, eyes glued to the man as he began to ease the pants down with excruciating slowness, letting the women work themselves into an even greater frenzy.

The tips were better that way.

When he finally peeled them completely off and threw them into the box, one shiny red pant leg dangled over the edge, swinging to the music. He was six feet, two inches of lean, sinuous muscles and looked lightly tanned…everywhere. The tiny briefs didn't conceal much.

Now the money-making part of the event began in earnest. He gave them several minutes to look but not touch, dancing smoothly around the circle, almost but not quite daring them to make the first move. Someone always did.

It was an assistant art director, with a twenty-dollar bill and her business card. She boldly reached out and stuck both into the elastic band around his hips, whispering, "We simply must have you for a cover model. You're utterly perfect. Call me, darling."

He smiled and moved on as women began flinging bills of all denominations at him. Aware that two of the most influential women in the romance industry were sitting in the front row, he paused in front of them. They watched with rapt attention. Kathryn Falk, Lady of Barrow, stared up into the most fathomless brown eyes she'd ever seen, saying breathlessly, "I never carry cash. I suppose you're not equipped to process a credit card…" Her attention again moved down to his undulating hips and the scanty covering thereon. "Hmm, foolish of me to ask. Would you by any chance take a check, darling?"

"Gentleman Johnny" nodded with a blindingly white smile. Kathryn whipped out her checkbook and began to scribble, all the while darting glances at the stunning entertainer. She had to tear up two checks before finally completing one that was legible.

As she jammed it into his G-string, Carol Stacy continued rooting through her Louis Vuitton handbag like a demented squirrel searching for a cache of acorns. All she could find was a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. She stuffed it into his G-string and said apologetically, "I'm sorry it's so little. Oh, no! That's not what I meant—I meant the money…really…you're…fine…very fine."

He grinned at her and gave her a wink, then moved on. Kathryn leaned toward Carol and said, "We have to get that hunk for our next cover-model pageant. Would he ever be an asset!"

Enjoying the retreating rear of "Gentlemen Johnny," Carol only murmured, "Mmm."

"Carol, are you listening?"

"I am, Kathryn, I am. He has a very fine asset…a superlative asset!"

The official Launch Day and shameless self promotion

The Loopie Anthology is officially live and available at Amazon and Smashwords. Here's the blurb for each of the stories:

Masters of Seduction: six original short stories featuring a magic mirror pendant that guides couples on a seductive path to their own true love's destiny. Follow the mirror as it travels from medieval England to present day Texas.

What the Heart Sees, by Marsha Canham: A knight defying Prince John's edicts risks all with a forester's daughter whose chance encounter with a blind jeweler offers the only possibility for escape… and for love.

A Rough Wooing, by Virginia Henley: After Scottish beauty Douglas Elliot takes advantage of a raid on English Border Warden Sir Lancelot Greystoke's lands to steal his antique mirror pendant, only a pardon from the new king can effect a union between these two reckless lovers.

Heart's Desire, by Jacquie D'Alessandro: On her way to London to attend Queen Victoria's coronation and to announce her own engagement, Callie Albright's stop in the village where she spent her childhood brings her in contact with a man and an antique mirror––and both will change her destiny.

And Then There Was You, by Jill Gregory: When childhood friends Georgianna and Gabe, separated by the years, meet again at a Wyoming ranch, the woman wounded by love and the gunslinger who's vowed never to marry find in each other the one thing they weren't searching for––love

All That Glitters, by Sherri Browning Erwin: Seventies socialite Elyse Fontaine, obsessed with immortality (and vampires!), finds that things aren't always what they seem when she meets mysterious rocker Bastian Blaze on the run from the law.

Happily Ever After, by Julie Ortolon: When Chloe Davis finds an ancient mirror pendant on the beach at Pearl Island, she sees it as a gift of acceptance from the B&B's star-crossed ghosts––until childhood acquaintance Luc Renard arrives from New Orleans with a tale about the mirror that could steal Chloe's happiness––or lead to her own happy ending.

The cover art was a collaboration between Julie Ortolon and myself. As mentioned before, we think it's the first digital stepback, a throwback to the 80′s when Publishers spared no expense putting stepback covers on romance novels, often spending more on the inside artwork than the outer cover.  We all have spiffy title pages too, which will hopefully show up in all ereaders, but if not, here's the example of mine, along with an excerpt from What the Heart Sees.

CHAPTER ONE

  Lincolnshire, England

1193

 

"Archers up!"

The cry went from man to man along the castle battlements. The foresters roused themselves from a weary doze and scrubbed their eyes with fists. Most were hooded against the early morning drizzle, though it was barely thicker than the puffs of breath that misted around their faces. They reached for bows, thinking another alarm had sounded, but as there were no missiles whistling overhead, they eased back and looked instead at the master-at-arms who had made the call. He stood at the top of the steps that led from the east tower down to the lower rooftop of the keep. He was armored, coiffed, and wore a steel helmet with a thick nasal that hid most of his features.

Cassie stretched to ease the stiffness that came from dozing against a solid stone wall. Like the others, she took up her bow as she stood, a fine, strong weapon of English yew. Unlike the others who had left their bows strung, she bent the shaft and twisted the flax string until it was as tight as a whore's heart, then fit it snug to the notch. A quick glance confirmed the supply of arrows within reach. Omfrie de Caux was a persistent bastard, she had to hand him that. This was the third call to arms since dawn; tempers among the defenders were growing frayed.

Belfontaine had been under heavy siege for three weeks now. De Caux had been sent by Prince John to oust Lord Thomas Purefoy from his stronghold, a task which was proving to be not as easy as the router had come to expect. Four of the neighboring demesnes had succumbed with barely any resistance, their lords dragged outside the shattered gates and forced to kneel to their conqueror, whereupon they had been hanged and burned.

The crime? Daring to question the regent's right to levy taxes and scutage in a land already reeling from starvation and poverty. That he did so under the guise of raising the ransom demanded by the Holy Roman Emperor for the return of King Richard, held hostage these past six months, fooled no one. Not even the poorest crofter believed a single copper groat would end up anywhere but in the treasure box of John Lackland.

Those who protested or spoke out against the unlawful levies, found their castles assized, the walls breached, their villeins burned out of their cottages and slaughtered as they ran. On a clear night, from the top of Belfontaine's battlements, distant orange blooms against the darkness had marked the fates of the neighboring baronies.

Belfontaine itself was situated on the western border of Lincolnshire. A massive structure situated on the top of a high hill, it boasted a large sprawling keep with towers at each corner. To reach that keep, attackers had to breach a seven foot thick outer wall guarded by tall barbican towers and a gate comprised of several layers of solid oak banded with iron.

De Caux had left Belfontaine to the last, for it was the largest and least accessible castle within his purview. A sheer drop into a steep ravine protected the northern walls, while a vast, cleared field several hundred feet wide made it impossible to approach the other three walls unseen. At the outset, De Caux had boastfully declared it might take him two days rather than the one to raise his pennon over the keep, but so far, he had been throwing his forces against the walls for twenty-two days and nights with little to show for it.

Cassie peered through the crenellated teeth of the battlement. De Caux's men had burned the village the first day. The small, neat crofters cottages had been spread around the base of the hill, secure in the shadow of the castle walls. The mud and wattle huts were broken now, the thatched roofs had become gauntlets of flame in the night attack, and all that remained were charred heaps of rubble.

Cassie and her father had lived at the edge of the village closest to the forest. Her dark green eyes often looked longingly to that dense ring of greenwood, the trees so thick in places a man could not see his hand before his face.

There had been an instant in time, a moment following the sound of the alarm bells, when she and her father could have chosen to run for the forest rather than take shelter behind the castle gates. The woods were filled with bands of men—outlaws now by decree—who had fled before the burnings and killings. William Fletcher would have been welcomed into any of these vagabond troupes for like the name he bore, he was a bowyer and fletcher. His longbows, which stood as tall as a man, were made of carefully seasoned, straight-grained yew, and were nigh on unbreakable. Cassie had held one to hand since she could waddle upright on her own, and thus she had become his testing piece for new designs, slimmer grips, stronger arrows. Every archer who defended the castle walls had benefited from William's expertise and Cassie's skill, for who among them wanted to admit they could not hold their own against a mere slip of a girl?

Consequently, Belfontaine boasted the finest arbalesters in the kingdom, and it was in great part due to these archers that de Caux's men had been held at bay for the past three weeks. They had discovered early in the siege that it was wisest to make their camp in the trees and not the open fields, and to remain behind the tangle of ferns and saplings during daylight hours. The field between the woods and the castle walls were littered with fools who sought to challenge this wisdom. Their bodies lay in blood-darkened patches of mud, a dozen or more quills sticking out of each calf and thigh—the only vulnerable places not protected by armor and chain mail. Porcupine legs, the defenders called them, for while each wound on its own might not be fatal, a dozen shafts piercing each leg soon caused a man to bleed out.

"They have been pounding for two days and nights now," said John the verderer from his post beside her. "And look how cocky they grow."

Cassie knuckled the last of the sleep out of her eyes and followed John's pointed finger. There was movement at the edge of the trees, though the layer of mist made it difficult to see. Now and then she caught a glint of armor or a splash of color from a surcoat or gambeson. Most were dark blue emblazoned in gold with the arms of Omfrie de Caux; a fox and wolfhound rampant, snarling, claws and fangs bared.

"What do you suppose they are building?"

Cassie shrugged. "They were cutting down trees all week. A Trojan horse, perhaps?"

John arched an eyebrow. "A horse out of wood?"

"To present as a false gift," she explained. "A tall wooden horse that would appear to be an offering of peace, but with a belly full of soldiers who come out after dark and slay everyone in the castle."

"De Caux has done this at other castles?"

"No." She laughed slightly. "No, 'tis a tale from ancientGreece. A famous battle fought at Troy. I could read it to you sometime if you like."

His frown deepened. "Reading is for mendicants and clerks."

"Reading teaches you from the experiences of others, some who lived a thousand years ago."

"A thousand years?" He snorted. "De Caux is not that old."

Cassie opened her mouth to comment but realized it would be useless and only make her head hurt as much as her body.

Coming as a timely interruption, she saw a commotion at the top of the tower steps. A pair of knights had climbed from the wall-walk and stood there talking to the master-at-arms.

Cassie's skin flushed instantly warm and her belly made a gentle somersault. It was Lord Thomas Purefoy himself, come to inspect his castle's defenses as he had done on several previous occasions since the siege began. He stood half a head taller than any other man on the rooftop. He had a face like a dark archangel, with high cheekbones, and a square jaw that was clean shaven in the Norman fashion in contrast to the Saxon shagginess of his villeins and tenants. He was every inch a knight. Broad shoulders and chest were heavy with muscle, as accustomed to wearing a hundredweight of chain mail as a forester was to the lightness of a linsey-woolsey shirt.

Beneath his burgundy and gold gambeson, Sir Thomas was wearing a short mail hauberk, the links glittering down his arms like the scales of a fish. The tight steel rings of his coif hid the wavy thickness of his hair, but she knew it to be almost blue-black and short-cropped. His long legs were encased in snug woolen hose that showed the shape of every muscle, every sinew, and, as he propped a boot on a wooden cask, the heavy maleness at the juncture of his thighs. Flushing even warmer, she forced herself to lower her eyes swiftly, lest she be caught trying to peek under the hem of his tunic.

Admiring the lord of the castle from afar was safe enough and Cassie had done so on many an occasion, but up close it was an entirely different matter. She could feel the blush staying stubbornly in her cheeks and she shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other feeling other parts of her body affected by wicked thoughts. She was conscious of her own tawdry appearance. Her calf-skin leggings sagged from ankle to knee; the coarse wool of her tunic was filthy, having been lived in and slept in for the past fortnight. Her hair was scraped back and hung down her back in a grimy, tattered braid, and her hands… God's teeth, her hands were black with dirt and shaking like those of a virgin on her wedding night.

As discreetly as she could, she slid behind John the verderer, using his bulk as a shield. With one green eye she peeked around his shoulder at the vaunted knight as he spoke to the guards and listened to the state of their defenses in this quadrant. They had tubs of oil and barrels of pitch that could be boiled and poured over the walls should any of de Caux's men attempt to throw up ladders. The east tower being farthest from the verge of woods, they had the best archers culled from the foresters and huntsmen, and a ready supply of arrows.

As he listened, Sir Thomas nodded and moved toward the battlements. He walked with a slight limp, the result of an injury sustained while on Crusade. He had lost some toes, Cassie had heard from the gossips, but by the grace of God, not the whole foot. He had fought at Richard the Lionheart's right hand side and that alone, in Cassie's opinion, would have been worth the loss of the entire leg!

"It would appear your archers have been keeping de Caux's head well down in his foxhole," said the knight who had accompanied Sir Thomas to the tower.

Cassie leaned a little to see the speaker, for most men in helmets looked alike. She recognized the voice however, the sound was like two slabs of stone grinding together. Sir Hubert Longspree was the captain of the castle guard, craggy-faced and stout as a barrel.

"Well done, men," Sir Thomas said as his sky-blue eyes swept around the battlements. Our fondest hope is that the regent's puppet will tire of throwing himself against our walls and when he does, the victory may be credited in a large part to those here present."

A cheer went up amongst the archers, for it was not often that knights acknowledged them as being of more use than softening a field before the true army of mounted warriors thundered out to do battle. There would be no thundering out of Belfontaine, however. There were less than twenty knights inside the walls and more than a hundred outside.

Sir Thomas paused by one of the men, who pulled himself up proudly and tugged a greasy forelock in deference. The pale blue gaze had been drawn to the archer's weapon, one of William Fletcher's making and while, as a knight, he would never deign to carry a bow into battle, he respected its power.

"Sir Hubert tells me some of your arrows have been able to pierce through chain mail. Is this correct?"

"Not mine, Sire," said Alfred the Oaf. "I can pierce through skin and fur well enough, and mayhap a leather jerkin if it's not too thick, but my arrows are not fit against iron."

Sir Thomas tilted his head slightly as Sir Hubert murmured something in his ear.

"The girl, you say? Where?"

Sir Hubert scanned the row of grimy faces. "Cassandra, the fletcher's daughter. Come forward and acknowledge your liege."

Cassie closed her eyes briefly, braced herself, then stepped out of the shadow of John the verderer.

"Forward. To me, girl."

Cassie obeyed the sound of grinding rocks and moved away from the wall, feeling the eyes of every man turning to watch.

Sir Thomas's brows drew together as she approached, and with good reason. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She was as slender as the bow she carried, with large green eyes and a face that belonged to a grimy little cherub.

"Sir Hubert informs me your arrows are the ones that have been piercing through mail. Is this true?"

Cassie moistened her lips. "They are my father's arrows, my lord, I merely send them on their way."

"And what makes these arrows so keen as to break through iron links?"

She kept her eyes focused on the toes of his boots as she handed him one of the ashwood arrows to inspect. The shaft was as long as her arm, the goosefeather fletching smooth and precisely trimmed. It was the tip, however, that varied from the blunt-nosed bodkins that were launched from most of the longbows. Made of twice-tempered steel, hammered flat and honed to a fine point, it could slice through leather like a knife and penetrate all but the thickest plates of jazzerant armor. The tip had another fearsome feature, one he acknowledged immediately with his soldier's eye: It was double barbed, like a fish hook, and seated loose enough on the shaft that it would come off in the flesh and make even the smallest wound fatal.

"Why do all the men not have these arrows?"

"They take longer to make, my lord," she answered quietly.

Sir Thomas narrowed his eyes. "And he trusts these few to you?"

The words a mere girl went unspoken, but she heard them as clear as the bell that tolled alarms. So did the men who knew her temper as well as her skill, and several of them made a sound in their throats, loud enough for Sir Thomas to take note.

The blue eyes scanned the faces, and their smiles faded. He looked back at Cassie, noting the two hot spots of color on her cheeks.

"I detect some champions among your peers. Before I can be convinced, however, I would see a demonstration."

She raised her eyes then and looked calmly, directly into his. "I have but a score of barbed arrows left, my lord, yet if you would have me squander one by demonstrating that I can pluck an acorn off a tree branch, I would happily oblige."

In the immediate silence that followed, Cassie nearly bit her tongue in half. Beside her, Sir Hubert's chest was already swelling like a bladder filling with hot air. His face had darkened and his fists had clenched. He was a tic away from roaring at her insolence when Lord Purefoy chuckled and raised a gloved hand to stop him spluttering.

"Very well, girl. Come with me. I will choose a worthy acorn."

 

It all comes down to Jacquie and Snooki

The Loopies have been furiously emailing back and forth the past few days,  even over mouthfuls of turkey dinners and whilst driving along bumpy dirt roads. All in an effort to make sure Masters of Seduction is as great as we can make it. The six of us, Virginia Henley (who somehow had her name changed to Victoria in the Table of Contents *snort*) Jill Gregory, Jacquie D'Alessandro, Sherri Browning Erwin, Julie Ortolon, and moi winged over a hundred emails yesterday alone working on the blurb, and whether to say Middle Ages or Medieval times. It's been an experience, that's for sure. And a lot of fun. I think we would all do it again in a heartbeat, as long as we had an ample supply of chocolate martinis.

Print publishers arrange these things normally. They choose a handful of authors from their stable (yes, it's called a stable) who they figure will sell well, usually one with a Big Name to attract the attention of faithful fans, and a smattering of not so big names who they hope will garner some attention and boost their readership.  It's a good system, and it works. Many writers whose short stories first appeared in anthologies have gone on to hit the NYTimes and USA Today lists.

I was asked once, to contribute to an anthology, but when I was told the story had to be limited to between 30-40 pages I gently turned it down. It normally takes me that long just to introduce my characters and send the ball rolling into the first plotline. Some writers do great with short stories. They have a knack for landing the reader smack in the midst of the story, tell readers all they need to know about the main characters, build a conflict, work through a resolution, and have everyone live happily ever after, all in 30 pages.

*snort*

I'll admit, when the Loopies first started discussing an anthology, I had my reservations…again…even though I played an enthusiastic part in getting the idea rolling around.  And this is where Snooki came in.  At the time, Jacquie and Connie Brockway had just finished contributing stories for the Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance, and Jacquie was bemoaning the fact that it was being released the same day as a book by Snooki.

Who?

Exactly.

Discussions then went on a tangent about how to increase their exposure to gain publicity for the Mammoth book, ranging from hanging out with Paris Hilton to running around without underwear and having indiscriminate sex with Jersey boys wearing a tibetan terrier on the head (as a hat? hmm. bit hairy) From that irreverent fodder, came Jacquie's infamous suggestion:  "We should write a Loopie anthology."  Minutes later  Julie chimed in with "Actually that's not a bad idea." Virginia's email landed within seconds: "That is a damn good idea!" whereupon I stuck my foot in with: "I pitched an idea a long time ago to Dell that stirred up a bit of excitement with the editor at the time, but the axe fell shortly thereafter and it never went anywhere.  It was an anthology based around an antique mirror and the hands it passed through on it's journey from ye olde England to an appraisal request at the Antiques Road show."

Voila. The idea was born.

This time around, even though I certainly shared everyone's enthusiasm for the project,  it was even more unnerving because I'd been basically retired for the past seven years. Way out of sync with the concentration and focus and sheer sit-your-ass-down-and-do-it mindset you need to write a book, or write anything for that matter. But it was the Loopies!  And I wasn't about to let the Loopies down. So I sat my ass down and tried to figure out how to write a short story. Did I read any? No.  That would have been the totally logical thing to do. *snort*

Two months and about eight drafts later, I had the beginnings of four short stories. I had originally been assigned a "pirate" theme because I was already working on the sequel to The Iron Rose, so a pirate story shouldn't have been too difficult. HAH. Each time I thought of an idea for the short story, it seemed to work out better in the longer book I was writing, so it went there instead. I even whined to Jill Gregory that I couldn't seem to find the right focus, and that maybe this was not such a great idea after all. I wasn't a short story writer. Wasn't even sure I could pull it off.

Around that time, when my late night whining had Jill rolling her eyes, I'm sure, one of the original Loopies, Julie London, (who had claimed the medieval time period because she had never written anything that early and wanted to take a stab at it) had to drop out due to other commitments, deadlines, etc.  (I was also going to mention that she thought "medieval" meant Henry the VIII, but I won't say anything about that *sweet smile*)  I instantly jumped ship, so to speak and glommed the medieval time period, saying we needed to show how and where the mirror pendant started it's journey. No one objected, so there I was in the greenwood again, a bow in my hands, arrows in my quiver, a castle under seige and only one way out…

Writing "What the Heart Sees" was an absolute pleasure, no strain, no stress whatsoever. I hadn't realized how much I missed those knights clanking around in armor, arrows zinging through the woods, foresters lying in ambush. I *think* I even wrangled the whole how-to-write-a-short story conundrum to the ground, managing to reign back my natural tendency to excess descriptive verbiage. Nah. No I didn't *g*. I don't think. I guess I'll have to let the readers decide.

Anyway, Masters of Seduction is on track to be released December 1st.  That's in two days. I've already mentioned we have spiffy graphics, a gorgeous cover and stepback as well as title pages for each story.  I'm told some ereader devices won't allow the graphics, and that's unfortunate. I'm also told that a lot of readers aren't aware that they can go to Amazon and download apps that allow Kindle files to be downloaded onto any kind of ereader.  I have a Pandigital that usually downloads from Kobo, but I have the Kindle for Kobo app loaded on it, so I'm not limited to buying from one place.  I also have an iPad2 and yes, the Kindle for iPad app which lets me download straight from Amazon, and not have to go through the Apple store…which, as a minor aside, is a headache to even get to the bookstore much less buy there.  Ad for Kobo…well…perhaps now that they've been bought out by a huge conglomerate they'll clean up their act, but until then…I'm not really impressed. Less than half my books were available there even though Smashwords said they had all been distributed to them.

But that is a subject for another blog.

For now, thank you Snooki and Jacquie for sending us down this mahhhvellous path.

Defining stupidity. A long overdue vent.

I'm the first to admit, I've done a lot of stupid things in my life. I started smoking when I was young and I know I should quit but I rationalize to myself that three cigs a day isn't nearly as bad as three packs a day. Stupid logic.  I've driven when I shouldn't have, and I've known I shouldn't have after the third glass of wine, but again, stupidity reigns when you're young and stupid. Thankfully I'm older now and less stupid and I don't even drive if I've had too much caffeine.

I've written letters in the absolute white heat of anger and hit *send* before I let myself cool off and think about what I really should have said. I've said and done stupid things, sometimes hurtful things, and wished I could take it all back or done it all over again. I have regrets. I have moments of absolute clarity when I can see and admit to all the stupid things I've said or done or tried to do. Everyday stupid things. We all do it. We can all admit to it at some point or another. And we all think we've had that one defining moment of absolute stupidity that we think nothing can possibly top.  That one moment when you look at your reflection in the mirror and say the words out loud:  you stupid ass, are you really THAT stupid?

But then…like a beacon of hope in the night, something happens that out-stupids your stupidest moment. You can look at that reflection and say: Hah. That was even stupider than what I did.

I had that moment last night. The epiphany of stupidities, so to speak. That dazzling, suspended moment in time when I realized that someone has done something so magnificently, unbelievably stupid that I know it can never be out-stupided.

Try this on for stupid-size.

Assume someone already known to be stupid wants to send a nasty letter to someone to cause trouble, to stir up old mistrusts and hard feelings, to cause doubt and turmoil and just generally cause hell to break loose….so he thinks AHH…I'll send an anonymous letter to her place of work instead of her home. Won't sign it. I'll wear gloves to foil CSI. I'll get a giraffe to spit on it so there's no DNA on the envelope. I'll use three different typewriters to type up the letter and I'll spell all the words right so for sure she won't know it's me….

Bingo, right? Brilliant? Mensa material?

So what does this epitome of brilliance do next? He writes the address on the outside of the envelope in big bold letters.  In his own handwriting.  In block letters that his own ten year old granddaughter looks at and says: hey, that's Grumpy's writing.

Duh.

I'm seriously thinking about writing a humorous book:  "How I lost 182lbs Overnight and Shed a Whole Whack of Stupidity in the Process."  Yup. You guessed it. The stupid ex husband has reached for that brass ring of ultimate stupidity and caught it.  He sent an *anonymous* letter in his own handwriting.

If anyone can top this for stupidity…I'd really like to hear about it.  The only one who has come close is the guy in the spitting contest who took a run from across the room out onto the balcony to see how far he could spit and ended up hurling himself over the railing and falling six storeys to his death.

Sending an *anonymous* letter in your own damned handwriting HAS to beat that.

Instead of a Sample Sunday this is more of a Sample Teaser

I'm sure you've all seen me mention the Loopies before, a group of terrific romance authors who came together years ago when we all wrote for Dell. Back then we had the Author's Mansion, a website built like a big house with everyone assigned a room. We were all midlist at that time, and only the Queen of Historical Romance herself, Virginia Henley, had managed to hit the NYTimes list. But it was like a little bit of all of us made it because we all hooted and hollered and celebrated. Virginia actually climbed up onto the roof of her house and shouted it to the neighborhood, which we applauded but didn't imitate *snort*.  If one of us had a success, we all shared in it.  If one was down in the dumps, we were all there for support. If someone had no where else to vent, we all listened and invented new swear words.

When Dell imploded, we all went our various ways as far as publishers went, but the Loop Group remained steadfast. There were nine of us…myself, Virginia Henley, Jill Gregory, Jacquie D'Alessandro, Sherri Browning Erwin, Julie Ortolon, Julia London, Connie Brockway, and Kathleen Givens. We lost Kathleen, tragically, and far too early. She had a wonderfully dry wit and was always there with a supportive word, or a funny observation, or a sisterly smack upside the head.  She has been dearly missed.

Unfazed by the Dell implosion most of remained on the USA Today lists and several more went on to climb roofs and shout about making the NYTimes.

About a year ago the eight of us were throfting mail back and forth discussing this brave new world of ebook self-publishing. Jules was the first to dip her toe in and test out the waters, and when she found them warm and welcoming, she dragged me in after her. Most of the other Loopies have followed, with the only straggler being Sherri, who had a huge print deadline to worry about, along with selling a house, buying a house, moving, etc etc. But a funny thing happened while we were discussing the pros and cons of self publishing. One of us…I can't even remember who…suggested that it would be fun if we all wrote a short story and put them together in an anthology.  Oddly enough, none of us had thought of doing it before, mainly because of the incredible hassles involved in dealing with publishing houses (each wrote for a different publisher, so which one would we approach?)  Add to that the fact we all wrote such different stuff, how could we tie it all together? Virginia, as mentioned, is the Queen and writes big lusty in-your-face romances filled with history, pomp, and ceremony not to mention steamy sex. Jill Gregory writes Western Romances with gunslingers and feisty little ladies, Jacquie D'Alessandro writes hot Regencies, Sherri Browning Erwin writes dark vampirical mash-ups like Jayne Slayer and Grave Expectations (creepy but cool), Julie Ortolon writes modern contemporary romances, and me…well…I like pirates and knights and sea battles and jousting matches.

Did the diversity stop us? Hell no. We just got a little more creative. We came up with a cool idea of having something travel through the centuries…in this case, a mirror pendant…which would let each of us write in the time period of our choice. Two of the Loopies had to drop out of the project due to time crunches, deadlines, and commitments elsewhere but the six of us diehards have come up with an anthology aptly titled, Masters of Seduction.

You'll notice no live links to it yet, because it doesn't go live until December 1st, ergo the the pithy and tantalizing title of todays blog. This is just a teaser. A peek, if you will, at the magnificent cover and…ta dah…digital step back.

We hope everyone  finds this anthology as cool as we did while we were putting it together. We're already making rumblings about Masters of Temptation…

By the way, this is not just a first for me as far as being part of an anthology…it's also the very first time I have written a short story, or anything under a hundred thousand words…so be kind *g*

Sample Sunday, Ruth Harris

I'm back with another Sample Sunday author. This week's guest blogger is Ruth Harris, one of the wonderful authors I've met through BacklistEbooks.com…terrific website, check it out if you're looking for older books from some of your favorite authors…including *me* (toss in a big cheesy grin there).  On another personal note, the knee surgery went well. It was sort of a Gilligan's Island adventure for a while…the one hour stay in the recovery room turned into five, but I've emerged hobbling and almost smiling. They will, however, have to catch me with a net before I get the actual replacement done *snort*

On to today's guest blog, welcome Ruth.

I'm a New York Times bestselling author whose books (with Random House, Simon & Schuster, and St.Martin's Press) I have sold millions of copies in hardcover and paperback, been translated into 19 languages, published in 25 countries and selected by the Literary Guild and Book-of-the-Month Club.

I started out in publishing right after I graduated from college. My first job was as secretary to a textbook editor, an unpromising start if there ever was one, but I was soon promoted to copyediting—much more interesting.
In the years that followed—the years when editors ran publishing—I worked at Dell and Bantam and at Lancer, a successful but now defunct (not because of me!) independent mass market paperback publisher where I wallowed in the joys of genre publishing in its heyday.
I've been a copywriter, assistant editor, editor, editor-in-chief and, eventually, publisher (at Kensington).
I've also written more magazine articles than I can remember—and a few paperback originals even I've forgotten.
I live in New York City with my husband, writer Michael Harris,  author of Always On Sunday: An Inside View of Ed Sullivan, The Beatles, Elvis, Sinatra and Ed's Other Guests and The Atomic Times: My H-Bomb Year at the Pacific Proving Ground. Both are available in Kindle editions.

Recently, I've been acquiring the rights to my backlist, and re-issuing them as ebooks. You can now buy The Last Romantics, Husbands and Lovers, Decades, Love And Money and Modern Women for your Kindle, Nook, iPad or other ereader—with more to follow. You can find them at my author page at Amazon.com.

Most recently, I co-authored a thriller, HOOKED, with Michael and published it directly to Kindle.

Contact me by e-mail at:  rca (dot) harris (at) gmail (dot) com

Follow me on twitter: @RuthHarrisBooks

Here's the set up:

HOOKED is a story of sex, greed, ambition, murder, revenge and assassination — and of, Gavin Jenkins, a gifted doctor from a small town in Kentucky. Dr. Jenkins' miracle treatments give patients everything they want:  youth, beauty, radiant vitality and sexual potency.  No wonder he is worshiped by the celebrities who become his patients.  No wonder his influence runs from the private island of an enigmatic Turkish billionaire with a bloody secret to the crimson-draped bedroom of a depraved, Mid-eastern Prince;  from the private dressing rooms of world-famous artists to the heights of international society and the inner sanctums of the White House itself.

Here's the excerpt:

Sadun's darkened bedroom was as grotesque as its inhabitant. Floor-length crimson satin curtains hung at the windows. They were trimmed with gold tassels and tied back with gold braid, under which another dense quantity of curtain, this time sheer cream-colored silk, obliterated the windows. No ray of sunlight entered the room.

A gilt Empire-style dressing table was strewn with combs, brushes, bottles of tonics and lotions, and vials of perfume. A huge bed was made with crimson sheets and matching satin-tufted pillows. Ermine throws half-hid a satin bedspread of the same crimson. Four black-and-white zebra skin rugs decorated the polished parquet floor.

In spotlighted wall niches stood statuettes of men and women and children and animals in every sexual combination conceivable. The furnishings were completed by a mirror, ten feet square, angled across from the bed to reflect every activity that occurred on its crimson and ermine expanse.

Gavin entered Sadun's room at eight the next morning. Sadun's bloated shape, clothed in silk leopard-patterned pajamas, was partially covered by a silk sheet. A cone of musky incense smoldered on the bedside table.

Sadun watched as Gavin opened his black bag and drew various liquids into a hypodermic needle.

"Your arm," instructed Gavin.

Sadun meekly rolled up the leopard-patterned pajama sleeve and submitted.

Gavin administered the injection and noted that Sadun's reactions were the same as Gail's and almost every other patient. The gooseflesh, the sharp inhalation followed by the complete exhalation, the spasmodic jerk of the spine, the subsequent relaxation and the look of satiated lust

"What was that?" asked Sadun from his euphoric haze.

"Willpower," said Gavin.

Every afternoon X placed a call to Lydia with a summary of the day's events. At first Gavin thought it was her voluptuousness that appealed to Nicky. She had heavy, round breasts and an animal way of moving the lower part of her body when she walked.

He soon realized, though, that Kiskalesi's interest was in quite another area. X was his watchdog, efficient, discreet, and omnipresent. She was Nicky's spy, Sadun's jailer and Gavin's supervisor and she made no secret of her role.

"You know everything, don't you?" Gavin asked.

X smiled unpleasantly. "The spies to guard against," she said, "are the ones who make a secret of what they do."

A few nights later, just after midnight, there was a knock on Gavin's door. He was staying in the room next to X's, which, in turn, was adjacent to Sadun's own grotesque room.

"Come in," said Gavin.

The paneled door opened, and a girl, perhaps thirteen, entered the room and closed the door behind her. She had clear olive skin and her brown eyes were outlined with kohl. As she moved wordlessly to Gavin's bed, she pulled up the skirt of her gauzy caftan to expose a shaved pudenda.

"Excellency," she said. "You command—"

"Who are you?" Gavin looked past the girl toward the closed door.

"Seema," she said. "Rudy send me—"

She moved to get into the bed with Gavin but he stopped her with a gesture. He got out of bed and crossed the room, his footsteps silenced by the thick pile of the lush carpeting. He took the gilded doorknob in both hands, ripped the door open and found himself face to face with Rudy Sarvo.

"Never again," he warned. "Do you understand me?"

"Next time I send perhaps a boy?" Rudy asked

Gavin shook his head. "There will be no 'next time,'" he said and told the girl to return to her room.

Rudy shrugged and fished a piece of food from between his teeth with his tongue, extracted it with the two first fingers of his right hand, put it back into his mouth, and swallowed.

"There is always a next time," Rudy Sarvo said as he turned to leave. "Always."

"You American puritans," Sadun sneered the next morning.

He was in the enormous sunken white-marble bathtub and Seema, the girl who had been sent to Gavin's room the previous evening, was bathing him with jasmine soap and a large sponge.

"I'm surprised any American babies ever get born, you're such a nation of prudes," he continued. "Ouch!" he bellowed, interrupting himself. "You got soap in my eye."

He struck the girl in the face, so hard a red welt appeared on her cheek.

"Clumsy ox!" he said and slapped her again.

Gavin stepped forward and pushed the girl back from the edge of the tub. Then he slapped Sadun and, using both hands, held his head under water until Sadun stopped struggling.

He came up, gasping for air.

"You're too old to be washed. You can wash yourself," said Gavin. He dismissed the girl and flipped the wet sponge at Sadun.

"But I've never washed myself," Sadun whined.

"You've never done a goddamn thing for yourself," Gavin said.

Sadun didn't read for himself. He had an enormous morocco-bound library of pornography that he had read to him. Sadun didn't bathe himself, he didn't dry himself, he didn't dress himself. Gavin was amazed that he even bothered to put a spoon to his mouth to feed himself.

"I'm a royal prince," said Sadun. "You can't talk to me like that."

"I can and I will," Gavin said and threw the bar of soap into the huge tub where it promptly sank to the bottom.

"You lost my soap."

"Find it—"

"Rudy!" shrieked Sadun. "Rudy!"

In an instant, Rudy Sarvo was at the door.

"Excellency?" asked the pimp.

"Make him go away," pouted Sadun. "He won't let Seema give me my bath—"

Rudy headed toward Gavin but as he approached, Gavin grabbed him by both arms, spun him around, and propelled him out the room. Then he shut the door and locked it.

Without a word, Gavin let himself out the other door of the bathroom and locked it from the outside, leaving the man who could claim the throne of Egypt alone in his bath, unable even to find the soap for himself.

As Gavin headed down the corridor to the curved stairs that led to the ground floor, he heard his Royal Highness.

"What about my shot?" he shouted. "Where's my shot?"

"Nicky said to tell you that he's very pleased," X told Gavin three weeks later. Subsisting on Gavin's shots and beef bouillon, Sadun had lost thirty-five pounds. "He's particularly pleased with Sadun's mental attitude—"

"As he loses more weight, he'll improve even more," said Gavin.

"He's becoming a different man—"

"He's improving in spite of Rudy Sarvo," Gavin said. "He smuggles pastry in to Sadun."

"I've told Nicky you've had trouble with Rudy—"

"It would be better for Sadun if Rudy weren't around—"

"The less you interfere with Rudy Sarvo, the safer you'll be," warned X. "Things are not necessarily what they seem."

 

Deja Vu and the Evil Empire

About 20 years ago I wrote an article for the RWA (Romance Writers of America) magazine because I was pissed off. Normally not a wise time to write anything at all, and to write something that would appear in a national magazine…well…nuff said.

Anyway, the reason why I was livid was that I had just received a royalty statement for a contemporary book that I had written for a well-known publishing house, hereafter known as the Evil Empire. I had negotiated 8% royalties, because that was what I was getting for my big historicals. Those statements, at the best of times, are filled with so much gobbledegook that you need a degree in code deciphering in order to even come close to figuring out how they compute their earnings. In my article, I used all my own figures, quoting number of sales in the US, for which I think it worked out to 6% of net price, not the cover price of course (gobbledegook accounting #1) and less than 1% for foreign sales, which included my own country, Canada, which has, admittedly, been called a melting pot of nationalities, but really…foreign?  The Evil Empire's North American headquarters were located in this same country at the time, so were they calling themselves a foreign publisher? Not.

At the time the article got a lot of mail, some authors were miffed that I should take such a lowly view of a such a huge publisher who gave unknown authors such great opportunities to be published.  There were authors who wrote more gobbledegook justifying the percentages and trying to tell me that my figures were wrong.  Seriously.  I took the numbers right off the royalty statement, but someone a thousand miles away was telling me my figures were wrong and my math was all skewed and that other authors shouldn't pay attention to my ramblings.

Granted, I do ramble at times, but I usually make a point or two eventually.

Fast forward twenty years to the dawn of the digital revolution. Most traditional publishers were getting away with charging the same price for an ebook as they were for a print book, for basically doing nothing but uploading a file.  They used the same artwork, same blurb, same edited files, and most were paying the authors the same royalty rates, between 6-8% of the net price, not even the cover price.  Can anyone say: Pure gravy?

Over the last year or so, a lot of authors, myself included, started waking up to the fact that they could self publish their backlist, giving those books a second life by going directly through Smashwords, Amazon, and Pubit.  There are a few drawbacks…we can't use the same covers or the same blurbs, so that incurs a cost to most indie authors, as does scanning the book and proofing it for errors. Alternately, if the book is new, never been seen before, there is the added cost of a copyeditor… a step that is absolutely crucial and one that not many authors would even think of avoiding (I know I  wouldn't, just read some of the creative grammar in my blogs if you doubt me. LOL)

I was lucky early on in the process. Noting how slow the traditional publishing companies were in recognizing the potential effects of this ebook revolution, I wrote away for the rights to most of my backlist.  I owned the rights to four already, China Rose, The Wind and the Sea, Bound by the Heart, and Swept Away, but having 12 books is always better than having 4, so I sent off my letters and sat back with my fingers crossed.  Sure enough, the letters came back in short order officially reverting the rights, which meant I was free to reissue them myself… which I did, pricing most between $2.99 and $3.99 (reduced from what the publisher was charging at $7.99) I had also sent a letter away to the Evil Empire, who printed my one and only contemporary tome…the same publisher I had taken to task in the aforementioned article to RWA.  It took them three emails and 9 months before they agreed to give me those rights back, and again, it was all in the timing.  Several authors who wrote away even a month after I did, were turned down flat and told their books were being reissued! AND they were going to be getting *gasps and applause* 25% royalties!  Woot! On the net price, of course, not the cover price. But Woot! 25%! An astonishing number of authors thought this was a good deal, a good sign that the Evil Empire was going to do right by their bazillions of authors.

I had the distinct sensation of déjà vu, remembering back to the RWA article and all the authors who said they were being treated fairly and that we who dared to complain had it all wrong and were likely going to spoil it for everyone and how dare someone tell people not to sign with the Evil Empire just because that someone MAY have had a bad experience.

Hmmmm.

June marked the end of a royalty period, but as any good and creative accountant for a good and creative publisher knows, there is always a 90 day delay (even in this age of instant computer technology) before they are obligated to pass along the numbers to the authors. (Did I mention that publishing houses only pay twice a year? That means an author has to wait 6 months between pay cheques;  they have no idea how much that pay cheque will be, and in some instances, aren't even told how many books they've sold. God forbid we should ever know the math formulae they use for computing.)

One of the authors on a mail loop I'm on wrote a rather startling account of the statement she received recently from the Evil Empire.  In it she said: OnJuly 1, 2010they put up four [themed] ebooks I wrote in the late 90's.  Today's statement gives NO number of sales, no individual breakdown page for each of the books, but did have a payout cumulative statement of $132 total of all four books.  In September of 2010 I put up 3 [similarly themed] books originally released by [another publisher] and have sold thousands of copies, and made thousands of dollars.  The discrepancy among these [themed] book sales is outrageous!  What's more, one of my 2009 books DOES have a breakdown sheet. I sold 563 ebooks and received $29.71.  Self-pubbing this book at 3.99, which they sold it for, I WOULD have made $1,576.40.

Sooooo all the authors who think this publisher is doing them a great favour by upping the royalty rate from 6% to 25% of the net price, of course, not the cover price I'm curious to know if they still believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?

Can you hear me growling from here?

Can you hear me now?

AUGH!

For such a honkin big company, conglomerate, business, whatever you want to call it, Amazon can sure muck things up.

As authors, we are all well aware that glitches go through in the files we upload. Could be typing mistakes and misspelled words. Could be problems with the scanning process and converting the copy that was scanned into a document file. Could be hidden codes built into Word that cause ellipses to become split between one line and the next, and that throws off the indents. Could be the nano-brain of some dumb author misfiring, who somehow forgot to include a chapter in the final file while she was assembling it.

Yeah. That was me. The infamous missing chapter Twenty Eight in Bound by the Heart.  One of the most crucial chapters in the book, of course. The omission was brought to my attention back in June of this year, and I immediately corrected the file (the nano-brained numbwit had numbered the chapters in the original files wrong, so when they were put together, at 3 in the morning when I tend to do all crucial things, one of them was misnamed, misfiled, catastrophe was in place) and uploaded the new file with correctly numbered chapters, including the missing #28.

That should have fixed it, right?

WRONG.

You've heard about the perfect storm? How three relatively harmless storm fronts swirl together at exactly the same time, over the exact same place and cause chaos?

Wellllll….shortly before the corrected file was uploaded, I tried to invite a little interest in my backlist books by making one of my books free. Guess which one I chose?  Yepper. Bound by the Heart. It's actually a pretty good book. It was the second one I wrote, but if you've followed my adventures into ebook land, you'll know I did extensive rewrites on it, removing and reworking a scene that has been bothering me since it was written and released. Some readers seem to think I did it to be politically correct, but that's not the case. It was a rape scene, written at a time when Rosemary Rogers was queen and every book had a rape scene in it. I was new and hadn't learned to flex my author muscles yet, so in an effort to *fit in* with the trend at the time, I had my hero rape the heroine. I could even justify it by saying back then, that's what happened. If a pirate captured a beautiful young woman, he sure wasn't about to "win her with my charm" as some of the old pirate genre books implied.  He would toss her on the deck and take what he wanted and then probably hand her around to the crew. So it wasn't that the rape was out of character for the time period, it was the aftereffect that was. A la Rosemary Rogers,  the heroine succumbed to the incredible pleasure she discovered in his arms and they went on to boink happily and passionately whenever they had the chance.  The problem was, it wouldn't have been in Morgan Wade's character.  Well, it would, but it wouldn't.  I don't think he would have raped her. It just wasn't the kind of man he was, and making him do something out of character, then trying to justify it, never did feel right to me. So…when I had the chance to change it, I jumped all over it and rewrote the scene to match the man.  I know I'm rambling off topic again, but I saw a comment just the other day on a discussion board that mentioned my name and said I had changed it because of readers comments.  That certainly factored into the decision, but it wasn't the main reason why I did it.  I did it because it felt right for the hero's character.  There is a rape in The Wind and the Sea, and it was left as is in the reissue because it fit the mood and temperament of Adrian's character at that point in time. He was pissed, he was drunk, he was angry at the world, pondering mutiny, and Courtney said the wrong things at the wrong time and he reacted with force. It fit the story and the times and, at that point in the book, the characters.

So now back to the perfect storm.

Bound by the Heart had been uploaded back in October of 2010, I do believe.  I didn't learn about the missing chapter until June of 2011..following a week in late May when it was Free for 10 days and 60K copies were downloaded. A couple of readers emailed me asking if the book was missing a chapter, and when I looked, to my utter horror, I found that it was. As previously mentioned, I immediately uploaded the corrected file to Amazon and Smashwords, posted an apology to the readers alerting them to the fact a new version was available and they could simply download the new copy.

>>>5.0 out of 5 stars Apolgies from the Author, May 27, 2011


By
Marsha Canham



This review is from: Bound By The Heart (Kindle Edition)

If you downloaded Bound by the Heart between May 25 and May 27 you may be missing chapter 28. I can't tell you how sorry I am for the omission, but it has been corrected and a new version is uploaded. My very humble apologies for any aggravation this might cause. I have visions of readers reaching the crucial point in the book and going WHAT? WHERE? HOW? then throwing it against the wall. Please don't throw it *s* Just download a new copy. And if there is any problem with a new download, please contact me directly. Thank you so much. This is like an author's worst nightmare. augh.>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Sounds easy enough, yes?

As recently as a month ago, Amazon's "quality control" eagle eyes wrote to me advising me a reader had complained of a misspelled word and a missing chapter in Bound by the Heart.  Missing chapter? Huh? I wrote to Amazon and told them I had uploaded a newer version back in early June, also that I had been under the impression that a notice would have been sent out to all the readers who had purchased the book that a revised edition had been posted.  Silly me.   As recently as a few days ago a reader had left a review complaining about the missing chapter.  And around the same time I was told that notices DON'T go out to readers, and what's more, if they try to download the book again, they get the same corrupted file, not the new one.

AUGH!

I have the missing chapter posted on my website  http://www.marshacanham.com/boundbytheheart_ch28.html but since that seems a poor man's solution to a bigger problem, I have decided to simply remove  Bound by the Heart  from Amazon.  It means I lose all the terrific 5 star reviews (there were 29 of them, and 10  4 star) When all traces of it have vanished (It still shows up on my author KDP page) I will upload it again, but until then, it's only available through Smashwords, Barnes and Noble, Sony,  and Apple.

I don't understand how Amazon could have a glitch like that in their system. How they could keep sending out a corrupt file when the new one has been uploaded for months and months.  Blah.

When it comes back online, I will do my best to make it free again in the hopes that those 60K readers who were interested enough to download it before will come back and download it again.  It really is a good book *s*