J. Kenner's Blog, page 102
January 1, 2013
Day 10 (On-sale day!!!): Release Me page reveal
Release Me hits the shelves TODAY!!!!! But I’m sharing one last excerpt!
Today’s excerpt starts right after yesterday’s left off! You can find all the posted excerpts by going to the Release Me Page Reveal category of the blog!
I want to respond, but I’ve lost the power of speech. Damien Stark wants me. More than that, he wants to peel back the layers and learn my secrets.
The idea is terrifying, and yet also strangely appealing.
Discomfited, I take another backward step up toward the balcony, then wince. Immediately, Stark is at my side. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Something sharp on the step.”
He looks down at my still-bare feet.
Sheepishly, I hold out the strappy sandals with the three-inch heels.
“Very nice,” he says. “Perhaps you should put them on.”
“Nice?” I repeat. “They aren’t nice. They’re astounding. They cup my foot, show off my pedicure, slim my leg, and lift my ass just enough to make it look damn hot in this dress.”
The corner of his mouth twitches with amusement. “I recall. Truly, they are amazing shoes.”
“They also happen to be my first and only purchase from my frivolous Los Angeles shopping splurge.”
“Well worth the damage to your checking account, I’m sure.”
“Totally. But they are an absolute bitch to walk in. And now that I’ve taken them off I really don’t know if I can get them back on again. No, correction. I don’t know if I can get them on again and actually walk.”
“I see your dilemma. Fortunately, I’ve made a career out of coming up with solutions to such knotty problems.”
“Is that so? Well, please. Enlighten me.”
“You can stay here on the steps. You can go inside barefoot. You can put the shoes back on and suffer.”
“Somehow I expected something better from the great Damien Stark. If that’s all the brainpower it takes to become the head of a corporate empire, I should have jumped all over that a long time ago.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“Staying here won’t work,” I say. “For one thing, it’s cold. For another, I want to say good-bye to Evelyn.”
“Mmm.” He nods and frowns. “You’re so right. Clearly I didn’t fully examine the conundrum.”
“That’s what makes it a conundrum,” I say. “As for going barefoot, Elizabeth Fairchild’s daughter does not go barefoot at social events, no matter how much she might want to. I’m pretty sure it’s a genetic trait.”
“Then your choice is clear. You’re going to have to wear the shoes.”
“And suffer? No thank you. I don’t do pain.”
My words are flippant and not entirely true. He stares at me long and hard, and for some reason, Ollie’s parting words come back to me: Be careful. Then his face clears and he’s looking at me with amusement once again. I about melt with relief.
“There is one more option.”
“Ah, see? You were holding out on me.”
“I can pick you up and carry you into the party.”
“Right,” I say. “I’m just going to slip these puppies back on and suffer.” I sit down on the step and slide my feet into the sandals. It’s not pleasant. The shoes aren’t broken in, and my feet are in full protest mode. I enjoyed the walk on the beach, but I should have known that everything comes with a price.
I stand up, wince a little, and continue up the stairs. Stark is behind me, and when we reach the balcony he moves to my side and takes my arm. Then he leans in so close I feel his breath on my ear. “Some things are worth the pain. I’m glad you understand that.”
I turn sharply to look. “What?”
“I’m simply saying that I’m glad you decided to put the shoes back on.”
“Even though that meant I rejected your offer to throw me over your shoulder caveman style and cart me around the party?”
“I don’t recall mentioning a caveman carry, though the idea is undeniably intriguing.” He pulls out his iPhone and starts to type something.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a note,” he says.
I laugh and shake my head. “I’ll say this, Mr. Stark. Whatever else you are, you’re always a surprise.” I look him up and down. “I don’t suppose you have a pair of black flip-flops hidden on your person? Because that would be the kind of surprise I could really use.”
“I’m afraid not,” he says. “But in the future I may have to carry a pair just to be safe. I never realized what valuable currency a comfortable pair of shoes can be.”
It occurs to me that I’m in full flirt-mode with Damien Stark. The man who has been hot and cold all night. The man who bleeds power and commands an empire and could snap his fingers and have any woman he wants. Right now, that woman is me.
It’s a bewildering realization, but also flattering and, yes, exciting.
“The truth is I know exactly how you feel,” he says.
I gape at him, wondering if he’s been reading my thoughts.
“I’ve always hated tennis shoes. I used to practice in my bare feet. It made my coach crazy.”
“Really?” I find this tidbit into Stark’s real life fascinating. “But didn’t you endorse a brand?”
“The only brand I could stand.”
“That’s a nice little rhyme. They could have used it as the tag-line.”
“It’s a pity they didn’t have you on their marketing team.” He reaches out and brushes his thumb along the line of my jaw. My stomach quivers and I exhale, a single soft moan. His eyes go to my mouth and I think that he’s going to kiss me and I absolutely do not want him to kiss me and, dammit, why isn’t he kissing me yet?
Then the balcony door opens, and a couple emerges, arm in arm. Damien pulls his hand back and the spell is shattered. I want to scream at the couple, and not just because I’ve been left feeling hot and needy. No, something’s been lost. I’m liking the Damien Stark who laughs and teases in the dark. Who flirts so softly and yet so intently. Who looks at me with eyes that let me see.
But our moment is gone. And if we go inside, I’m certain his mask will go back on. I’m even more certain my own will.
I almost suggest we go back down the stairs to the beach, but he’s holding the door open for me, and his face is all hard lines and angles again. I step past him into the room, something tight and sad knotting inside me.
The party is still going strong. Possibly even stronger now that the guests are on their second, third or fourth drink. The room is stuffy, almost claustrophobic, and I slip out of Stark’s jacket and hand it back to him. He runs his palm over the silk lining. “You’re warm,” he says, then slips it on, the movement entirely normal and inexplicably erotic.
A waitress materializes beside me, her tray full of sparkling wine. I take a flute and gulp it back. Before she can edge away, I replace my empty glass and take a fresh one.
“For medicinal purposes,” I say to Stark, who has also taken a glass, but has yet to take a sip. I am not so hesitant, and I down half of my glass in one long swallow. The bubbles seem to rise straight to my head, making me a little bit giddy. It’s a nice feeling, and one I’m not used to. I drink, sure. But not champagne, and not very often. But I feel vulnerable tonight. Vulnerable and needy. With any luck, the alcohol will quench the ache. Either that, or it will give me the courage to act on it.
I hope you enjoyed! I would say come back tomorrow, but that’s the end of the page reveals. Why? Because the book’s on sale now!!!!! Woot!
Yes, folks, today is Release Day for Release Me! I hope you want to continue following Nikki and Damien’s story! You can get your very own copy of Release Me from your favorite on-line retailer or your favorite brick-and-mortar bookstore!
Buy the book from your favorite retailers using these easy links!
And my holiday contest is over, too! The winner will be announced in another blog post today!
Just a few quick notes: I'm blog-touring for the rest of the month and early January! Come by and say hi! My tour schedule is here!
And did you see that I have a Bargain Books section now? Check the Navigation bar or the side bar on the right. (Pssst! My USA Today bestselling Aphrodite's Kiss is free at most retailers for the rest of the year!)
And why not scroll down and share the post? After all, sharing is sexy!
XXOO
--J.K.
December 31, 2012
Release Me is on sale now!
Wondering what that squeal from somewhere in the neighborhood of Texas was?
It wasn’t a shout-out for the new year … it was a shout-out for a new book!!
Yes, Release Me is finally officially on sale here in the States and Canada and also in the U.K (and Australia/New Zealand!)! I’m so excited!
Grab your copy from these retailers (or your favorite brick and mortar store!)
Random House
Amazon (print)
Amazon (kindle)
Amazon United Kingdom
Barnes and Noble (print or Nook)
Books-A-Million
Kobo
iBooks
Indie Bound
Just a few quick notes: I'm blog-touring for the rest of the month and early January! Come by and say hi! My tour schedule is here!
And did you see that I have a Bargain Books section now? Check the Navigation bar or the side bar on the right. (Pssst! My USA Today bestselling Aphrodite's Kiss is free at most retailers for the rest of the year!)
And why not scroll down and share the post? After all, sharing is sexy!
XXOO
--J.K.
Happy New Year Hop and Giveaway!
I’m excited because it’s a new year and I have a new book (Release Me, in case you’ve missed the 8 billion times that I’ve mentioned it!) and what better way to start off the new year than a brand new contest and a fun blog hop?
Join the hop and enter via the Rafflecopter below (you need to leave a comment)! Be sure to visit all the stops! It’s a great way to ease into the new year.
Happy happy!!
Day 9: Release Me page reveal
I’m counting down the days until Release Me hits the shelves with a page reveal. Two or three pages daily, in order, from the book!
Today’s excerpt starts right after yesterday’s left off! You can find all the posted excerpts by going to the Release Me Page Reveal category of the blog!
CHAPTER SIX
This isn’t exactly true, but it’s close enough. It’s a story that I can spin and weave without losing the thread of reality.
It’s another layer of armor, and where Damien Stark is concerned, I need as much protection as I can get.
He is right behind me on the stairs, but they are too narrow for us to stand side by side.
“Nikki,” he says, his voice like a command.
I stop and turn to face him, looking down from my position three steps above him. It’s an interesting perspective. I don’t think there are many people who’ve had the opportunity to look down on Damien Stark.
“What is Mr. McKee to you now?”
I’m probably imagining it, but I think I see something vulnerable in Stark’s eyes.
“He’s a friend,” I say. “A very good friend.”
I think that’s relief on his face, and the juxtaposition of those two emotions—relief and vulnerability—make my breath hitch.
They disappear quickly, though, and his, “Are you sleeping with him now?” comes out decidedly frosty.
I press my fingertips to my temple. His shifts from cold to hot to cold again are dizzying. “Am I on some sort of game show? Have you and your millions invested in a new version of Candid Camera? A spin-off of Punk’d?”
He looks utterly bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re nice, then you’re ice.”
“Am I?”
“Don’t even pretend not to know what I’m talking about. One minute you’re so rude I want to slap your face—”
“And yet you don’t.”
I scowl, but otherwise ignore the interruption. “And then you turn on a dime and you’re all warm and fuzzy.”
His brow lifts. “Fuzzy?”
“Point taken. Fuzzy is not a word anyone should use to describe you. Forget warm and fuzzy. We’ll go with hot and intense.”
“Intense.” He murmurs the word, making it sound much more sensual than I had intended. “I like the sound of that.”
At the moment, so did I.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “The point is, you’re dizzying.”
He looks at me with unabashed amusement. “I like the sound of that, too.”
“Dizzying and exasperating. And impertinent.”
“Impertinent?” he repeats. He doesn’t smile, but I swear I hear laughter in his voice.
“You ask questions you have no right to ask.”
“And you’ve steered this conversation in a very elegant circle. But you still haven’t answered my impertinent question.”
“I would have thought that a man as intelligent as you are would realize that I was avoiding it.”
“A man doesn’t get where I’ve gotten by allowing details to remain ignored. I’m both diligent and persistent, Ms. Fairchild.” He has me trapped, locked tight in his sights. “When I seek to acquire something, I learn everything I can about it, and then I pursue it wholeheartedly.”
I have to pause a bit to remember how to form words. “Do you?”
“I believe there’s an interview with me in last month’s Forbes. I’m certain the reporter outlined my tenacity.”
“I’ll be sure to pick up a copy.”
“I’ll have my office send you one. Perhaps then you’ll understand just how persistent I can be.”
“I already understand it. What I don’t get is why you’re so fascinated with who I’m sleeping with. Why exactly does that interest you?” I’m treading on dangerous territory, and I suddenly understand that old adage about flirting with danger.
He climbs a step, putting his body in much closer proximity to mine. “There are a number of things that fascinate me about you.”
Oh my. I move carefully up to the next level. “I’m an open book, Mr. Stark.” I ascend one more step.
“You and I both know that’s not true, Ms. Fairchild. But someday . . .”
He trails off, and though I know better, I have to ask. “Someday, what?”
“Someday you will be open for me, Ms. Fairchild. In so very many ways.”
I hope you enjoyed! Come back tomorrow for more!
Order the book from your favorite retailers using these easy links!
And don’t forget to enter my holiday contest!
Just a few quick notes: I'm blog-touring for the rest of the month and early January! Come by and say hi! My tour schedule is here!
And did you see that I have a Bargain Books section now? Check the Navigation bar or the side bar on the right. (Pssst! My USA Today bestselling Aphrodite's Kiss is free at most retailers for the rest of the year!)
And why not scroll down and share the post? After all, sharing is sexy!
XXOO
--J.K.
Top 12 of 2012!
This is so cool!
Release Me was included in this Top 12 of 2012 list by Kari at From The TBR Pile!
(And I’m right next to J.D. Robb! Fan girl moment!!!)
Technically the book is 2013, but there were enough advance reads floating around that I’m not going to split hairs. I figure it’s like when they release movies to LA and New York before going wide 
At any rate, color me happy … and thanks so much to Kari and From the TBR pile!
Somewhere Else in the Universe
While I’m guest blogging today over at Bookblogs.ning, guest blogger and author J.P. Smith is holding down the fort here, blogging about about writerly epiphanies and UFO’s and eccentric folks and inspiration. This post originally appeared at The Nervous Breakdown in 2010, but it’s just as entertaining now!
It seems to me that in every writer’s life there’s one event—an epiphany, even—that can be considered a defining moment when the seed is planted that will one day blossom into a lifetime of putting words on a page, waiting weeks and months for one’s agent to call, and generally cursing one’s reflection in the mirror for having chosen such a solitary, thankless and financially unrewarding career. Yet we do it because, well, we don’t know how to do anything else.
When I was in college, while others were assiduously working towards becoming attorneys, bankers, and various other highly-remunerated and potentially-indictable members of society, my choice was to be a rock star. Not a great musician, but a rock star. It’s mostly about the perks, of course: chauffeurs, groupies, stimulants, and stepping onto a stage while 40,000 people scream YES!!!
For me, this early stage of my ascent to stardom involved playing bass guitar in an under-rehearsed band that gigged most Friday nights at Harvard Law School smokers where none of us, save the rhythm guitarist, was actually studying. We were paid well and in cash, an amount that today would probably be the equivalent of something like $200 apiece. In any event it bought one lots of records, books, a late-night dinner at the Deli Haus (where all the musicians playing Boston came after their last sets, save that they were instantly recognizable and we were just a bunch of guys with their girlfriends eating pastrami on rye), and a pair or two of Landlubber bellbottoms. Being a rock star at this level involved not a lot more than showing up, keeping your instrument in tune and convincingly vamping your way through requested songs whose chord changes were still something of a mystery. It was fun watching future federal court judges trying to dance, but my being an English major inevitably led me to graduate school, then a teaching job, and then becoming a writer. My Gibson Thunderbass is now just history. As is my music career.
Just as Proust could date his start as a novelist to his sudden vivid awareness that the past is eternally here in the present, I think I can locate my origins in something far more mundane.
In my very early teens, perhaps as a means of escaping a distinctly neurotic homelife tipping into full-blown disfunctional, I joined an organization devoted to the study of UFOs. While other boys were studying baseball statistics or even, oddly enough, doing schoolwork, I was reading about sightings, visitations and—though these were fairly rare back then—outright snatch-and-grab jobs (and the ubiquitous anal probings one always heard about in later accounts) by little green men. I now see that this was a gateway to some very serious years of drug use, both psychotropic and of the harder variety, that came later in college. By which time I wasn’t the least bit interested in waiting around for things to appear in the sky. I had other means of escape in the form of a syringe or a purple tablet. I saw things without even having to glance out the window.
Meetings were monthly, and were usually held in one seedy hotel or another in the West 40s, an easy walk from Grand Central. These hotels had about them the lugubrious air of suicide and failure, the smell of tough luck emanating from every wall and acre of stained carpet. One rarely saw what one might think of as guests there—none of your ladies in furs and gentlemen in their Brooks Brothers suits smoking in the lobby, waiting for a taxi to take them to a show and dinner afterwards at Longchamps or Sardi’s. But there was no one, and never was, save the elevator man, always beyond weary as he sat in his little box going up and down the floors.
The organization was run by a perfectly decent man who could have easily passed for an accounting teacher at a community college. Meetings were attended by some forty or so people of various ages (and, from the outer boroughs, a few followers of the John Birch Society, which in retrospect doesn’t surprise me in the least), and the evening would begin with the group’s accountant, a harried-looking middle-aged man in a gray suit who looked like he’d walked out of a pinochle game in Washington Heights. He’d step up to the microphone and detail the treasury. “Cash on hand, $356.54. Bills paid for the month of March, twenty-two dollars and forty-nine cents to the printers; twenty-three dollars to Cohen’s Hebrew National for lunches; a hundred and fifty for this evening’s speaker.”
Behind him would sit his wife, whom I remember as being English and rather plain, and who, in a deep trance sometimes broken by alarmingly loud outbursts and exclamations, would hold a Ouija board on her knees, her fingers resting daintily on a planchette as it zipped around the alphabet grabbing messages from the great beyond. This was a scene of immense absurdity I cannot convince anyone actually took place. Yet it did. Many times. I am your witness.
The speakers ranged from disgruntled Air Force officers to the respected Saturday Review journalist who in a few years would write the first account of Betty and Barney Hill’s supposed alien abduction, Incident at Exeter. In the audience on some evenings could be found such personalities as the legendary broadcaster Long John Nebel and the magician known as The Amazing Randi. Meeting him I asked if I should call him Amazing or simply Mr. Randi, and we settled for Jim.
Among the regulars there was the Mystic Barber, a chubby ordinary man with a five o’clock shadow and a pencil mustache who wore on his forehead a kind of TV antenna and an earphone attached to what looked like a transistor radio wrapped in electrical tape. He claimed he was listening to Mars, and for five bucks I could, too. (Though after a time he was good enough to allow me a freebie: static, sadly, is still static, no matter how much you pay for it or what planet generates it.) In real life the Mystic Barber was Andy Sinatra, a Brooklyn-based tonsorial artist who claimed to have traveled not only to Mars but also the center of the Earth, and whose afterlife lingers still in a photo taken of him by Diane Arbus.
The exceptionally tall skinny man in the light gray suit, the one who could be either an advertising executive or a retired basketball player (from my altitude, always near to the ground, I assessed him as being close to seven feet tall), was the entity known as Ed from Venus. The man was dead serious and immensely articulate. I remember he told me with a completely straight face: “This is the form I assume when I’m on Earth. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to look at me.” He would ask intelligent questions of the speakers, listen attentively to the answers, and his manners would not have been out of place in the court of Louis XV. Yet he claimed to be from Venus and, if asked, would always tell any interested party how things were up there. (“Cloudy,” was the usual response.)
Another regular was a young woman—I would guess in her late twenties—who, wheelchair-bound, would be pushed in by an older woman, possibly her mother. She remains for me the true enigma of these times. I remember her as genuinely beautiful; radiant, with a kind, serene smile, golden hair, and always dressed as if she were a bridesmaid. She carried a wand with a foil star on the end of it, just as on her gown had been pasted foil crescent moons and planets. This was the Princess of the Galaxies. It was what she called herself, it was how she was greeted, and as she was wheeled to her place at the front row she would bless us with a graceful wave of her wand. For me she became a matter for speculation. Was she, like Miss Havisham, a bride deserted at the altar? Or someone whose promising early career, perhaps as an actress, had been tragically cut short by a car accident? She seemed to me somehow just too young and dazzling to be so entangled in this fantasy: what, I wondered, had led her to assume such an identity? Did she also use it after hours, so to speak, when having a drink at the Biltmore or checking out the latest titles from the public library? At least the Mystic Barber had his haircutting business, and, I assume, Ed from Venus some perfectly respectable job in a Madison Avenue office. But the Princess…? Where did the fiction begin and where did it finish? And did it, in fact, ever end?
What remains of my memories of those times isn’t anything about flying saucers or lights in the sky, but rather the people who came there—these wonderfully eccentric men and women who, possibly bullied in their youth for being handicapped or outrageously tall or simply as ordinary, I now imagine preening for these monthly events, adjusting antenna, wand or gray suit, and then returning to a life of intense solitude in a studio apartment on the West Side or in Brooklyn where all that remained for them was their imaginations, their sometimes identities, and their boundless desire to flee the four walls of their room with its unchanging view, the bottle of bourbon on the counter, the voice of Johnny Mathis emanating from the Zenith radio beside it. For them going to these monthly gatherings may have been an escape into a galaxy far from their own where they could be considered an equal, accepted for whatever they wanted to be. Had the Princess of the Galaxies written the narrative of her own life, a story of light years and distant travel and visits to places unimaginable?
This rich history with its own mythology, its own royalty of which she was the shining representative, may have given her a life that even had she had the use of her legs might have been forever denied her. For me, their worlds became a matter of speculation and empathy. It became, in fact, my gateway to the nature of fiction.
J.P. Smith’s latest novel is Airtight, from Thomas & Mercer. His previous five titles, The Man from Marseille, Body and Soul, The Blue Hour, The Discovery of Light, and Breathless, have also just been reissued as e-books and trade paperbacks. Further info and excerpts from the books can be found at: www.jpsmith.org.
J.K. here again!
Are you a writer? What moments of inspiration do you recall?
Thanks so much for stopping by. And remember, today’s the last day to enter my holiday contest for a chance to win a $25 gift certificate! (if the widget is wonky, try refreshing the page)
December 30, 2012
Sex, Kink, and Really Hot Men
I’m over at The Reading Cafe today talking about Sex, Kink and Really Hot Men … and giving away another chance to win Release Me! Come by and say hi!
Day 8: Release Me page reveal
I’m counting down the days until Release Me hits the shelves with a page reveal. Two or three pages daily, in order, from the book!
Today’s excerpt starts right after yesterday’s left off! You can find all the posted excerpts by going to the Release Me Page Reveal category of the blog!
“Oh?” I try to sound cool, but I’m anything but. “Why?”
“You’re my responsibility.”
I exhale a bubble of laughter. “I hardly see how. I barely even know you, Mr. Stark.”
“I promised your boss I’d see you safely home.”
Beside me, Ollie steps closer. He clasps my shoulder in a protective gesture. His fingers tighten, and I can feel the pressure even through the thick material of his jacket. “I’m about to head home. I’ll be happy to give Nikki a lift. You can consider your responsibility absolved.”
Without a word, Stark reaches out to me and takes the lapel of Ollie’s jacket between two fingers, as if testing the quality of the material. His hand hovers briefly over the swell of my breast, and I am suddenly aware of how intimate the moment must appear, Ollie and I walking alone on the beach, me wearing his jacket . . .
I feel an inexplicable need to explain that there’s nothing romantic or sexual between Ollie and me, and it takes a great effort to keep my mouth shut. I tilt my head up to look at Ollie. “That would be great. Are you sure it’s not inconvenient?”
“It’s no problem at all,” he says. His hand is still on my shoulder and he increases the pressure as if urging me on. But there’s nowhere to go, Stark is right there, larger than life, and the air between us is charged. If I move, I think ridiculously, I’ll end up caught in his web. The thought isn’t entirely unpleasant.
“I’m not looking for absolution,” Stark says to Ollie. “But I do need Ms. Fairchild to stay. We have business to discuss.”
I consider arguing, but I also remember his earlier comment—that if I was trying to find investors for Carl, I was doing a craptastic job of it. I tilt my head and nod to Ollie. “It’s okay.”
“You’re sure?” His voice is tight. Concerned.
“Seriously,” I say. “Go on home.”
He hesitates, then nods. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, but he’s looking at Stark as he says it. He’s gone into full big-brother mode, and I hear the message under the words. And she better be there and fine or there’s going to be trouble.
My imagination, I realize, is running wild.
He kisses my cheek and starts to head up the spiral staircase.
“Wait,” Stark calls, and Ollie pauses.
I hold my breath, wondering if I’m about to witness some testosterone-laden ritual. But all Stark does is reach out for the shoes that I’m still holding in my right hand. I hand them to him, confused until he steps closer and starts to gently ease me out of Ollie’s jacket.
“It’s okay,” Ollie says. “I’ll get it later.”
But I am already out of the jacket, having moved quickly so that I can recover the distance between me and Stark.
“No need,” Stark says, and his smile is bright and friendly as he hands Ollie the jacket.
Ollie hesitates a nano-second, then takes it. He slips it on, keeping his eyes on me. “Be careful,” he says, then disappears up the dark, twisting stairs.
Careful? What the fuck?
I glance at Stark to see if he is as bemused as I am, but it’s clear that his thoughts have not lingered on Ollie at all. No, he’s completely focused on me.
I snatch my shoes back. “Do we actually have any business to discuss? Because it seems to me that my business is downtown. With Carl. Preparing for a meeting I’ll be attending in just over sixteen hours.”
“The paintings,” he says easily. “I believe you were going to help me?”
“Your belief system is all screwed up. I recall quite clearly declining your request for help.”
“My mistake. I thought you’d changed your mind after I pointed out that I valued your opinion.”
“You thought I’d changed my mind?” I repeat. “And on what did you base that hypothesis? The way I walked away from you? The way I ignored you?”
He merely quirks a brow, letting me know that all my surreptitious glances toward him and Audrey Hepburn weren’t so surreptitious, after all.
He watches me, probably expecting a pithy comeback. I’m not going to provide one, though. At this moment, silence is most definitely the best policy.
I tilt my head up to look at his face. The minimal illumination filtering down from Evelyn’s balcony casts his features in shadows. His eyes, however, seem to absorb the light. The amber one, fiery and hot. The other one black and ringed with molten lava, so dark and deep I feel as though I could fall in and get lost. Windows to the soul, I think and then shiver.
“You’re cold,” he says, then trails a finger down my bare arm. “You have goose bumps.”
Well if I didn’t before, I surely do now…
“I was fine when I had a coat,” I say, and he bursts out laughing. I like the sound of it, so free and easy and always unexpected.
He slips out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, ignoring my protests.
“We’re going back inside,” I say, shrugging it off and holding it out. “I’m fine, really.”
He takes my shoes from me, but ignores the coat. “Put it on. I don’t want you catching cold.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I snap, shoving my arms into the sleeves. “Do you always get what you want?”
His eyes widen, and I realize I’ve surprised him. “Yes,” he says.
Gotta give the guy points for honesty.
“Fine. Let’s go inside. Look at some paintings. I’ll tell you what I like, and then you’ll do whatever you want.”
He’s looking at me with a somewhat baffled expression. “Excuse me?”
“You just don’t seem like the kind of guy who actually takes anybody’s advice.”
“You’re wrong, Nikki,” he says, my name sounding like milk chocolate in his mouth. “I consider very carefully any opinion I value.”
The heat coming off him is palpable. I no longer need the jacket. Hell, the damn jacket is stifling.
I look away, at the sand, at the ocean, at the sky. Anywhere but at this man. I’m twisted up in knots, but that’s not the problem. The problem is, I like the feeling.
“Nikki,” he says gently. “Look at me.”
I look without thinking, and there’s no Social Nikki between us. I’m as naked as if I’d stripped off my dress.
“That man you were with. Who is he to you?”
Blam! Social Nikki is back on duty. I feel my face harden, my eyes grow cold. Damien Stark is like a spider, and I’m the foolish insect he’s going to devour.
I look away, but only for a second. When I turn back, I’m flashing the very same plastic smile that he saw on a stage six years ago. I should turn the wattage up and tell him that Ollie is none of his business.
But I don’t.
I’m not certain I understand the instinct that brings the answer to my lips, but it’s the one that I go with, and as soon as I’ve spoken, I turn my back to him and begin the walk up the stairs, my words lingering in the air behind me.
“Him? That’s Orlando McKee. The first man I ever slept with.”
I hope you enjoyed! Come back tomorrow for more!
Pre-order the book from your favorite retailers using these easy links!
And don’t forget to enter my holiday contest!
Just a few quick notes: I'm blog-touring for the rest of the month and early January! Come by and say hi! My tour schedule is here!
And did you see that I have a Bargain Books section now? Check the Navigation bar or the side bar on the right. (Pssst! My USA Today bestselling Aphrodite's Kiss is free at most retailers for the rest of the year!)
And why not scroll down and share the post? After all, sharing is sexy!
XXOO
--J.K.
December 29, 2012
Erotic Inspiration
I’m over at Paranormal Haven today talking about the inspiration behind erotic romance and–yes!–giving away another copy of Release Me.
Hope you come by!
Check out this Release Me audio snippet!
Release Me is coming out in audio format at the same time it’s being released in print and digital format. Check out this snippet I just received yesterday!
The file is too big to upload directly onto this site, but if you click on the link, you can access the file and listen. Here’s the link to listen to the audio snippet of Release Me!
I’m a huge, huge, huge audiobook fan–I became addicted back in the early 90′s when I had a 60 mile each way commute in Southern California. So I am beyond thrilled that Release Me is available!
(Okay, true confession, because I’m deep into finalizing Claim Me to turn into my editor, I’ve only listened to random bits from the audio snippet. I have Nikki’s voice very firmly in my head right now, and I’m not ready to hear another interpretation, though the bits and pieces I did listen to sounded great. But I’d love to know what y’all think, so please leave a comment if you listen!!)
Just a few quick notes: I'm blog-touring for the rest of the month and early January! Come by and say hi! My tour schedule is here!
And did you see that I have a Bargain Books section now? Check the Navigation bar or the side bar on the right. (Pssst! My USA Today bestselling Aphrodite's Kiss is free at most retailers for the rest of the year!)
And why not scroll down and share the post? After all, sharing is sexy!
XXOO
--J.K.
