Rumer Haven's Blog, page 6
February 17, 2016
New Release! SUBJECT X, by Emma G. Hunter
Subject X by Emma G. HunterMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
I don't want to get too specific and give away any spoilers but will just say that this is both an exciting and endearing read! Charlotte is such a relatable protagonist and very engaging as the story's narrator. She's the full package yet adorably self-deprecating in her science geek-chic way. Owen, too, is kind, intelligent, and a feast for the mind's eye, but I appreciate how the author avoids making him the cliche alpha male by infusing him with real vulnerability. He's beautifully masculine, and his and Charlotte's physical chemistry is undeniable, but Owen isn't as perfect as his lean, chiseled looks, which gives him dimension and likability. His flaws are sweetly attractive, not brooding and brutish as can be so common, and I really love him and Charlotte as a pair. Even when thrust into an extraordinary situation, they remain ordinary people and work through their conflicts realistically. There are elements in the plot that could so easily go over the top, but in this author's hands, the story remains grounded with much heart, which balances wonderfully with some thrilling tension and action. Subject X has a bit of everything, and I look forward to more in this series from Emma Hunter.
*** Buy it at ***AMAZONB&N
Find more retailers at SIMON & SCHUSTER
View all my reviews
December 31, 2015
Start a New Chapter with a FREE Chapter!
Need a new read for the New Year? Here's wishing you a happy close to 2015 and a bright, shiny 2016 with a free chapter excerpt from
Seven for a Secret
!
~*~ CHAPTER XIII ~*~
New Year’s Eve 1926 / New Year’s Day 1927
“Three, two, one...Happy New Year!”
Thousands of revelers buzzing on bootlegged liquor raised their arms in the air at the Aragon Ballroom.
“Wooo!” Effie cried into the cacophony, throwing her arms around her dance partner’s neck. “Oh, Lonnie, won’t you kiss me Happy New Year? It’s bad luck if you don’t!” She nuzzled her silver-beaded breasts against his vest and wore a deep garnet, balloon-lipped pout. “Lonnie, you’ve been giving me the absent treatment all night,” she cooed, raising that pout and puckering it as blatantly as a fish.
That’s what it is, Lon realized. He leaned back to eye her up and down and had to catch his footing as he almost lost his balance. Squinting through his gin-distorted vision, he confirmed that that’s what Effie had reminded him of all night in that little dress of overlapping giant sequins and beads: a silvery, scaly fish.
“Ohhh,” she moaned into him, tracing her index fingers in symmetrical snakes down his chest. “Come now, darling. Since when are you so shy?” She giggled with a hiccup and swayed against him as a trumpet wah-wahhed the remainder of the band’s jazzy rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”
Scanning the crowd for the other couples they’d arrived with, Lon couldn’t make out any familiar faces. The camaraderie he usually shared with just his male companions at the late-night clubs wasn’t to be enjoyed this evening. He heard Effie “Mmmm!” at him in pleading and figured, What the hell. He joined in her sway as the band’s piano began to provocatively plunk out the song “Squeeze Me.”
Bending down, Lon practically swallowed Effie’s ready lips, penetrating that pucker and unable to care less if an usher tapped his shoulder for indecent public behavior. Passionately groping her hips and bottom thanks to his flask of gin, Lon went for it and waited for the slap across his face.
He had underestimated Effie.
“Mmm,” she continued to moan while her fingers tucked into the waist of his trousers at his back and slid around to the front. She gave his fly a tug and detached from his mouth. “Check, please. Let’s say we blow this joint and you take me to your hotel.” Her eyes were glassed on hooch, but they appeared to focus steadily enough on his.
A mental inventory of his lodgings ran through Lon’s reeling mind as he appraised how suitable it was for company. Had he picked up his clothes? Put away his paints and canvas? But perhaps he hadn’t been considering the most important question: Did it matter?
“So where are you staying?” Effie asked. “The Drake? Palmer House?”
Lon narrowed his eyes. Of course. Why should she assume anything less than luxury?
“Allerton?” she persisted. “Some place real swanky, I’m sure. You weasel; I’m certain you’ve been to town sooner than this and haven’t called me. Show me where you’ve been hiding.” She grabbed his lapels and looked up at him like an imploring puppy. “Pleeease, Lonnie? Take me where you bring the other girls.” Her voice returned to its characteristic nasal whine. A shame; Lon had enjoyed the brief departure. “I’m feeling an edge, and this music’s starting to grate on me,” she yammered on. “Come on, let’s ankle, huh?” She was actually pulling his arm now. “Before my giggle water wears off and gives me a headache.”
With Lon rooted firmly in place, Effie kept a hold on him and leaned backward at an otherwise impossible angle. In an effort to motivate him, she released one of her hands to pull up the hem of her dress and reveal her garters.
Not wishing her to fall over, Lon gave in to her tugs, watching this debutante-turned-flapper whom he supposed could be considered a kindred spirit, a renegade of her class — if not for the fact that she was sure to still color inside the lines enough to keep her key to The Club. She was fodder for gossips, to be sure, but she’d not been branded visibly enough to deny her invitations to all the elite events. She could turn her slang on and off like a light switch, transitioning with ease into the polished Standard English she’d been brought up with on command. And, though twenty-one, her parents still doted on her like an infant. Perhaps they thought it was safer to keep her on an extraordinarily long leash, but a leash nonetheless that would pull taut and tug her back if she ran out the slack. Daddy’s Girl, on the perpetual prowl for a Sugar Daddy to support her if ever she did snap that leash.
Back, back, back she pulled him through the crowd of couples springing in lively dancing, their feet drumming against the wooden floor. The surrounding plaster façade of a garish Spanish courtyard closed around Lon like a tunnel, at the end of which he only saw Effie’s spread thighs, her garters snapping one by one at the yank of his teeth. Maybe it was worth trying to bounce this Sheba off his Murphy bed after all, send them both into oblivion. In his condition at the moment, her hole was good as any.
Effie walked backward, still facing him and bunching the hem of her dress in her fist as she guided him along. The dancing in his peripheral vision appeared to slow, and Lon blinked as his sight blurred and the images converged in front of him. He looked up to the false night sky of the domed ceiling and tried to focus on its artificial twilight. As his hazy vision swam among the painted stars, he saw nothing else, only heard “Squeeze Me” in the very blood rushing to his ears.
A “Whoops!” broke the spell, and Lon found himself pressed against Effie. She’d backed into one of the “palace” columns running the perimeter of the dance floor, leaving Lon to crash into her.
Closing his eyelids to see the stars behind them, he took her lips with his again and plucked at her garter straps as if she were a bass. Effie complied with pleasing sounds for a little while, but it was when Lon crouched, grabbed the backs of her thighs, and hoisted her up against the column that he felt her struggle. “What’s the idea!” she cried, holding to him for balance while also trying desperately to keep her dress covering her bottom. “Lonnie, stop it now!” He tried to wedge his body between her legs and wrap them around his sides. “Say, I mean it! Quit it now or I’m really gonna cast a kitten in fronta’ all these people!”
Here, kitty-kitty-kitty. Lon laughed to himself as he eased his hands beneath her dress toward her rump. But, with an instinctive sense of decency, he withdrew to let her down — just in time to see two uniformed ballroom attendants make their way toward him. Around them, he heard the disapproving cries of other women, a few of whom appeared to prod their dates to walk over there and knock his lights out.
Lon seized Effie by the wrist and pulled her toward the exit, waving off the men who’d given up their chase but still pointed after him in stern warning.
Out on the sidewalk, she huffed into the frigid air. “You, you’re screwy! You didn’t even fetch my ermine!” She ran at him and pushed him with surprising might. “The nerve, after dragging me all the way uptown. I’ll find myself another ride home, thank you. Don’t call on me again. Ever!”
And with that, she stomped her fish scales back inside, leaving Lon teetering on his feet. He hadn’t even grabbed his own overcoat, but no matter. The glittering lights of the Green Mill jazz club twinkled in the corner of his eye from the nearest intersection at Broadway.
Rubbing and cupping his bare hands to his face, he blew warm breath into them and set foot to deliver himself from drunk to positively zozzled.
* * *
“Three, two, one...Happy New Year!”
Dozens of high society members tipsy on fine champagne raised their coupe glasses in toast throughout the parlor and music room of the Hughes mansion.
“A kiss for good luck, my charming bride,” Finlay said, taking Eva’s hand and kissing the back of it before pulling her nearer to plant one politely on her lips.
“You call that a kiss?” Eva teased, perhaps two glasses of champagne in excess of her threshold. She coiled her arm around his neck and pressed against him. Her lips roamed over his and traveled down to his neck, then up to his ear.
“Evie, darling.” Finlay pulled her arms from their tight squeeze to add a little distance, looking around at the other partygoers and forcing a good-natured chuckle. The Redcliffe influence had tamed Hughes parties quite a bit over the last year. “Ha-ha, yes, perhaps you’ve imbibed a bit too much,” he said loudly for anyone in earshot. “May I walk you to a sofa, or perhaps your old bed upstairs to rest awhile? Collect yourself?”
Eva pulled her arms through his grip and wrapped them instead around his waist beneath his tuxedo jacket. “I think,” she purred with a smirk, “you ought to take me home, darling, and lay me on our bed.”
“Mm, yes,” Finlay replied. “Let’s do. I’ll fetch your mink if you’ll say your goodbyes and meet me in the foyer.”
Eva tightened her hug and giggled into his neck, “Yes, master,” with a firm squeeze of his rear beneath his tails.
“Er,” Finlay replied and coughed into his hand. “I’ll just be retrieving your fur, dear. Why don’t you make your way to the door now.”
Pressing her lips together in a grin, Eva saluted her husband. She then dropped her hand with such gusto that it swung her around, so she followed its lead and walked in its suggested direction.
Weaving through the merrymakers with a smiling nod, she eventually found herself in the front foyer. She stood on the mosaic tiles between the great columns and swayed to the string ensemble. Fleetingly, she wondered if she ought not quickly run upstairs to check on Ollie, but looking down the golden corridor, she spied the marble lovers above the fountain. Her sister forgotten, the corners of Eva’s lips twitched downward, and she softly sang along with everyone else to “Auld Lang Syne.”
Her throat tightened, making her voice falter into silence. Yet she still swayed, leaning against the door and frowning.
Seconds later, Finlay descended the grand staircase with her white fur in hand.
“All right, my darling, let’s be off.”
Compliant, she stood away from the door and allowed the butler — who’d been invisible to her until just then — to open it for her. Humming the song, she clopped down the stone steps, turned an abrupt left at the sidewalk, and marched the short distance to her own home next door. She then took another sharp military turn left up their steps.
Once inside the foyer there, she turned onto Finlay to half-heartedly renew her seduction.
“Mmm, kiss me, darling.”
“Of course, dear.” Finlay pecked her lips, then her forehead.
“Oh, come now, can’t you do better than that?” She fixed a ravenous gaze on him and reached for the fly of his tuxedo pants.
“Eva, my sweet...here...let me just — ” And he swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs.
Entering their master bedroom, he laid her on the bedspread and covered her with her white mink, which she promptly snatched off. Crawling onto all fours, she flicked it at him like a whip. “Come here, you.”
“Darling, I must get back to your father’s. There are important men there that I need to speak to, and — ”
“Well, if you must go, then go!” Eva spat, poised up on her knees. “Here I am throwing myself at you, and you still won’t touch me! I am your wife! I’m the one you always return to exhausted from your days of commerce or riding or golfing or whatever it is that you do at any given hour with the other Rulers of the World. There’s always someone else important to speak to. I fear I don’t interest you very much.”
“Pardon me, darling, but do I disrespect you? Do I treat you poorly? Deny you any comforts you’re used to? After only one year away, you’ve had to move all but one door down from your childhood home, for goodness sake.”
Eva pouted, tears streaming down her face. Why did she always seem to be crying? Ever since 1925, ever since the engagement, and was this how she was to ring in yet another year as well? Another New Year of old tears? A New Woman confined to old ways?
“No,” she replied. “You’ve been a gentleman in every way.”
“What then?” he beseeched. “Eva, what can I do to make you happy?”
“Must you really ask? Fine, then. I give up.” Hands folded at her lap, she sank onto her heels. “Intimacy, Finlay. I want to feel intimacy. I want us to find pleasure in each other, emotionally, physically. I feel all I’ve accomplished since our wedding is a successful role-play as Wife. My next audition will be for the role of Mother of Your Children. And yet how am I to achieve that when you scarcely lay a finger on me? It’s been over a year, and I still simply want to feel like a woman first before becoming a vessel for your seed.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Eva. It doesn’t become you.”
“What doesn’t? Modernity?”
“You know very well.”
Eva closed her eyes and mouth at once and concentrated on breathing through her nose.
“Darling, I...” Finlay’s voice had softened, and she could hear him approach just before his weight pulled down at the bedside and his smooth hand rested on top of hers. “This isn’t how I wanted our evening to end, darling.”
Keeping her eyes closed, Eva snorted. “Who ever wants any evening to end like this?”
“Yes, of course, but I only mean to say...I suppose I’m not quite good at being a husband. Not yet. But I swear to you, I’ll endeavor every day of my life to try. I’ve never done this before, Eva. You must be patient.”
A tear trapped beneath Eva’s eyelid slipped its way to freedom down her cheek. She opened her eyes to look at her husband beside her. “And you think I have done this before? Where do you suppose I’ve stored all my previous husbands? In the cellar?”
Finlay smiled and squeezed her hand.
“I suppose,” Eva continued, “I’m not much good at being a wife. Yet. I promise to try, too.”
“I appreciate that, darling. They always say the first year is difficult. We will work on this second year, together.” He kissed her cheek, then leaned further to kiss her lips, not just once but twice, somewhat of a record for Finlay in one sitting. With a double pat of her hand, he rose and straightened his tuxedo jacket. “So then, are you fine to stay here? Or can I escort you back to the party?”
He held his arm out akimbo for her to take. The stance was unsettlingly familiar.
“No,” Eva said, staring at his offered arm. “No, thank you. You go on. And please do extend my apologies to everyone for leaving without saying goodbye. As you said, I imbibed too much. I believe I’ll sleep it off now.”
Finlay patted her head and withdrew to the door. “Happy New Year, darling,” he whispered just before closing the door behind him.
Eva lay down on her side and hugged a pillow to her chest, replaying the conversation in her mind and asking herself again if crying was to remain such a regular state of being. Where had her strength evaporated to? Her independence? Her long-ago dreams of becoming a world-traveling journalist? Why did entering into a marriage mean having to check her identity at the door? For being a marriage of convenience, Eva was hard-pressed to identify just what had been so convenient about it.
“I simply want to feel like a woman,” played back in her mind. “We will work on this,” did as well.
Still practically newlyweds, they were already having to work on it. Eva supposed that was a fair enough reality of commitment, but what she couldn’t define quite as precisely was what they’d be working for.
At least he was trying. That counted for something when another man in her life had ceased working at even friendship. And from only a block away, if he even still lived at that hotel; Lon could have moved months ago for all she knew. That he remained in Chicago at all was only confirmed through the rumor mill. But Eva couldn’t act spiteful of that. She’d brought it on herself and hadn’t dared make the effort either. Meeting Lon at the movie house last winter had been a rash misjudgment. And how dreadful to have put him in that position — she’d single-handedly tried to drag him back to his philandering days, after he had been there for her, just as he’d promised.
No, she’d owed Finlay this first year, reserved for just the two of them as they began a new life together. And she owed Lon a chance at his happiness in the way he wanted to seek it. He didn’t need a rich married woman cramping his style.
Eva sat up. She didn’t need a rich married woman cramping her style either.
Striding to her wardrobe, she yanked her hanging dresses along the bar one by one and stopped at a little black knee-length Coco Chanel number she’d bought months ago but never had the right opportunity to wear. Unfastening and peeling off her fern green gown, she stepped into the beaded and fringed black crepe and rummaged around for her favorite black beaded purse, the hexagonal one she’d carried the night she’d first snuck into the Lincoln Park Zoo with Lon. The one that reminded her of the stars, the sea of dew where she could cast her nets and soar with the Dream Lady.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be found.
“Drat,” she muttered, frowning over where she might have misplaced it. Yet not wanting to dawdle any longer than she needed to in the event Finlay returned for her, she plucked up the next best thing — a basic silk clutch — and glided to the door.
She halted. Returning to her wardrobe, she opened a small interior drawer and withdrew from it a little mahogany box lined in black velvet. The winter chill that crept in through the windowpanes had shrunken her fingers enough that her emerald engagement ring and diamond-encrusted platinum wedding band slid off with ease. She tucked them into the velvet’s recesses, clapped the case shut, and scavenged through yet another drawer and jewelry box for a plain gold band to wear on her ring finger instead. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to look married, just not flashy. She’d forego wearing a fur as well, but the champagne hadn’t driven her to complete insanity — it was January in Chicago.
Penning a brief note in her elegant script, she placed it on Finlay’s pillow. She affixed a black cloche hat with a low-hanging brim, wrapped herself in an ankle-length black mink, and snuck out to Clark Street where she hailed a taxi to the Green Mill.
~*~ END OF CHAPTER ~*~
Read the rest of Seven for a Secret at Amazon.com or find your preferred book retailer at Simon & Schuster. The ebook is still ON SALE for 99c through New Year's Day--but more importantly...
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
* * * * * * *
~*~ CHAPTER XIII ~*~
New Year’s Eve 1926 / New Year’s Day 1927
“Three, two, one...Happy New Year!”
Thousands of revelers buzzing on bootlegged liquor raised their arms in the air at the Aragon Ballroom.
“Wooo!” Effie cried into the cacophony, throwing her arms around her dance partner’s neck. “Oh, Lonnie, won’t you kiss me Happy New Year? It’s bad luck if you don’t!” She nuzzled her silver-beaded breasts against his vest and wore a deep garnet, balloon-lipped pout. “Lonnie, you’ve been giving me the absent treatment all night,” she cooed, raising that pout and puckering it as blatantly as a fish.
That’s what it is, Lon realized. He leaned back to eye her up and down and had to catch his footing as he almost lost his balance. Squinting through his gin-distorted vision, he confirmed that that’s what Effie had reminded him of all night in that little dress of overlapping giant sequins and beads: a silvery, scaly fish.
“Ohhh,” she moaned into him, tracing her index fingers in symmetrical snakes down his chest. “Come now, darling. Since when are you so shy?” She giggled with a hiccup and swayed against him as a trumpet wah-wahhed the remainder of the band’s jazzy rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.”
Scanning the crowd for the other couples they’d arrived with, Lon couldn’t make out any familiar faces. The camaraderie he usually shared with just his male companions at the late-night clubs wasn’t to be enjoyed this evening. He heard Effie “Mmmm!” at him in pleading and figured, What the hell. He joined in her sway as the band’s piano began to provocatively plunk out the song “Squeeze Me.”
Bending down, Lon practically swallowed Effie’s ready lips, penetrating that pucker and unable to care less if an usher tapped his shoulder for indecent public behavior. Passionately groping her hips and bottom thanks to his flask of gin, Lon went for it and waited for the slap across his face.
He had underestimated Effie.
“Mmm,” she continued to moan while her fingers tucked into the waist of his trousers at his back and slid around to the front. She gave his fly a tug and detached from his mouth. “Check, please. Let’s say we blow this joint and you take me to your hotel.” Her eyes were glassed on hooch, but they appeared to focus steadily enough on his.
A mental inventory of his lodgings ran through Lon’s reeling mind as he appraised how suitable it was for company. Had he picked up his clothes? Put away his paints and canvas? But perhaps he hadn’t been considering the most important question: Did it matter?
“So where are you staying?” Effie asked. “The Drake? Palmer House?”
Lon narrowed his eyes. Of course. Why should she assume anything less than luxury?
“Allerton?” she persisted. “Some place real swanky, I’m sure. You weasel; I’m certain you’ve been to town sooner than this and haven’t called me. Show me where you’ve been hiding.” She grabbed his lapels and looked up at him like an imploring puppy. “Pleeease, Lonnie? Take me where you bring the other girls.” Her voice returned to its characteristic nasal whine. A shame; Lon had enjoyed the brief departure. “I’m feeling an edge, and this music’s starting to grate on me,” she yammered on. “Come on, let’s ankle, huh?” She was actually pulling his arm now. “Before my giggle water wears off and gives me a headache.”
With Lon rooted firmly in place, Effie kept a hold on him and leaned backward at an otherwise impossible angle. In an effort to motivate him, she released one of her hands to pull up the hem of her dress and reveal her garters.
Not wishing her to fall over, Lon gave in to her tugs, watching this debutante-turned-flapper whom he supposed could be considered a kindred spirit, a renegade of her class — if not for the fact that she was sure to still color inside the lines enough to keep her key to The Club. She was fodder for gossips, to be sure, but she’d not been branded visibly enough to deny her invitations to all the elite events. She could turn her slang on and off like a light switch, transitioning with ease into the polished Standard English she’d been brought up with on command. And, though twenty-one, her parents still doted on her like an infant. Perhaps they thought it was safer to keep her on an extraordinarily long leash, but a leash nonetheless that would pull taut and tug her back if she ran out the slack. Daddy’s Girl, on the perpetual prowl for a Sugar Daddy to support her if ever she did snap that leash.
Back, back, back she pulled him through the crowd of couples springing in lively dancing, their feet drumming against the wooden floor. The surrounding plaster façade of a garish Spanish courtyard closed around Lon like a tunnel, at the end of which he only saw Effie’s spread thighs, her garters snapping one by one at the yank of his teeth. Maybe it was worth trying to bounce this Sheba off his Murphy bed after all, send them both into oblivion. In his condition at the moment, her hole was good as any.
Effie walked backward, still facing him and bunching the hem of her dress in her fist as she guided him along. The dancing in his peripheral vision appeared to slow, and Lon blinked as his sight blurred and the images converged in front of him. He looked up to the false night sky of the domed ceiling and tried to focus on its artificial twilight. As his hazy vision swam among the painted stars, he saw nothing else, only heard “Squeeze Me” in the very blood rushing to his ears.
A “Whoops!” broke the spell, and Lon found himself pressed against Effie. She’d backed into one of the “palace” columns running the perimeter of the dance floor, leaving Lon to crash into her.
Closing his eyelids to see the stars behind them, he took her lips with his again and plucked at her garter straps as if she were a bass. Effie complied with pleasing sounds for a little while, but it was when Lon crouched, grabbed the backs of her thighs, and hoisted her up against the column that he felt her struggle. “What’s the idea!” she cried, holding to him for balance while also trying desperately to keep her dress covering her bottom. “Lonnie, stop it now!” He tried to wedge his body between her legs and wrap them around his sides. “Say, I mean it! Quit it now or I’m really gonna cast a kitten in fronta’ all these people!”
Here, kitty-kitty-kitty. Lon laughed to himself as he eased his hands beneath her dress toward her rump. But, with an instinctive sense of decency, he withdrew to let her down — just in time to see two uniformed ballroom attendants make their way toward him. Around them, he heard the disapproving cries of other women, a few of whom appeared to prod their dates to walk over there and knock his lights out.
Lon seized Effie by the wrist and pulled her toward the exit, waving off the men who’d given up their chase but still pointed after him in stern warning.
Out on the sidewalk, she huffed into the frigid air. “You, you’re screwy! You didn’t even fetch my ermine!” She ran at him and pushed him with surprising might. “The nerve, after dragging me all the way uptown. I’ll find myself another ride home, thank you. Don’t call on me again. Ever!”
And with that, she stomped her fish scales back inside, leaving Lon teetering on his feet. He hadn’t even grabbed his own overcoat, but no matter. The glittering lights of the Green Mill jazz club twinkled in the corner of his eye from the nearest intersection at Broadway.
Rubbing and cupping his bare hands to his face, he blew warm breath into them and set foot to deliver himself from drunk to positively zozzled.
* * *
“Three, two, one...Happy New Year!”
Dozens of high society members tipsy on fine champagne raised their coupe glasses in toast throughout the parlor and music room of the Hughes mansion.
“A kiss for good luck, my charming bride,” Finlay said, taking Eva’s hand and kissing the back of it before pulling her nearer to plant one politely on her lips.
“You call that a kiss?” Eva teased, perhaps two glasses of champagne in excess of her threshold. She coiled her arm around his neck and pressed against him. Her lips roamed over his and traveled down to his neck, then up to his ear.
“Evie, darling.” Finlay pulled her arms from their tight squeeze to add a little distance, looking around at the other partygoers and forcing a good-natured chuckle. The Redcliffe influence had tamed Hughes parties quite a bit over the last year. “Ha-ha, yes, perhaps you’ve imbibed a bit too much,” he said loudly for anyone in earshot. “May I walk you to a sofa, or perhaps your old bed upstairs to rest awhile? Collect yourself?”
Eva pulled her arms through his grip and wrapped them instead around his waist beneath his tuxedo jacket. “I think,” she purred with a smirk, “you ought to take me home, darling, and lay me on our bed.”
“Mm, yes,” Finlay replied. “Let’s do. I’ll fetch your mink if you’ll say your goodbyes and meet me in the foyer.”
Eva tightened her hug and giggled into his neck, “Yes, master,” with a firm squeeze of his rear beneath his tails.
“Er,” Finlay replied and coughed into his hand. “I’ll just be retrieving your fur, dear. Why don’t you make your way to the door now.”
Pressing her lips together in a grin, Eva saluted her husband. She then dropped her hand with such gusto that it swung her around, so she followed its lead and walked in its suggested direction.
Weaving through the merrymakers with a smiling nod, she eventually found herself in the front foyer. She stood on the mosaic tiles between the great columns and swayed to the string ensemble. Fleetingly, she wondered if she ought not quickly run upstairs to check on Ollie, but looking down the golden corridor, she spied the marble lovers above the fountain. Her sister forgotten, the corners of Eva’s lips twitched downward, and she softly sang along with everyone else to “Auld Lang Syne.”
Her throat tightened, making her voice falter into silence. Yet she still swayed, leaning against the door and frowning.
Seconds later, Finlay descended the grand staircase with her white fur in hand.
“All right, my darling, let’s be off.”
Compliant, she stood away from the door and allowed the butler — who’d been invisible to her until just then — to open it for her. Humming the song, she clopped down the stone steps, turned an abrupt left at the sidewalk, and marched the short distance to her own home next door. She then took another sharp military turn left up their steps.
Once inside the foyer there, she turned onto Finlay to half-heartedly renew her seduction.
“Mmm, kiss me, darling.”
“Of course, dear.” Finlay pecked her lips, then her forehead.
“Oh, come now, can’t you do better than that?” She fixed a ravenous gaze on him and reached for the fly of his tuxedo pants.
“Eva, my sweet...here...let me just — ” And he swept her off her feet and carried her upstairs.
Entering their master bedroom, he laid her on the bedspread and covered her with her white mink, which she promptly snatched off. Crawling onto all fours, she flicked it at him like a whip. “Come here, you.”
“Darling, I must get back to your father’s. There are important men there that I need to speak to, and — ”
“Well, if you must go, then go!” Eva spat, poised up on her knees. “Here I am throwing myself at you, and you still won’t touch me! I am your wife! I’m the one you always return to exhausted from your days of commerce or riding or golfing or whatever it is that you do at any given hour with the other Rulers of the World. There’s always someone else important to speak to. I fear I don’t interest you very much.”
“Pardon me, darling, but do I disrespect you? Do I treat you poorly? Deny you any comforts you’re used to? After only one year away, you’ve had to move all but one door down from your childhood home, for goodness sake.”
Eva pouted, tears streaming down her face. Why did she always seem to be crying? Ever since 1925, ever since the engagement, and was this how she was to ring in yet another year as well? Another New Year of old tears? A New Woman confined to old ways?
“No,” she replied. “You’ve been a gentleman in every way.”
“What then?” he beseeched. “Eva, what can I do to make you happy?”
“Must you really ask? Fine, then. I give up.” Hands folded at her lap, she sank onto her heels. “Intimacy, Finlay. I want to feel intimacy. I want us to find pleasure in each other, emotionally, physically. I feel all I’ve accomplished since our wedding is a successful role-play as Wife. My next audition will be for the role of Mother of Your Children. And yet how am I to achieve that when you scarcely lay a finger on me? It’s been over a year, and I still simply want to feel like a woman first before becoming a vessel for your seed.”
“Don’t be vulgar, Eva. It doesn’t become you.”
“What doesn’t? Modernity?”
“You know very well.”
Eva closed her eyes and mouth at once and concentrated on breathing through her nose.
“Darling, I...” Finlay’s voice had softened, and she could hear him approach just before his weight pulled down at the bedside and his smooth hand rested on top of hers. “This isn’t how I wanted our evening to end, darling.”
Keeping her eyes closed, Eva snorted. “Who ever wants any evening to end like this?”
“Yes, of course, but I only mean to say...I suppose I’m not quite good at being a husband. Not yet. But I swear to you, I’ll endeavor every day of my life to try. I’ve never done this before, Eva. You must be patient.”
A tear trapped beneath Eva’s eyelid slipped its way to freedom down her cheek. She opened her eyes to look at her husband beside her. “And you think I have done this before? Where do you suppose I’ve stored all my previous husbands? In the cellar?”
Finlay smiled and squeezed her hand.
“I suppose,” Eva continued, “I’m not much good at being a wife. Yet. I promise to try, too.”
“I appreciate that, darling. They always say the first year is difficult. We will work on this second year, together.” He kissed her cheek, then leaned further to kiss her lips, not just once but twice, somewhat of a record for Finlay in one sitting. With a double pat of her hand, he rose and straightened his tuxedo jacket. “So then, are you fine to stay here? Or can I escort you back to the party?”
He held his arm out akimbo for her to take. The stance was unsettlingly familiar.
“No,” Eva said, staring at his offered arm. “No, thank you. You go on. And please do extend my apologies to everyone for leaving without saying goodbye. As you said, I imbibed too much. I believe I’ll sleep it off now.”
Finlay patted her head and withdrew to the door. “Happy New Year, darling,” he whispered just before closing the door behind him.
Eva lay down on her side and hugged a pillow to her chest, replaying the conversation in her mind and asking herself again if crying was to remain such a regular state of being. Where had her strength evaporated to? Her independence? Her long-ago dreams of becoming a world-traveling journalist? Why did entering into a marriage mean having to check her identity at the door? For being a marriage of convenience, Eva was hard-pressed to identify just what had been so convenient about it.
“I simply want to feel like a woman,” played back in her mind. “We will work on this,” did as well.
Still practically newlyweds, they were already having to work on it. Eva supposed that was a fair enough reality of commitment, but what she couldn’t define quite as precisely was what they’d be working for.
At least he was trying. That counted for something when another man in her life had ceased working at even friendship. And from only a block away, if he even still lived at that hotel; Lon could have moved months ago for all she knew. That he remained in Chicago at all was only confirmed through the rumor mill. But Eva couldn’t act spiteful of that. She’d brought it on herself and hadn’t dared make the effort either. Meeting Lon at the movie house last winter had been a rash misjudgment. And how dreadful to have put him in that position — she’d single-handedly tried to drag him back to his philandering days, after he had been there for her, just as he’d promised.
No, she’d owed Finlay this first year, reserved for just the two of them as they began a new life together. And she owed Lon a chance at his happiness in the way he wanted to seek it. He didn’t need a rich married woman cramping his style.
Eva sat up. She didn’t need a rich married woman cramping her style either.
Striding to her wardrobe, she yanked her hanging dresses along the bar one by one and stopped at a little black knee-length Coco Chanel number she’d bought months ago but never had the right opportunity to wear. Unfastening and peeling off her fern green gown, she stepped into the beaded and fringed black crepe and rummaged around for her favorite black beaded purse, the hexagonal one she’d carried the night she’d first snuck into the Lincoln Park Zoo with Lon. The one that reminded her of the stars, the sea of dew where she could cast her nets and soar with the Dream Lady.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be found.
“Drat,” she muttered, frowning over where she might have misplaced it. Yet not wanting to dawdle any longer than she needed to in the event Finlay returned for her, she plucked up the next best thing — a basic silk clutch — and glided to the door.
She halted. Returning to her wardrobe, she opened a small interior drawer and withdrew from it a little mahogany box lined in black velvet. The winter chill that crept in through the windowpanes had shrunken her fingers enough that her emerald engagement ring and diamond-encrusted platinum wedding band slid off with ease. She tucked them into the velvet’s recesses, clapped the case shut, and scavenged through yet another drawer and jewelry box for a plain gold band to wear on her ring finger instead. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to look married, just not flashy. She’d forego wearing a fur as well, but the champagne hadn’t driven her to complete insanity — it was January in Chicago.
Penning a brief note in her elegant script, she placed it on Finlay’s pillow. She affixed a black cloche hat with a low-hanging brim, wrapped herself in an ankle-length black mink, and snuck out to Clark Street where she hailed a taxi to the Green Mill.
~*~ END OF CHAPTER ~*~
Read the rest of Seven for a Secret at Amazon.com or find your preferred book retailer at Simon & Schuster. The ebook is still ON SALE for 99c through New Year's Day--but more importantly...
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!* * * * * * *
December 7, 2015
(Seven for a) Secret Santa SALE!
~ * ~
Should old acquaintance be forgot? I should say not!
Now through New Year's, Seven for a Secret is ON SALE for $0.99!
~ * ~
Find your preferred retailer here: http://books.simonandschuster.com/…/Rumer-Hav…/9781623421106
And while the paperback isn't also on sale, let's not forget what a lovely stocking stuffer it makes...Just sayin'. ;)
~*~ HAPPY HOLIDAYS! ~*~
Should old acquaintance be forgot? I should say not!
Now through New Year's, Seven for a Secret is ON SALE for $0.99!
~ * ~
Find your preferred retailer here: http://books.simonandschuster.com/…/Rumer-Hav…/9781623421106
And while the paperback isn't also on sale, let's not forget what a lovely stocking stuffer it makes...Just sayin'. ;)
~*~ HAPPY HOLIDAYS! ~*~
December 3, 2015
On Sale NOW! Revolution Day, by T.E. Taylor
Happy Friday, darlings! Today, I am ever so delighted to host another Crooked Cat author. Ladies and gents, let's give a warm welcome to Mr. Tim Taylor, who writes fiction under the name T.E. Taylor, including the recently released Revolution Day. Without further ado, take it, Tim!
Hello, Rumer! Thank you for inviting me along talk about my novel, Revolution Day, published this summer by Crooked Cat (and currently on special offer for Christmas at 99p/$0.99!), which follows a year in the life of Latin American dictator, Carlos Almanzor.
BLURB
Carlos has been in power for thirty-seven years and is now in his seventies. He is feeling his age and seeing enemies around every corner. Yet he clings tenaciously to power, not for its own sake, but because he has come to believe that he alone can be trusted with the stewardship of the nation. He derives support from his secretary Felipe, who is trying to get him to show a more human face to the world through a video blog; and solace from his young mistress Corazon, who unbeknownst to Carlos maintains a discreet social life of her own.
Carlos’s estranged wife Juanita, who has been under house arrest for sixeen years, is writing a memoir of his regime and their marriage, excerpts from which are interleaved with the main narrative. It recalls the revolution that brought him to power and how, once an idealist, he came to embrace autocracy and repression, precipitating the catastrophic breakdown of their personal and political relationship.
Meanwhile, Manuel, Carlos’s efficient and ambitious Vice President, is frustrated with his subordinate position. When his attempts to augment his role are met with humiliating rejection, he resolves to take action. Lacking a military power base, he must make his move not by force but through intrigue, manipulating the perceptions of Carlos and others to drive a wedge between him and the Army.
As Manuel begins to pull the strings, Juanita and Corazon will find themselves unwitting participants in his plans....
EXCERPT
In this extract, Juanita recalls how she and Carlos became a couple on the very day when, after leading a group of rebels to overcome the guards of the old president, he became the leader of his country...
The cliché has it that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, and I suppose many people have interpreted what happened between me and Carlos in that way. But I have lived with power for decades, and it is a cold, soulless, sexless thing. I watched it take possession of Carlos and turn him into an instrument of itself, slowly obliterating whatever I had come to love in him.
No, it was not power that drew me to him on that day, but something purer, nobler in him. It was there in those bewildering moments in the alley, when it told him what needed to be done; it turned this introverted bureaucrat into a man of action, a leader of men. It strengthened his limbs and sharpened his mind, it caused passionate speeches to flow spontaneously from him, with an effortless eloquence that he never achieved in countless hours of pouring over drafts. And it lived on, in quieter form, after that day, sustaining him and guiding him through those first fraught months and years of his presidency. It was as if some other, greater self had slept within him and stirred itself to meet the crisis.
I looked across at him, as we stood on the balcony of the presidential palace for the first time and basked in the endless cheering of the crowd. I held his hand, and he turned towards me. It was the same familiar, unexceptional face that I had seen almost every day for years, and taken little notice of, but now I was overwhelmed by a surge of love and desire and happiness. I felt that, just as he had come upon his moment of destiny, mine too had now arrived. There was no stopping me. I kissed him, passionately, on the lips. When we separated, he looked surprised, but made no attempt to remove my arm from his waist. There was redoubled cheering from the crowd, then we kissed again. Someone brought champagne out. Angel did the racing driver thing, shaking a bottle and spraying the crowd. He, Pablo and even Manuel rapidly got very drunk. But not Carlos, and not me. We drank a little, enough to put an extra shine on the day, not that any was needed, but no more. We had things to do, the two of us.
More information and excerpts can be found on the Revolution Day page on my website: http://www.tetaylor.co.uk/#!revday/cwpf.
Thanks again for hosting me, Rumer!
~ * ~
It was absolutely my pleasure, Tim! Thank you for sharing with us about your novel and its holiday sale. And dear readers, if you'd like to learn more about Tim Taylor and his books, please visit the links below:
Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/timtaylornovels
Website: http://www.tetaylor.co.uk/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/timetaylor1
Revolution Day on Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Revolution-Day-T-E-Taylor-ebook/dp/B0106GALR4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1435449288&sr=1-1&keywords=Revolution+Day
on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Revolution-Day-T-E-Taylor-ebook/dp/B0106GALR4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1435512473&sr=1-1&keywords=Revolution+Day&pebp=1435512460458&perid=1CCVM4BE2J6WKH55WM9Y
AUTHOR BIO
Tim was born in 1960 in Stoke-on-Trent. He studied Classics at Pembroke College, Oxford (and later Philosophy at Birkbeck, University of London). After a couple of years playing in a rock band, he joined the Civil Service, eventually leaving in 2011 to spend more time writing.
Tim now lives in Yorkshire with his wife and daughter and divides his time between creative writing, academic research and part-time teaching and other work for Leeds and Huddersfield Universities.
Tim’s first novel, Zeus of Ithome , a historical novel about the struggle of the ancient Messenians to free themselves from Sparta, was published by Crooked Cat in November 2013; his second, Revolution Day in June 2015. Tim also writes poetry and the occasional short story, plays guitar, and likes to walk up hills.
Hello, Rumer! Thank you for inviting me along talk about my novel, Revolution Day, published this summer by Crooked Cat (and currently on special offer for Christmas at 99p/$0.99!), which follows a year in the life of Latin American dictator, Carlos Almanzor.
BLURB
Carlos has been in power for thirty-seven years and is now in his seventies. He is feeling his age and seeing enemies around every corner. Yet he clings tenaciously to power, not for its own sake, but because he has come to believe that he alone can be trusted with the stewardship of the nation. He derives support from his secretary Felipe, who is trying to get him to show a more human face to the world through a video blog; and solace from his young mistress Corazon, who unbeknownst to Carlos maintains a discreet social life of her own.
Carlos’s estranged wife Juanita, who has been under house arrest for sixeen years, is writing a memoir of his regime and their marriage, excerpts from which are interleaved with the main narrative. It recalls the revolution that brought him to power and how, once an idealist, he came to embrace autocracy and repression, precipitating the catastrophic breakdown of their personal and political relationship.
Meanwhile, Manuel, Carlos’s efficient and ambitious Vice President, is frustrated with his subordinate position. When his attempts to augment his role are met with humiliating rejection, he resolves to take action. Lacking a military power base, he must make his move not by force but through intrigue, manipulating the perceptions of Carlos and others to drive a wedge between him and the Army.
As Manuel begins to pull the strings, Juanita and Corazon will find themselves unwitting participants in his plans....
EXCERPT
In this extract, Juanita recalls how she and Carlos became a couple on the very day when, after leading a group of rebels to overcome the guards of the old president, he became the leader of his country...
The cliché has it that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, and I suppose many people have interpreted what happened between me and Carlos in that way. But I have lived with power for decades, and it is a cold, soulless, sexless thing. I watched it take possession of Carlos and turn him into an instrument of itself, slowly obliterating whatever I had come to love in him.
No, it was not power that drew me to him on that day, but something purer, nobler in him. It was there in those bewildering moments in the alley, when it told him what needed to be done; it turned this introverted bureaucrat into a man of action, a leader of men. It strengthened his limbs and sharpened his mind, it caused passionate speeches to flow spontaneously from him, with an effortless eloquence that he never achieved in countless hours of pouring over drafts. And it lived on, in quieter form, after that day, sustaining him and guiding him through those first fraught months and years of his presidency. It was as if some other, greater self had slept within him and stirred itself to meet the crisis.
I looked across at him, as we stood on the balcony of the presidential palace for the first time and basked in the endless cheering of the crowd. I held his hand, and he turned towards me. It was the same familiar, unexceptional face that I had seen almost every day for years, and taken little notice of, but now I was overwhelmed by a surge of love and desire and happiness. I felt that, just as he had come upon his moment of destiny, mine too had now arrived. There was no stopping me. I kissed him, passionately, on the lips. When we separated, he looked surprised, but made no attempt to remove my arm from his waist. There was redoubled cheering from the crowd, then we kissed again. Someone brought champagne out. Angel did the racing driver thing, shaking a bottle and spraying the crowd. He, Pablo and even Manuel rapidly got very drunk. But not Carlos, and not me. We drank a little, enough to put an extra shine on the day, not that any was needed, but no more. We had things to do, the two of us.
More information and excerpts can be found on the Revolution Day page on my website: http://www.tetaylor.co.uk/#!revday/cwpf.
Thanks again for hosting me, Rumer!
~ * ~
It was absolutely my pleasure, Tim! Thank you for sharing with us about your novel and its holiday sale. And dear readers, if you'd like to learn more about Tim Taylor and his books, please visit the links below:
Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/timtaylornovels
Website: http://www.tetaylor.co.uk/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/timetaylor1
Revolution Day on Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Revolution-Day-T-E-Taylor-ebook/dp/B0106GALR4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1435449288&sr=1-1&keywords=Revolution+Day
on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Revolution-Day-T-E-Taylor-ebook/dp/B0106GALR4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1435512473&sr=1-1&keywords=Revolution+Day&pebp=1435512460458&perid=1CCVM4BE2J6WKH55WM9Y
AUTHOR BIO
Tim was born in 1960 in Stoke-on-Trent. He studied Classics at Pembroke College, Oxford (and later Philosophy at Birkbeck, University of London). After a couple of years playing in a rock band, he joined the Civil Service, eventually leaving in 2011 to spend more time writing. Tim now lives in Yorkshire with his wife and daughter and divides his time between creative writing, academic research and part-time teaching and other work for Leeds and Huddersfield Universities.
Tim’s first novel, Zeus of Ithome , a historical novel about the struggle of the ancient Messenians to free themselves from Sparta, was published by Crooked Cat in November 2013; his second, Revolution Day in June 2015. Tim also writes poetry and the occasional short story, plays guitar, and likes to walk up hills.
November 26, 2015
Happy Thanksgiving & Black Friday SALE!
I'm still a new kitten in Crooked Cat's cradle--with my next novel to be released next year--but in the meantime, you can find great savings on other Crooked Cat titles tomorrow! (I highly recommend Shani Struthers' Psychic Surveys series if you'd like to put a little haunt in your holidays.)But should old acquaintance be forgot? I think not! So I'm having a little holiday sale of my own soon for my first novel, Seven for a Secret --on sale for only 99 cents during the entire month of December! Just in time for a happy New Year, to follow what I hope for you is a very, very happy Thanksgiving today. Cheers!
November 20, 2015
Available NOV. 24th! Eve: A Christmas Ghost Story
It's my incredible pleasure to share the newest release by one of my favorite authors,
Shani Struthers
! Her Psychic Surveys series entranced me from the start, and now, just in time to haunt us for the holidays, is the compelling prequel...
And now for a few words from the princess of the paranormal herself. Take it over, Shani!
Thank you for hosting me on your blog today! My new book, Eve: A Christmas Ghost Story launches on the 24th November on Amazon and is the prequel to the popular Psychic Surveys series. Featuring two of the Psychic Surveys team – Theo Lawson and Vanessa Patterson – it’s set between 1899 and 1999 and is loosely inspired by a true event.
In my fictional re-telling, Theo and Ness are asked to investigate a town weighed down by the sorrow of what happened 100 years before…
BLURB
What do you do when a whole town is haunted?
In 1899, in the North Yorkshire market town of Thorpe Morton, a tragedy occurred; 59 people died at the market hall whilst celebrating Christmas Eve, many of them children. One hundred years on and the spirits of the deceased are restless still, ‘haunting’ the community, refusing to let them forget.
In 1999, psychic investigators Theo Lawson and Ness Patterson are called in to help, sensing immediately on arrival how weighed down the town is. Quickly they discover there’s no safe haven. The past taints everything.
Hurtling towards the anniversary as well as a new millennium, their aim is to move the spirits on, to cleanse the atmosphere so everyone – the living and the dead – can start again. But the spirits prove resistant and soon Theo and Ness are caught up in battle, fighting against something that knows their deepest fears and can twist them in the most dangerous of ways.
They’ll need all their courage to succeed and the help of a little girl too – a spirit who didn’t die at the hall, who shouldn’t even be there…
EXCERPT
As Theo turned round to face the double doors, she had a feeling that someone - something - was rushing at her, as fleetingly as whatever had been in Adelaide's house. Refusing to let fear get a stranglehold, she turned back, her aim to confront it. A black wisp of a shape, like wood smoke, sideswiped her, before fading into nothing. Staring after it, wondering what it was, something else caught her attention. At the far end of the second room was something more substantial: a little girl, staring at her.
Theo's eyes widened. "Oh darling, darling," she whispered. She took a step forwards, tried to remember the names of the children on the list from earlier: Alice, Helen, Bessie, Adelaide's ancestor, Ellen Corsby perhaps. Which one was she?
She inched closer still. "Darling, your name, tell me what it is."
The little girl's arms moved upwards, she stretched them out, her manner beseeching although she remained mute. Theo tried again, told the child her own name.
"It's short for Theodora. I bet you're called something pretty."
The girl had a dress on; long, brownish, a course material - linen perhaps? Nothing special but if it was her party dress then maybe it was special to her. Her boots were brown too - lace ups, sturdy looking. She was around eight or nine but it was hard to tell. She could have been older just small for her age. Her hair was brown and tangled; she had a mane of it. Everything about her seemed to be brown or sepia, maybe sepia was the right word, as though she'd stepped out of an old photograph.
"I'm here now, sweetheart, I've come to help. You've been here for such a long time. Too long. You need to go to the light, go home, rest awhile."
Up closer, Theo could read her eyes. The longing in them stirred her pity.
"Let me help you," Theo persisted, her voice catching in her throat. As glorious as the other side might be, she still felt it unfair to be felled at such a young age. Often this was a good existence too and it deserved to be experienced fully.
She was close now, so close and still her arms were outstretched.
Harriet - the name presented itself whole in her mind.
"Your name's Harriet. Is that correct? It's lovely, it suits you."
Was that a smile on the child's lips, the beginnings of trust? Soon she'd be able to reach out and touch her. What would she feel like? Cold? Ethereal?
"Darling, I'm here," she repeated, no more than a foot between them. "I'm here."
Joy surged - one spirit had come forward - it was an encouraging start.
Just before their hands touched everything changed. Hope and joy were replaced with confusion as something sour - fetid almost - rose up, making her feel nauseous.
"Don't be afraid," Theo implored. Yet there was nothing but fear in her eyes now. No, not fear, that was too tame a word - terror.
"I'm not here to harm you," she continued. "I'm here to help."
As the words left her mouth, other hands appeared behind the child, a whole sea of them - disembodied hands that clawed at her, forcing her backwards.
"No!" Theo shouted. "Stop it. Leave her alone!"
But it was no use. Her words faded as the girl did. She'd been torn away, recaptured; the one who'd dared to step forward. Theo could feel sweat break out on her forehead, her hands were clammy. She clutched at her chest, her breathing difficult suddenly, laboured. Her heart had been problematic of late, a result of the pounds she'd piled on. She must go to the doctor to get some medication. Struggling to gain control, it took a few moments, perhaps a full minute, before her heart stopped hammering. And when it did, she remembered something else. The girl's eyes - her sweet, brown, trusting eyes - when the expression changed in them they hadn't been looking at her, they'd been looking beyond her. Was it at the thing that sideswiped her? Theo couldn't be certain. She wasn't certain either if that 'thing' was a spirit or much less than that - something with no soul, but with an appetite, an extreme appetite: a craving. Something, she feared, was insatiable.
Eve, now available for pre-order at:
UK http://tinyurl.com/nmnajss
US http://tinyurl.com/pe5f6db
AUTHOR BIO
Brighton-based author of paranormal fiction, including UK Amazon Bestseller, Psychic Surveys Book One: The Haunting of Highdown Hall. Psychic Surveys Book Two: Rise to Me, is also available and due out in November 2015 is Eve: A Christmas Ghost Story - the prequel to the Psychic Surveys series. She is also the author of Jessamine, an atmospheric psychological romance set in the Highlands of Scotland and described as a "Wuthering Heights for the 21st century."
Psychic Surveys Book Three: 44 Gilmore Street is in progress.
All events in her books are inspired by true life and events.
Catch up with Shani via her website www.shanistruthers.com or on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads.
Facebook Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/p9yggq9
Twitter: https://twitter.com/shani_struthers
Blog: http://shanisite.wordpress.com
Goodreads http://tinyurl.com/mq25mav
And now for a few words from the princess of the paranormal herself. Take it over, Shani!
Thank you for hosting me on your blog today! My new book, Eve: A Christmas Ghost Story launches on the 24th November on Amazon and is the prequel to the popular Psychic Surveys series. Featuring two of the Psychic Surveys team – Theo Lawson and Vanessa Patterson – it’s set between 1899 and 1999 and is loosely inspired by a true event.
In my fictional re-telling, Theo and Ness are asked to investigate a town weighed down by the sorrow of what happened 100 years before…
BLURB
What do you do when a whole town is haunted?
In 1899, in the North Yorkshire market town of Thorpe Morton, a tragedy occurred; 59 people died at the market hall whilst celebrating Christmas Eve, many of them children. One hundred years on and the spirits of the deceased are restless still, ‘haunting’ the community, refusing to let them forget.
In 1999, psychic investigators Theo Lawson and Ness Patterson are called in to help, sensing immediately on arrival how weighed down the town is. Quickly they discover there’s no safe haven. The past taints everything.
Hurtling towards the anniversary as well as a new millennium, their aim is to move the spirits on, to cleanse the atmosphere so everyone – the living and the dead – can start again. But the spirits prove resistant and soon Theo and Ness are caught up in battle, fighting against something that knows their deepest fears and can twist them in the most dangerous of ways.
They’ll need all their courage to succeed and the help of a little girl too – a spirit who didn’t die at the hall, who shouldn’t even be there…
EXCERPT
As Theo turned round to face the double doors, she had a feeling that someone - something - was rushing at her, as fleetingly as whatever had been in Adelaide's house. Refusing to let fear get a stranglehold, she turned back, her aim to confront it. A black wisp of a shape, like wood smoke, sideswiped her, before fading into nothing. Staring after it, wondering what it was, something else caught her attention. At the far end of the second room was something more substantial: a little girl, staring at her.
Theo's eyes widened. "Oh darling, darling," she whispered. She took a step forwards, tried to remember the names of the children on the list from earlier: Alice, Helen, Bessie, Adelaide's ancestor, Ellen Corsby perhaps. Which one was she?
She inched closer still. "Darling, your name, tell me what it is."
The little girl's arms moved upwards, she stretched them out, her manner beseeching although she remained mute. Theo tried again, told the child her own name.
"It's short for Theodora. I bet you're called something pretty."
The girl had a dress on; long, brownish, a course material - linen perhaps? Nothing special but if it was her party dress then maybe it was special to her. Her boots were brown too - lace ups, sturdy looking. She was around eight or nine but it was hard to tell. She could have been older just small for her age. Her hair was brown and tangled; she had a mane of it. Everything about her seemed to be brown or sepia, maybe sepia was the right word, as though she'd stepped out of an old photograph.
"I'm here now, sweetheart, I've come to help. You've been here for such a long time. Too long. You need to go to the light, go home, rest awhile."
Up closer, Theo could read her eyes. The longing in them stirred her pity.
"Let me help you," Theo persisted, her voice catching in her throat. As glorious as the other side might be, she still felt it unfair to be felled at such a young age. Often this was a good existence too and it deserved to be experienced fully.
She was close now, so close and still her arms were outstretched.
Harriet - the name presented itself whole in her mind.
"Your name's Harriet. Is that correct? It's lovely, it suits you."
Was that a smile on the child's lips, the beginnings of trust? Soon she'd be able to reach out and touch her. What would she feel like? Cold? Ethereal?
"Darling, I'm here," she repeated, no more than a foot between them. "I'm here."
Joy surged - one spirit had come forward - it was an encouraging start.
Just before their hands touched everything changed. Hope and joy were replaced with confusion as something sour - fetid almost - rose up, making her feel nauseous.
"Don't be afraid," Theo implored. Yet there was nothing but fear in her eyes now. No, not fear, that was too tame a word - terror.
"I'm not here to harm you," she continued. "I'm here to help."
As the words left her mouth, other hands appeared behind the child, a whole sea of them - disembodied hands that clawed at her, forcing her backwards.
"No!" Theo shouted. "Stop it. Leave her alone!"
But it was no use. Her words faded as the girl did. She'd been torn away, recaptured; the one who'd dared to step forward. Theo could feel sweat break out on her forehead, her hands were clammy. She clutched at her chest, her breathing difficult suddenly, laboured. Her heart had been problematic of late, a result of the pounds she'd piled on. She must go to the doctor to get some medication. Struggling to gain control, it took a few moments, perhaps a full minute, before her heart stopped hammering. And when it did, she remembered something else. The girl's eyes - her sweet, brown, trusting eyes - when the expression changed in them they hadn't been looking at her, they'd been looking beyond her. Was it at the thing that sideswiped her? Theo couldn't be certain. She wasn't certain either if that 'thing' was a spirit or much less than that - something with no soul, but with an appetite, an extreme appetite: a craving. Something, she feared, was insatiable.
Eve, now available for pre-order at:
UK http://tinyurl.com/nmnajss
US http://tinyurl.com/pe5f6db
AUTHOR BIO
Brighton-based author of paranormal fiction, including UK Amazon Bestseller, Psychic Surveys Book One: The Haunting of Highdown Hall. Psychic Surveys Book Two: Rise to Me, is also available and due out in November 2015 is Eve: A Christmas Ghost Story - the prequel to the Psychic Surveys series. She is also the author of Jessamine, an atmospheric psychological romance set in the Highlands of Scotland and described as a "Wuthering Heights for the 21st century."Psychic Surveys Book Three: 44 Gilmore Street is in progress.
All events in her books are inspired by true life and events.
Catch up with Shani via her website www.shanistruthers.com or on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads.
Facebook Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/p9yggq9
Twitter: https://twitter.com/shani_struthers
Blog: http://shanisite.wordpress.com
Goodreads http://tinyurl.com/mq25mav
October 15, 2015
Giving Away the Ghost at the 6th Annual Spooktacular Giveaway Hop
The Spooktacular Giveaway Hop is back to haunt us, mwahahahaaa!
Yes, boys and ghouls, it's time for the 6th Annual Spooktacular Giveaway Hop, which begins today, October 15th, and runs through midnight on Halloween.
In the spirit of spirits, I'm giving away ONE (1) KINDLE EBOOK of my Chicago-based ghost story, Seven for a Secret and a $10 AMAZON GIFT CARD.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
You can also trick-or-treat at the other blogs listed at the I am a Reader, Not a Writer blog (and at this Linky). So easy to win, it's almost scary!
October 5, 2015
#MusicMonday - WHAT THE CLOCKS KNOW Soundtrack
On this dreary grey, rainy day in London, it seems only appropriate to select a song featured in my next novel, What the Clocks Know...
"CHARLOTTE SOMETIMES"by The Cure
"Charlotte Sometimes" was inspired by Penelope Farmer's 1969 children's novel of same name, which in turn helped inspire What the Clocks Know (due out in early 2016 from Crooked Cat Publishing). Set in modern and Victorian London, my story pays homage to both the song and book, and nothing could suit its subtly haunting quality quite like The Cure. Perfect for a graveyard stroll, dears...
Have a ghoul--I mean, good week!
"CHARLOTTE SOMETIMES"by The Cure
"Charlotte Sometimes" was inspired by Penelope Farmer's 1969 children's novel of same name, which in turn helped inspire What the Clocks Know (due out in early 2016 from Crooked Cat Publishing). Set in modern and Victorian London, my story pays homage to both the song and book, and nothing could suit its subtly haunting quality quite like The Cure. Perfect for a graveyard stroll, dears...
Have a ghoul--I mean, good week!
September 28, 2015
#MusicMonday - SEVEN FOR A SECRET Soundtrack
Kicking off a new feature today in hopes of becoming a little more consistent in my blogging efforts. :) And so, without further ado, today's Music Monday selection is...
"TONIGHT YOU BELONG TO ME"by The Bird and the Bee
Today's little ditty comes to you from my unofficial soundtrack for Seven for a Secret . In the book, Lon plays the original 1926 Irving Kaufman version of "Tonight You Belong to Me" on his Victrola. But this sweet, modern rendition provides the perfect bridge between the novel's past and present story threads. I can almost hear it playing during the epilogue, actually--that final scene with Kate and Dexter. The song's rippling, almost glimmering synthpop evokes a celestial, standing-in-line-for-Space-Mountain-at-Disney-World sound befitting Kate's and Dex's planetarium jobs and all the stargazing throughout Seven for a Secret .
That's it for today, rockstars. Have a happy week!
"TONIGHT YOU BELONG TO ME"by The Bird and the Bee
Today's little ditty comes to you from my unofficial soundtrack for Seven for a Secret . In the book, Lon plays the original 1926 Irving Kaufman version of "Tonight You Belong to Me" on his Victrola. But this sweet, modern rendition provides the perfect bridge between the novel's past and present story threads. I can almost hear it playing during the epilogue, actually--that final scene with Kate and Dexter. The song's rippling, almost glimmering synthpop evokes a celestial, standing-in-line-for-Space-Mountain-at-Disney-World sound befitting Kate's and Dex's planetarium jobs and all the stargazing throughout Seven for a Secret .
That's it for today, rockstars. Have a happy week!
September 25, 2015
Friday FACT or FICTION?
TRUE or FALSE:In
Seven for a Secret
, the Hughes mansion is based on a real Chicago property.
First of all, have you seen the BOOK TRAILER yet? If not, curl up with some popcorn here before scrolling down to today's answer...
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Answer: TRUE!
The novel's fictional mansion where Lon Ashby and Eva Hughes meet on the staircase in 1925 was directly inspired by the Francis J. Dewes house in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood. Located only a block away from the Hampden Court apartment building that likewise inspired the story's Camden Court, this Chicago landmark dates back to 1896. Like the fictional Warren Hughes, Francis Dewes was a wealthy brewer and had his home designed in a German-inspired, lavishly ornamented neo-Baroque style.
While I lived in a Hampden Court studio apartment just up the road, I walked by the Dewes mansion almost every day--and salivated over it almost every time. I was just like Kate, gawking at the exterior architecture and peeking through windows without shame. Back then, the home was commercially owned, and you'd often see a wedding reception filling its gated garden. Today, this city mansion is once again a private residence (lucky bastards). It is truly one of Chicago's hidden gems, transporting you to the past (and across the ocean) for a moment; so if you ever find yourself on the city's north side, I highly recommend strolling on over to 503 W. Wrightwood (on the corner of Wrightwood Ave. and Hampden Ct.). It's near Lincoln Park Zoo and Lake Michigan, which makes for a lovely day excursion.
But though you can't tour the inside of the house anymore, don't be dismayed. YoChicago provides a wonderful three-part video tour on YouTube. Below is Part 2, which shows you the entertaining spaces where the fictional Hugheses threw their glittering parties, including the one where Lon meets Eva. I took some liberties, of course, but the key features are all there--such as the staircase...
First of all, have you seen the BOOK TRAILER yet? If not, curl up with some popcorn here before scrolling down to today's answer...
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Answer: TRUE!
The novel's fictional mansion where Lon Ashby and Eva Hughes meet on the staircase in 1925 was directly inspired by the Francis J. Dewes house in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood. Located only a block away from the Hampden Court apartment building that likewise inspired the story's Camden Court, this Chicago landmark dates back to 1896. Like the fictional Warren Hughes, Francis Dewes was a wealthy brewer and had his home designed in a German-inspired, lavishly ornamented neo-Baroque style.
"But before Lon could turn around, the great gray Hughes mansion loomed ahead, with some Choice Society stragglers milling around its steps and shimmering like fireflies in the dark. The music of a piano and string quartet floated on the air to greet him as ladies’ giggles popped like bubbles above the notes."
While I lived in a Hampden Court studio apartment just up the road, I walked by the Dewes mansion almost every day--and salivated over it almost every time. I was just like Kate, gawking at the exterior architecture and peeking through windows without shame. Back then, the home was commercially owned, and you'd often see a wedding reception filling its gated garden. Today, this city mansion is once again a private residence (lucky bastards). It is truly one of Chicago's hidden gems, transporting you to the past (and across the ocean) for a moment; so if you ever find yourself on the city's north side, I highly recommend strolling on over to 503 W. Wrightwood (on the corner of Wrightwood Ave. and Hampden Ct.). It's near Lincoln Park Zoo and Lake Michigan, which makes for a lovely day excursion.
But though you can't tour the inside of the house anymore, don't be dismayed. YoChicago provides a wonderful three-part video tour on YouTube. Below is Part 2, which shows you the entertaining spaces where the fictional Hugheses threw their glittering parties, including the one where Lon meets Eva. I took some liberties, of course, but the key features are all there--such as the staircase...
His gaze trailed up the fall of green to see an alabaster elbow peeking through the swirling black and gold-gilded iron. Then, on approaching the landing, he saw a shoulder, a protruding clavicle...a jaw...and a face, turned away from him. [...] Lon stepped onto the landing and walked to the next flight of steps where the woman sat.
