Guest Blogger: Babette James

Today my guest is Babette James.  Talking about her new release: Clear As Day

Welcome Babette.

Tell us a little about yourself:

Thanks, Marie, for letting me visit here today.

I write contemporary and fantasy romance, and I’ve always loved writing and making up stories, beginning back when I used to act out epic fantasy tales with my dolls. (My Barbies had swords and knew how to use them.) I even have a degree in Literature, but it wasn’t until 2004 that I wrote my first full rough draft of romance novel and began gathering up my nerve to pursue publication. I fell in love with writing romance and have focused on that ever since. Clear As Day is my debut novel and began its life as a short story I wrote back in college. It’s been a story of my heart in many ways, so seeing this story bloom and come to life as a full-length published novel truly has been a dream come true. Receiving the 4 1/2 star scorcher review from Romantic Times and being able to hold my book in my hands have been truly thrilling moments.  I’m also a teacher, and I enjoy encouraging young readers and writers as they discover their growing abilities. My class cheers when it’s time for their spelling test! When not writing, teaching or reading, I dabble with bread baking and painting, and try to keep up on weeding the garden beds. I live in New Jersey with my wonderfully patient husband and our three extremely spoiled cats.

What do like the most and the least about writing?

I love writing the first draft, I enjoy the surprises of storytelling. The first draft is all happiness, seeing that word count grow, finding favorite passages, fun lines.  I enjoy seeing a story grow out of a little idea, plots twist and turn, expand and shift, how one story can spawn into a series, and how the characters grow and reveal their lives and find their happily ever after. I love seeing characters emerge and reveal their stories. Creating characters is like making new friends and rediscovering old friends—always full of surprises. I’m a pantser, so it also can be frustrating as they send the story off on in a dozen unexpected directions. The most angst is definitely in the editing stages. All that lovely word count, those brilliant passages ( lol ), and fun lines now must be corrected, gutted, rearranged, whittled down, tightened up, fluffed, and polished. It seems endless and it’s easy to lose sight of progress when focused at the word and sentence level.

Give us a peek into your latest published work:

 Clear As Day, is a spicy contemporary romance about two friends with benefits facing the fears and uncertainties of their changing relationship and is set against the background of the summer heat and cool waters of Lake Mohave. I hope you enjoy Nate and Kay’s journey as much as I have.

What’s a girl to do when her summer lover wants forever?

Haunted by dark memories of her parents’ volatile marriage, artist Kay Browning keeps her heart locked behind a free-spirit facade and contents herself with the comfortable affair she has every summer with easygoing photographer Nate Quinn.

The only trouble with her plan? This summer Nate’s come to Lake Mohave to claim the lover he can’t let go. He’s done with the endless traveling and settling for temporary homes and temporary loves. Kay’s always been more than just a vacation fling, and now he must convince this woman, who sees love as a course to certain heartbreak, to take that leap of faith and learn how safe love with the right man can be.

What’s next on the writing horizon for you?

I’m currently working hard to finish and submit the next story, currently called Love Burns, featuring two of Nate and Kay’s friends. This story takes off right from where Clear As Day ends. I love this couple’s chemistry, and I’ve enjoyed seeing their story come to life as they work through their personal trials and find their own happily ever after together. I also have a fantasy series that’s simmering on the back burner while I focus on these contemporary stories. Thank  goodness for coffee!

Is there anything you want to tell readers?

Never give up on your dreams. Clear As Day started life years ago as that “story under the bed you love but can’t do anything with.” There were many times I felt like giving up, but I kept on writing new stories. Then, the day came I finally knew what to do with Clear As Day and how to really write Nate and Kay’s story. Because I didn’t give up, now I can share this story I love.

Excerpt of Clear As Day:

If anything could beat waking to the sight of Kay’s beautiful face and breasts, at that moment Nate didn’t care.

She blushed and brushed a curl back from his forehead. “Hi there, sleepyhead.”

“Sorry I crashed on you.” He swept his gaze over her, enjoying how she flushed even deeper and her nipples tightened. Kay was a delicious mix of bashful and bold. “I’ve been seriously jet-lagged and road-lagged for days. Any phone calls or messages while I was out?” Guessing by the shifted shadows, he’d been out cold for a couple of hours. Not the most romantic move, but he felt rested.

His lame joke nudged a smile out of her. “Not a one.”

“One of the sincere advantages of no phone service.”

“You’re a nut, you know?” She leaned over and hesitantly kissed him. “I know I said it before, but I’m glad you’re here.” Kay was always soft-spoken, but the vulnerable note in her voice this time seized his heart hard.

With the I love you he wanted to say straining at his throat, Nate tugged Kay down into his arms and drifted his fingers over her spine. He had to do something about the tension gripping her. She’d stayed with him while he slept. That was a change, a very good one, but he still needed to soothe and distract her before she slipped away and disappeared into her thinking, planning, and painting. He let his hand circle in an easy, undemanding caress.

Why not say it? Doubts? No, no doubts at all. He felt it, he meant it, he’d even typed it into e-mails, but why keep swallowing his I love you now?

“So, you missed me?”

Her elusive grin flashed. “Well, it’s nice having someone else clean the fish for a change.” Soft giggles escaped her, and her tension released under his hand.

“Ah hah! An ulterior motive all along. Here I just thought you wanted my body.” He chuckled and tickled her side, and dove in for the sneak assault of kisses on her sensitive ears.

Want me for more.

Stifling her giggles, she caught his hand to her side. “Hmm…it is such a lovely body. I’m very fond of it.” She made a playful show of ogling him head to toe, her glowing smile making his formerly sated body wake right up and his heart crack with joy. He stroked his thumb over the lush handful of her breast, teasing the pert nipple, smiling at her catch of breath. “I may have mentioned I had some fantasies…” He tugged her over to straddle him and stroked his hands over the soft curves of her bottom.

“Anything in particular?” She leaned forward with her hair spilling over her shoulders, her breasts playing hide and seek behind the silky locks, and she teased her body over his rapidly hardening shaft.

Her eyes filled with laughter, and the sweet curve to her mouth was pure feminine mystery.

He sucked in his breath and arched under her. “Anything you want, babe.” 

You can find Babette:

Website: http://babettejames.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/BabetteJames

Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/BabetteJamesAuthor

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/babettejames

Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/E1ur-avq5YI

The Wild Rose Press– Paperback & eBook http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=index&manufacturers_id=952

Amazon.com – Paperback & Kindle http://amzn.com/B007RN9STW

Barnes & Noble – Nook http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1109990576?ean=2940014230902

Come fall in love at the river.

Thanks for being my guest today.

Guest: Liz Flaherty

Today my guest is Liz Flaherty.  Welcome Liz.

Thank you for having me here today, Marie. I’m having a great time traveling around looking for a warm place to light.


Tell us a little about yourself.

I’m a country girl, married 40 years to my true-life hero, grandmother to the Magnificent Seven. I sew—not well, by any means, but a lot; I’m on a mission to make a bed-size quilt for each of the Seven. I’m on Number Five right now and he’s champing at the bit. Unfortunately for him, I chose now to learn how to do triangles and I’m doing them rather…badly. And slowly.

I’m on a fitness binge right now, hoping to lose to a healthy weight. I’ve gotten there  before, but maintaining it has always been beyond me. I’m feeling so wonderful now that I hope this is my time. 

What do like the most and the least about writing?

What I like most is the doing of it. I just love words and how they can be transformed into such beautiful things. 

What I like least, hands down, is promotion. I feel as though I’m constantly asking people to like me and annoying them in the process.

Give us a peek into your latest published work? 

ONE MORE SUMMER will be out from Carina Press on January 2—what a way to start the new year! Here’s what it’s about.

Grace has taken care of her widowed father her entire adult life and the ornery old goat has finally died. She has no job, no skills and very little money, and has heard her father’s prediction that no decent man would ever want her so often she accepts it as fact.

 

But she does have a big old house on Lawyers Row in Peacock, Tennessee. She opens a rooming house and quickly gathers a motley crew of tenants – Promise, Grace’s best friend since kindergarten, who’s fighting cancer; Maxie, an aging soap opera actress who hasn’t lost her flair for the dramatic; Jonah, a sweet gullible old man with a crush on Maxie.

And Dillon, Grace’s brother’s best friend, who stood her up on the night of her senior prom and has regretted it ever since. Dillon rents Grace’s guest house for the summer and hopes to make up for lost time and past hurts – but first, he’ll have to convince Grace that she’s worth loving…

What’s next on the writing horizon for you?

It’s the holidays, so I’m not being terribly productive, but I have started—though I’m still at the stage of writing a page and promptly deleting two—a sequel to ONE MORE SUMMER. It’s a new avenue for me, so we’ll see how it pans out.

Is there anything you want to tell readers?

Merry Christmas! I hope you have a most joyous holiday season and the best year imaginable in 2012. Thank you for stopping to visit.

Here's an excerpt from One More Summer:

Beautiful? Grace stood in front of the mirror and stared curiously at herself. No, not by any means. But—she reached up to fluff the hair drying into soft curls on top of her head—better. Undeniably better.

Lights were on in the cottage in the trees, and she wondered what Dillon was doing. Then her gaze fell on the gazebo with its torn screens and rotting floor and her stomach twisted into a knot that felt like a fist pushing its way to the outside. A shudder rippled through her and she clutched the windowsill for support.

He said beautiful. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Papa. She stroked her arms firmly with the palms of her hands, as though brushing away the bruises Robert had left there more times than she could count. Less often after he’d cut her face with his ring, but often enough she still expected to see dark spots on her skin.

She was restless. Enlivened. Part of it was the adrenaline fed by her fear for Promise. But another part was the attractive haircut, the memory of Dillon’s thumb stroking her cheek and his voice saying softly, “Beautiful.”

The echo of that voice still fell on her ears when she reached for the oversize T-shirt she wore to bed. She immediately put it back down and donned a dress Faith had given her. No more than a slip of thin cotton knit in a dark cranberry color, its neckline scooping low both front and back, it fell to her ankles without binding anywhere. Not only was it comfortable, it made her feel sort of…sexy.

Grace’s cheeks burned at the turn her thoughts had taken, then she got mad for blushing and wondered if she had any nail polish around. She’d just paint her toenails, so there. It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with sexy, was there?

Downstairs, she poured a glass of wine, even though it was only Monday night, and slipped quietly through the kitchen and porch doors into the backyard. She stood for a moment, undecided what to do now that she was out here, and frowned in disappointment when the first drops of rain began to fall.

Unwilling to relinquish the freedom of being outside alone in the dark, she walked around the side of the house to the seldom-used front porch. Her mother’s beloved rattan furniture was still there, but she settled into the padded swing that faced Lawyers Row. She sat sideways, dropped one foot to set the swing in motion, then drew her knees up.

Dillon’s soft whistle preceded him around the house. He stepped onto the porch, carrying a wine bottle and a glass, and sat uninvited on the other end of the swing. His thigh brushed her bare toes and she made to draw away, but his hand clasping her foot stopped her retreat.

“How’s Maxie’s headache?” he asked, kneading the foot with a rhythmic motion. His thumb found the nail of her big toe and stroked over the polished surface. Again and again. Slowly.

Grace’s entire body turned to gooseflesh. “Better. She went to sleep early. Jonah sat with her, massaging her temples. Promise tried to tell me he was crazy about her, but I didn’t think so. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Love takes back roads sometimes.” His voice sounded hollow, and when she tried to meet his eyes, she couldn’t. What back roads had he traveled? And how had he been hurt on those travels?

They sat in silence that was both companionable and fraught with awareness, sipping wine and—once—clinking their glasses in an unspoken toast

.

“Tell me about where you’ve been,” she said suddenly. “What you’ve seen.”

“No.” He softened the refusal with a tickle on the arch of one of her feet, then reached to refill her glass. “You tell me. Tell me what’s happened to Grace Elliot since her date for the prom didn’t show up.”

“Nothing. I’m the same as I was then.” She was, mostly. The damage had been done long before prom night. “And I haven’t been anywhere, so I like to hear about where other people have gone.” And I like to hear your voice. It makes me feel…

Even in her thoughts, she couldn’t put into words how the sound of his voice touched her. How it stroked over her skin like tenderness. How it strengthened her spirit to the point that facing another day was something to be anticipated instead of dreaded. Her tongue loosened by the wine, she said, “Please.”

He told her about England and Ireland , making her see thatched roofs and pubs in narrow lanes and more shades of green than she could imagine. He skipped over France because he said he hadn’t liked it there and spoke with admiration of free-spirited Australians, adopting horrendous accents in the telling that made her smile.

The wine bottle was nearly empty when he said, “That’s the end of the travelogue.”

“No, it’s not.” She reached, turning his face so he could no longer avoid her eyes. “You haven’t mentioned Iraq .”

He hesitated. “Didn’t you see enough of war living with Robert Elliot all those years?”

“That was cold war, and it’s over.” Though she shivered as she said it.

“War’s over for me too.”

“No, it’s not.” It’s back there in the guesthouse in that book you’re writing—I’d bet my big toe on it.

“The soldiers were so bored most of the time,” he began, “and yet the fear was something you could taste. Fear and sand and strangeness. You could sense courage, and a feeling of rightness. I stayed longer, dug deeper, listened harder. I saw more than I had ever seen before.” He lifted his glass to his lips and drained it.

The pain was thick in his voice, even in the grip of his fingers on her foot. Without taking the time to think about it, she laid her hand on his.

When he clasped her wrist to pull her to him and fold her into his arms, she didn’t pull away, nor did she stiffen. His heart beat strong and steady under the hand she rested on his chest, and she stroked with light, hesitant touches. She wanted to give comfort, but didn’t know how.

He held her so tightly it hurt, but at the same time sensation flowed blissfully through muscles and into places she’d known she had but hadn’t given all that much thought to recently. It was like a salve on the omnipresent worry over Promise’s illness. Grace sat quiet in Dillon’s arms and realized for the first time in her life that sometimes the giving of comfort leads to ease for the comforter.

She realized something more too. That there was heat wherever he touched her. With the heat, came longing. It started in her toes, still warm from the touch of his fingers, and rumbled through her body to rest low in her abdomen. Even as she settled more comfortably into his embrace, she blamed the sensations on the dress, the unaccustomed varnish on her toenails, the haircut.

But it was more. It was more.

Find me at http://lizflaherty.com

Email lizkflaherty@yahoo.com

Twitter @LizFlaherty1 or look me up on Facebook! 

Thanks for being here today, Liz.

Guest Blogger: Tony-Paul de Vissage

Today my guest is Tony-Paul de Vissage who brings a little bite to your Monday.

Tell us a little about yourself:

About moi? I like to fall back on the “Official Authorized Biography” for that question, delivered with tongue in cheek. Voila!:

A writer of French Huguenot extraction, one of Tony-Paul de Vissage’s first movie memories is of being six years old, viewing the old Universal horror flick, Dracula's Daughter on television, and being scared sleepless--and that may explain a lifelong interest in vampires.

This was further inspired when the author was kidnapped by a band of transplanted Romanian vampires who were sightseeing in the South. He was returned to his parents with the offer of paying his way through college if he would become a writer and pen positive stories about vampires. His parents, (grateful for the tuition offer since it let them off the hook) agreed.

Though the promise made to his supernatural mentors survived a liberal arts' education and the scorn of friends and family, marriage, parenthood, divorce, and a variety of occupations ranging from stage work to doctor's assistant took precedent over writing for several years, as did moving from one United States coast to another.

Eventually that first story--a short story about the hapless vampire Clan Andriescu--was published. A voracious reader whose personal library has been shipped more than 3,000 miles, Tony-Paul has read hundreds of vampire tales and viewed more than as many movies.

Whew! That’s a lot, isn’t it?

What do like the most and the least about writing?

What I like most? Seeing that book listed as being released and having someone ask me to tell them about it (Guess that’s two things, isn’t it?)

What I like least? The time it takes to write a novel. I used to be able to get one done in three weeks, edited, proofed, and ready to go. Now, it takes a team of horses to get me to sit at the computer long enough to write, though I may have the story all plotted out and ready to go in my head. Apparently I’m getting lazy with each passing day or something like that.

Give us a peek into your latest published work?

My latest published work is an anthology of short stories, Sweet Sips of Blood, published by Vamptasy Publishing, UK. Here’s the blurb:

Some vampires want to have their cake and eat it, too…

Sweet Sips of Blood…a collection of vampire tales written with a pen dipped in crimson icing… After the Apocalypse of 2012, humans and vampires unite to face an assault from a mutual foe… A famous writer of vampire novels goes too far with her latest literary effort… A vampire with a toothache seeks out an unusual dentist…

Blood will Freeze…Working-class Vampires…the Best Dentist in Orange County… and seven other short stories, some whimsical, some sad, a couple horrific, but all designed to titillate, amuse, and chill…

Sometimes the vampire gets his “cake”; in others, he’s still outside, staring in through the bakery window. Like the sweet sips of blood sustaining the vampire’s existence, these stories are sweet sips of vampires’ secret souls…

What’s next on the writing horizon for you?

I just finished my fourth novel, The Last Vampire Standing, which is a contemporary, vampire story set in the South. It’s not a romance, however, but a more “traditional” vampire story with some very unusual sex involved. I’m also currently working on getting Dark God Descending (originally published in 2008 and not out of print) re-issued. Then, I have a 7-book series to tackle, the Second Species.

Is there anything you want to tell readers?

Vampires aren’t just for Hallowe’en anymore!

EXCERPT from Sweet Sips of Blood

“The Best Dentist in Orange County”:

The pain jerked him out of Unsleep like a fish being hooked from a lake.

What the Hell? For several seconds, he didn’t recognize what was happening. Then, the sharp burning stab again shot through his right upper canine. I have a toothache! It was a new sensation but not one he’d care to have for very long, Domingo decided. Since pain was little more than a vague memory, he had no idea what to do or how to stop it, so, as always, as he’d done when he was alive, he turned to the one person he was certain could help him. His sister, Liseta.

He was out of the black-sheeted bed and through the door, quite literally—Domingo never bothered with the inconvenience of opening a door—before he realized he was still naked. Materializing back to the bed, he found the robe at its foot, hastily shrugged it on, belted it, and appeared again outside in the hall.

Liseta was in the sitting room, knitting just as she had through the centuries no matter where they resided. She’d begun the habit while they were still in Spain, fashioning warm sweater-like garments for the children of the servios who lived on their father’s grounds. After their hasty escape from their beloved birthplace, she had continued the practice. When they settled in Orange County, following a slow progression across the United States, Dom had informed her that now that they were in California, no one needed heavy-weight bulky-knit pullovers. Adaptable as ever, Liseta switched to a lighter yarn and now knitted tank tops instead.

Good Will Industries seemed particularly grateful.

As he stumbled through the door, one hand against his right jaw, she looked up and smiled brightly. That always annoyed him. How could anyone be so cheerful this early in the evening? He himself was a midnight-owl, didn’t really get his fangs out until just before the witching hour! Well, they were definitely out now, and aching savagely.

“Good evening, hermanocito. You’re up early,” was her statement of the obvious. She nodded disapprovingly at his loosely belted robe and tousled hair. “—and not dressed, either.”

Brushing his hair out of his face, Dom dropped onto one of the Queen Anne chairs and sprawled languidly. “Don’t start, Lisi. I-I think I’m ill!”

That startled her. The clicking needles stopped their motion. “Ill? What do you mean?”

It should be apparent, he thought. Did I always walk around with one hand clamped to my face? “M-my fangs hurt. I think I have a toothache.”

Now, she looked worried. “How could that happen? Have you bitten anything tough lately?”

“No...” He thought a moment, grimacing as the upper eye-tooth again sent out a vicious throb and a memory of the night before returned. “...wait...yes!”

“When? Where?”

“Well…” He hedged a moment.

“Where did you go last night?” she demanded, expecting the worse.

Domingo had a habit of lurking in the most disreputable places, outside bars and pool halls. Lately, he’d started hanging out near escort agency entrances. He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “Over to Laguna Beach. They were supposed to be filming a movie there and I thought it would be easy to find some prey.”

“And did you?” She didn’t try to hide the exasperation in her voice.

He shook his head. “Not really. I got my dates wrong. The filming’s not until tonight, so the beach was nearly deserted. There were only a couple of late-night surfers available.” He looked a little sheepish. “I waylaid one of them. Guess that’s when I broke my fang.”

The surfer had been a muscle-bound, bull-necked oaf whose jugular was iron-tough. He had almost gnawed through it to get a single drop. And the bastard had the effrontery to actually put up a fight!

“Dom!” Her expression as well as her voice held irritation. As if he were five instead of five hundred, he thought resentfully. “I wish you wouldn’t go to the beach. Who knows what the ocean could do to you? All that moving water, and salt and...”

“...the sad crying of the gulls...the whisper of the waves...the silver of the moonlight on the billows...” he added, softly. “You know how I like to watch the fog roll off the water and creep slowly across the PCH. And the cold, seeping into my bones, making them ache with longing... Doesn’t that give you una tembladera deliciosa?” He shivered with intense exaggeration.

“Such pretty sentiments, chico,” she agreed. “You always did have the heart of a poet.”

“Not any longer,” he corrected, shaking his head sadly.

She looked surprised. “But of course, you do! It’s in that little carved teak chest in your bedroom—” She stopped as Domingo continued to shake his head.

“It was getting rancid. I fed it to one of the wolves on my last trip to the San Diego Zoo.”

Liseta looked sympathetic. “That’s too bad. It took you so long to find just the right one.” She reached out and patted his shoulder comfortingly. “But you’ll get another, I’m certain.”

BUY LINK for Sweet Sips of Blood click here

Thank you for being my guest today Tony-Paul.

Guest: Jennifer Jakes

Today is my guest Jennifer Jakes who is taking about her current release Rafe's Redemption.

Tell us a little about yourself.

I’m married and we have two daughters. I’ve been a Jack of all Trades – everything from a hairdresser to a dump truck driver. And it’s all been fun. I’ve been able to mark several things off my “bucket list”. We live in the Midwest where the long summer of 100 degrees temps is over and the gorgeous fall colors are making an appearance.

What do like the most and the least about writing?

I hate writing the first 3 chapters! These are the ones that I always end up deleting all, or at least part of, time and time again. I think it’s because I’m still learning about my characters and trying to let them lead me.

Give us a peek into your latest published work?

RAFE’S REDEMPTION

He rode into town to buy supplies, not a woman.

For hunted recluse Rafe McBride, the raven-haired beauty on the auction block is exactly what he doesn't need. A dependant woman will be another clue his vengeful stepbrother can use to find and kill him. But Rafe's conscience won't let him leave another innocent's virginity to the riff-raff bidding. He buys her, promising to return her to St. Louis untouched. He only prays the impending blizzard holds off before her sultry beauty breaks his willpower.

She wanted freedom, not a lover.

Whisked to the auction block by her devious, gambling cousin, and then sold into the arms of a gorgeous stranger, outspoken artist Maggie Monroe isn't about to go meekly. Especially when the rugged mountain man looks like sin and danger rolled into one. But a blizzard and temptation thrust them together, and Maggie yearns to explore her smoldering passion for Rafe.

But when the snow clears, will the danger and secrets that surround Rafe and Maggie tear them apart?

What’s next on the writing horizon for you?

I’m almost finished with edits for a novella, TWICE IN A LIFETIME. (Watch my website for details for the release)

Is there anything you want to tell readers?

I’d like to ask them a questionJ What is your favorite time of year? And why? (OK, that’s two questions.)

Here's an excerpt of Rafe's Redemption:

Oh, Lord. He was going to kiss her. She shouldn’t want this. She was confused enough. Respectable women didn’t kiss men they barely knew, certainly not men who made them have wild, exotic dreams.

It was crazy. He was making her want crazy things. Making her not give a damn about her reputation or her virginity. Or her long-awaited freedom. All she could think about was that dream, and the way his sinful mouth had felt. The table was only a step away, and honey was just as sweet as peach juice…

She swallowed hard and looked up into his hooded eyes.

“Maggie,” he groaned. “Don’t be scared. I’d never hurt you.”

Her mouth parted to object, but firm lips covered hers, hungry, demanding. She gasped, shocked at his hunger, but even more at the illicit response coursing through her. An aching heat unfurled low in her stomach, pulsed between her legs. Oh, yes. It started just like in the dream.

He deepened the kiss, coaxed her lips with his warm tongue. Long, languid strokes teased the inside of her mouth, encouraging, tempting before he pulled back to nibble the corners of her lips.

Oh, God. Is this what all kisses felt like? Hot, lethargic? Melting her like molasses over warm bread?

“Kiss me, Maggie,” he breathed.

Thanks for being here today, Jennifer.

Guest Blogger Jannine Corti Petska

Today my guest is Jannine Corti Petska and she's talking about her current release.

Tell us a little about yourself:

I’m a typical Italian mother and grandmother who dotes on her family and protects them fiercely. I’m half Sicilian and have a devilish temper, which no one in the writing community knows about or has seen. There’s always a charge there, and I believe it’s the reason my heroes are terribly stubborn, ornery and downright irascible. But they all have a good heart. My heroines are fairly high strung and temperamental as well.

If you’d like to read more about me, my bio can be found on my website: www.jcortipetska.com.

What do like the most and the least about writing?

I’d have to say I like the aloneness. I like being home, working on a book, playing with my three Rat Terriers, puttering around in my garden. The solitude helps me concentrate better.

What I don’t like is the aloneness. Dogs can’t hold a conversation. I can only do so much in the garden. And when I hit a road block in my current book, I can take just so much of losing myself in housework or something else that might stimulate my brain. Usually, I’ll go window-shopping for a change of scenery. I’ll grab a Starbucks now and then.

Give us a peek into your latest published work?

THE LILY AND THE FALCON is the first book in my four-book Italian medieval series. It’s set in 15^th century Florence and delves into the tug-of-war between two powerful families for control over Florence. It was first published by Kensington in 2000.

When Cristiano de' Medici asks for Bianca degli Albizzi's hand in marriage, she is outraged. Cristiano's family has long been a sworn enemy, and her father's blessing confuses her. Wed only to end the war between Florence's two powerful families, headstrong Bianca vows she will teach her handsome husband her loyalty cannot be bought...even by someone so seductive.

Cristiano, a well-known warrior with the wealth of a king, could have any woman he desires. But for the sake of peace, he ends up with a defiant bride who awakens his deepest passion. Her vengeful scheming puts them both in peril, but is he willing to sacrifice his life to safeguard the woman he loves?

What’s next on the writing horizon for you?

I’m researching book 4 of my Italian medieval series, after which I’ll research and write book 3 of my medieval psychic sisters trilogy. After that, I haven’t decided yet. There is a notebook filled with notes on over 20 different stories I’d like to write. And I have a shelf of plastic file bins with about 7 other stories I had started researching and abandoned. Then there’s the 8 or so manuscripts I’d like to rewrite. So there’s no shortage of work. However, after I’m finished with my medieval trilogy next year, I will then decide whether or not I want to continue writing. It’s a tough decision to make, but at this point in my life, it’s something that must be considered.

Is there anything you want to tell readers?

I’d love to hear from you. My contact information is on my website.

Excerpt from The Lilly and the Falcon

This short scene is from an outing Cristiano de’ Medici and his betrothed, Bianca degli Albizzi, take. Prior, their conversation had drifted to his previous lovers.

“May I see your hand?”

When he hesitated, she took it anyway and turned it palm up.

“What fetish is this?” he demanded, uncertain of the puzzling grooves that suddenly invaded her features.

“I am reading your lines.” He tried to take his hand away, but she held fast. “You are mischievous by nature, a knave and a thief.”

“I am not a thief,” he objected.

She gave him a coy look. “Mayhap not of property or belongings, but of hearts, I propose.”

He scowled. “Are we back to my lovers again?”

“No, my sensitive lord.” She brushed the underside of his fingers, causing a shiver to race recklessly up and down his spine. “Your long fingers and broad palm reveal much of your character.”

“Explain this witchery,” he commanded, taking back his hand.

“Reading the palm is a science,” she told him with a slight frown. “Many Florentines seek the advice of seers and palm readers, though none would readily admit to it. Know this, my lord. Were I a witch, I would cast a spell on you.”

Then witch she was. What other explanation had he for his obsession with Bianca degli Albizzi?

Buy links:

Digital click here

Paperback click here

Thanks for being here today Jannine.

Author Icy Snow Blackstone

Today I welcome author Icy Snow Blackstone

Tell us a little about yourself:

Thanks for having me on your site, Marie. Here’s my “official” biography: Icy Snow Blackstone was born in1802, in northern Georgia where her father, the Reverend John Blackstone, was prominent in local politics. She married a minister, raised at least seven children, one of whom also became a minister, and lived there all her life. Two hundred and five years later, her great-great-great-great-granddaughter began using her name as a pseudonym for her romance novels. The present Icy Snow Blackstone (that’s me!) lives far from her Southern roots in Lincoln, Nebraska, where’s she’s a practicing grandmother, artist, photographer…and writer.

What do you like the most and the least about writing?

Other than actually writing the story, I like talking about it. By that, I mean going over the plot with a fellow writer, hashing out the problems with scenes or dialogue. That’s a good way to discover what you’re doing wrong and also to get help with places in the story that are being difficult to write. I have a friend who also writes and she and I do this all the time. It really helps.

What don’t I like? Mainly, waiting to get the next story started! Guess I’m an “assembly line” writer. Once I put “The End” on a story, I can’t wait to go on to the next one and get it in the computer.

Give us a peek into your latest published work?

My newest novel is scheduled for a September released through Class Act Books. It’s entitled Runaway Brother, and I consider it a fun read. I enjoyed writing it and I hope people have as much fun reading it. Since it’s set in the South, I didn’t do all that much research about the geography of the story, and I also used a lot of the knowledge I accumulated while working in San Juan Capistrano where the Mission famous for its swallows is located. I worked in the Trading Post there, where Native American jewelry, pottery, and figurines are sold. Since one of my characters is a former rodeo cowboy who now collects Acoma pottery, I used a lot of that information in the book. Other things I had to look up: Arabian horses and motorcycles…two methods of transportation my hero comes in contact with (in more ways than one) in his ride through the South.

Here’s the blurb:

At the age of twenty-two, newly-graduated Nicolo Liguori is forced by his three brothers to become care-giver for his father, who suffered multiple strokes. For the next ten years, Nick gives up his own ambitions , working during the day in the family jewelry business in Vanderhoek, New York, and returning to the Liguori mansion every night, to be at his father’s beck-and-call. Then Papa dies and Nick is free…or is he? Carlo, Marco, and Pietro expect him to continue life as usual, but Nick has other ideas. Secretly buying a motorcycle, he starts to work one day and… disappears.

Nick gets as far as the southern coast of Georgia before an accident disables his bike. Stranded, with no idea of the South except what he’s seen on TV, Nick isn’t certain what kind of reception he’s going to get. Then, a pretty Southern miss and a white tank disguised as a temperamental horse named Shazam change his life as they and the citizens of Oceano teach a runaway Yankee about life and love in a small Georgia town.

What’s next on the writing horizon for you?

I’ve several writing projects open at the moment and I haven’t chosen which to pursue yet. One is another novel in the Three Moon futuristic romance series, or possibly another entry in a new series, Lovers of Leonesse, which follows the development of a fictional country through the romances of its young people.

Is there anything you want to tell readers?

Just be on the look-out for Runaway Brother. I should have a trailer featured on Youtube.com some time soon.

EXCERPT from Runaway Brother:

He was paying so much attention to the scenery he didn’t realize the coast-road had narrowed considerably and turned to dirt. Looking around, Nick saw trees on both sides, short-leaf pine mixed with sugarberry and water oak and the only reason he recognized them was because the Liguori estate had a small grove on the property filled with the same trees. Along one side ran a fence with barbed wire strung between high thick posts painted black with creosote. Behind that was a meadow filled with purple flowers, stretching into another stand of trees on the other side.

From far off to his right came a faint sound as if someone was beating a drum.

Nick raised his head, looking around, then gave a loud sigh of exasperation. Okay! So I’m lost! He’d just follow the road to wherever it went, probably to some farmer’s front yard. When he got there, he’d apologize, turn around and get himself back to the main drag. If he could find it.

A broken branch loomed ahead, and he turned his attention to it, guiding the bike around it. The drumming came closer.

A second branch and several twigs littered the roadway. Nick was so concerned with maneuvering around them he didn’t see the horse sail over the fence, wasn’t even aware it was there until he looked up and found the white shape almost directly in front of him.

He jerked the wheel to the right, forgetting to apply the rear brakes first. The bike skidded, its back wheel rising off the ground as the front one stopped rolling. He had a brief vision of the animal leaping forward, its rider clinging to its back, wide, frightened blue eyes, flying blonde hair...

The motorcycle went off the road, sliding into the ditch and running up the other side, the front fender striking one of the fence posts. It bounced and rebounded, and Nick went flying over the handlebars, flipping in mid-air and hitting the same post with his back. The bike wavered a moment, then toppled onto its side. Nick slid down the post, landing upside down in the ditch, his shoulders crushing coffeeweed into an aromatic mass.

The pounding hooves stopped. He heard running footsteps, opened his eyes and saw someone running toward him. He closed them again.

“Are you hurt?”

This time when he opened his eyes, he was staring at the upside-down face of a very pretty girl, at least she’d have been pretty if her face wasn’t screwed into such a dismayed scowl.

“Am I hurt?” He managed a growl as he slid further into the weeds and rolled over. “I just hit a fence and got tossed into a ditch! What do you think?” Clambering to his knees, while she plucked ineffectually at one arm, he jerked out of her grasp. “I can get up by my— Ow!”

He’d gotten upright, took a step, and his leg buckled, turning at the ankle. He sat down a little quicker than he intended, back into the weeds again as he ran a hand down his boot to touch his ankle. He could feel angry throbs of heat pulsing through it.

“Maledicta quella ferita!”

“Here.” She slid into the ditch, offering a hand. Reluctantly he took it, being careful not to put too much weight behind it as he let her pull him to his feet. He could see she was worried and he really wasn’t hurt all that bad, but he was angry because she’d been so reckless.

Jerking away, he demanded, “What the Hell’s the matter with you? Jumping in front of me like that! If I’d hit that horse--”

“What are you doing riding this road? This is private property.”

She was too pretty for him to pretend to stay angry, so he toned it down, answering her question. “I got lost. I only wanted to find the end of the road and turn around.”

“You have a way to go. The house is about a quarter of a mile that way.” She nodded toward a group of pines thrust into the road, hiding the rest of it from sight. Nick looked in that direction, then back at her. She, in turn, looked at the motorcycle, still on its side in the weeds. “You seem okay. Is that hurt?”

He limped over and inspected it. The front fender was smashed and ripped upwards. The tire has an impact-split in it and the spokes were bent and twisted. That isn’t too bad, he told himself. Jojo had given him a basic tool set and a crash course in Motorcycle Care 101. I can straighten the spokes and the fender. Get a new tire and be on my-- Hold it! The headlight was smashed, hanging out of the socket like a dislocated eyeball, and the clutch cable... Somehow it had been severed.

“Well?” She appeared to be awaiting his diagnosis.

“Gas tank’s got a hole in it, clutch cable’s severed. Is there a motorcycle shop around here?”

“No, but Marshall’s in town can probably repair it. He does everything from lawn mowers to farm machinery.”

Oh Lord, deliver me from small town handymen! He was about to tell her he didn’t want Marshall touching his bike when he realized, What else am I going to do? Do you have a better idea, Mr. Runaway?

“So which way is town?” He straightened, looked around as if expecting to see the city limits a few feet away.

“Too far for you to push that thing,” she answered, gesturing at the front wheel. “Not with it twisted like that.”

“What do I do then, Miss Not-So-Helpful? Since this is your fault--”

“My fault?” Hands went to her hips. And deliciously slim ones they were, too. Nick had a moment to think she looked anything but angry, though it was apparent she thought she did. Cute, maybe. Hell, he might even say adorable with those blonde wisps floating around her face, but angry? Nope! “Who’s the trespasser? Who had his head down, studying the ground when he should’ve been looking straight ahead?”

“You weren’t ahead of me,” he countered. “You and that white tank of yours jumped a fence and came in from the side.”

She stared at him, taking a deep breath and getting ready for some type of vitriolic response. Memories of The Dukes of Hazzard and how the Duke Boys always verbally got the best of Boss Hawg came into his mind. Well, this Daisy Duke wasn’t getting the best of him. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Never mind. Just let me get the bike upright and point me in the right direction, and…”

“I’ll do no such thing.” That made him stare at her, wondering if she was going to walk away, mount her white steed, and leave him stranded knee-deep in Kudzu or whatever-the-Hell these weeds were. “I’ll ride back to the house and get my grandpa’s truck. We’ll put the motorcycle in it.”

She clambered up the bank, running toward the horse now grazing on the other side of the road. Catching the reins and a handful of mane, she swung into the horse’s back--very gracefully, Nick noted--then turned the animal’s head and trotted it back to him.

He liked the way the jolting gait made her breasts bounce under the jersey tee. Damn, they’re perky little things! Che pezzeta saporita! He forced himself to hide his appreciation. Barely stopped his tongue from coming out and licking his lower lip. Hoped he wasn’t drooling.

“You stay right there,” she told him. “I’ll be back in a jif!” She kicked the horse in the ribs and sent it galloping down the road.

He liked the way her butt bounced, too.

They dodged a tree limb, took the turn and vanished from sight, though he heard the sound of hoofbeats for a few minutes more.

Nick turned his attention back to the V-Rod. It hadn’t moved. Did he expect it to get up and limp over to him like a dog with a hurt paw, whimpering for sympathy? Shaking his head, he leaned against the edge of the ditch, back against a fencepost.

Welcome South, Brother!

Thanks for being here today, Icy.