Nobody Trusts a Warriner...

I am almost beside myself with excitement because I have finally written my first series. Well almost.
I’m still writing book four, but the rest are done and will soon all be released into the wild- which is apt because they are called The Wild Warriners. Four sinfully handsome, down-on-their-luck brothers ostracised from society thanks to the antics of their troublesome ancestors.

The first in the quartet- A Warriner to Protect Her- came out a few weeks ago and is doing really well. The reviewers seem to like it (thank goodness!) and there has already been a bit of a buzz about book two, A Warriner to Rescue Her, which doesn’t come out till July. I suppose I could waffle on about what it’s about and what my inspiration was, but instead I thought I’d share with you a little taster…

Jack strode on to the landing, only to be confronted by the sight of Letty looking deliciously sleep rumpled at her door. She had only opened the door enough to poke her head around, but Jack saw the tantalising glimpse of a female leg where it poked beneath the hem of yet another one of his shirts and the sight irritated him. The blasted woman was handy with a needle. She had started embroidering little patterns on everything from napkins to pillowcases. Weeks ago, she had begun making a dress—which was still not finished—so why could she not fashion herself a proper nightdress? One that came to the floor and covered all of her soft, silken skin. And while she was about it, she should probably plait the wild, golden riot of curls that hung past her shoulders and tempted him to touch. An ugly nightcap would not go amiss either.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘There’s a storm. We need to round up the animals. Go back to bed Letty. You’re in no danger.’
‘I can help.’
Jack was in no mood to be tactful. ‘No, you can’t. Go back to bed.’

The storm would take his mind off her; he didn’t need the additional burden of an heiress faffing about and getting in his way when he had a serious job to do. He saw her fine eyes narrow just before she slammed the door shut and he turned away, striding briskly to the stairs. It was just as well. If she had argued with him, he would have bitten back twice as hard. Lack of sleep always brought his temper close to the surface and, as Letty was responsible for the deficiency, he doubted any confrontation would end well tonight. Not after their splendid chat in the barn earlier, when she had thanked him for being so sensible about not pursuing their mutual attraction, then blithely gone about her day as if the words he had wrenched out of his gut and choked hollowly out of his mouth had not sounded the death knell on all his secret hopes of a miracle.

She might have argued then, as she was prone to when she heartily disagreed with something, and perhaps given some credence to the idea that their two worlds could merge if they both wanted them to. But of course she hadn’t. Only a tiny part of him had expected her to—a part which he hadn’t even realised existed until he had categorically listed for her all the reasons why there was nothing except lust between them. Even as he said the words he knew them to be false. What he felt for Letty was more than just desire. He genuinely admired her tenacity and her sunny disposition. Her indomitable spirit. The woman never let anything beat her, whether that be kidnappers or roasted chickens. And since the very first moment he had found her frozen and terrified in the road, a part of his jaded, wary, Warriner heart would always be hers. Yearned to be hers. Maybe those rash feelings were due to his customary and ever-present sense of responsibility—but if that was entirely the case, why, when he had held her chilled body in his arms that night, had her presence in them felt so very…right?

If only she had been a random, ordinary girl of no consequence instead of The Tea Heiress. Then maybe he would have stood a chance and taken a gamble. It didn’t help knowing, thanks to hours of rifling through Jacob’s collection of newspapers when nobody was looking, that when the newsmen wrote the words Tea Heiress they were always put in italics, as if she were so special, so above everyone else, that only a select few in society were on a par with her. Now he knew her, he realised they were right. Letty was an incomparable…and so very far out of his reach as to be laughable.

Unfortunately, that same tiny part of him which had held out for the miracle earlier was now disproportionately grieving the inevitable loss of her in his life, even though he never really stood a chance of her remaining in it. He had also read about her life in those same newspapers and it was a life he could never hope to give her. The finest clothes, balls, jewels and a prominent and revered place in society. The moment Jack had reminded her of her wealthy Duke, she’d nodded and smiled and immediately switched her thoughts to getting home to Mayfair. Which had been his intention. Because any hope of a future between them was ridiculous. Wasn’t it? So he should be happy he had been the sensible one.

But he wasn’t.

‘We need all the ropes we can carry.’ His three brothers were assembled in the kitchen, the lanterns already lit. ‘The river has burst its banks. If one of us has to venture into it, then we’ll be tethered to something first. If we drive the sheep to the west pasture, they will be safe. Jamie—check on the horses, then the cows. See that none of them have injured themselves.’
His brother’s face clouded with barely suppressed fury. ‘I am not a blasted invalid, Jack. I’ll help you three with the sheep first. The horses and damned cows can wait!’
‘I’ll see to the horses and cows.’ Jack spun around to see Letty marching towards him in a greatcoat that swamped her and wearing an expression of complete and total defiance. Jamie nodded and handed her a lantern, clearly delighted not to be relegated to lighter duties because of his injuries.

‘Go back to bed, Letty! It’s dangerous out there.’ And Jack could already feel the beginnings of a knot of worry at the thought of her out in that storm. The last time she had been exposed to bad weather she had almost died. ‘This is no place for a woman like you.’

She marched fearlessly in front of him and stuck out her chin, not the slightest bit intimidated by the angry way he loomed over her. ‘I am not some silly, spoiled, empty-headed fool.’ Her finger prodded him firmly in the chest. ‘And whilst your brothers might well listen to your orders, you are not my master Jack Warriner. Or my husband. And you never will be. So don’t expect me to obey you. I am helping. Deal with it.’ She spun on her heel and stomped stubbornly towards the back door. Without a backward glance, she flung it open and flounced into the raging tempest...

If in doubt, thunk...

About five minutes ago I was sat on my sofa avidly listening to an impassioned sales pitch on QVC while I was eating my breakfast.

This is sooo convenient,” the presenter enthused holding his mobile phone up to the screen for me to see, “It doesn’t matter where I am- I could be on the train on my way home, at the supermarket or even on my way back from the airport after a long holiday- and I can control my thermostat!”

I am not going to lie. She had me sold. How brilliant would that be? No matter where I am, I can adjust my thermostat, thus ensuring the house is snug and cosy upon my return! And just in case that wasn’t fabulous enough, this wonderful system, priced at a very reasonable £249, was also on easy pay instalments!

My cup literally runneth over. Where had this wonderful gadget been all of my life? I hastily pulled out my own mobile phone, because it is already loaded with the QVC app in readiness for such an eventuality, and quickly put the item into my virtual shopping basket. After all, they had already sold over two hundred of them so far this morning and I certainly did not want to be the dithering fool who missed out…

Then I stopped and did what me and my husband call some ‘thunking’. Because to ‘thunk’ something means to resist the temptation to act on your first instinct. You have to weigh up the pros and cons properly, then make a reasoned decision. Like Socrates or Plato would have done in days of yore.

So I sat and contemplated the pros: virtual control, cosy home, perhaps even a reduction in my utility bills. Splendid. Cons: I usually go on holiday in the summer months when the heating is off anyway, £249 is actually quite a lot of money to do something which is effectively only a flick of the wrist, I work from home…

Good grief!

I work at home, in constant, easy reach of my own thermostat. What an idiot! Why was I even considering such a ridiculous gadget at all?

And that, Dear Reader, sums me up perfectly in a nutshell.

I am an independent, intelligent woman. I have a degree. I used to be a teacher. I write books for a living for pity’s sake, yet beneath all of that common sense, I am a sucker for clever marketing. My husband often comments I would buy a bottled fart if it had the word NEW emblazoned across it. I wish this statement was not accurate, I really do. But alas, I am weak and open to suggestion.

My house is filled with things which, frankly, never should have been bought in the first place. And all because of the lure of hypnotic words like ‘New’, ‘Introductory Offer’ and my personal nemesis ‘Limited Stock’.

I have an electric egg boiler, which claimed to take all of the faff out of boiling an egg. This miraculous invention involves piercing the bottom of the egg with a strange pin attachment so it doesn’t explode during the revolutionary new process. Then you have to measure the exact amount of water for the number of eggs being boiled and according to the desired firmness of the finished egg. Once you have done that, you put the water into the machine, close the device and hey presto! Five minutes later you get the perfect three-minute runny egg. Or not, as actually proved to be the case. But it was ‘New’ and shaped charmingly like a yellow chicken so I had to have it.

Then there was the revolutionary seamless bra which, and I quote, “this unique new bra conforms to your curves… has no wires or hooks that can dig into your skin… giv(ing) you a perfect lift and a smooth shape… is so comfortable it won't even feel like you're wearing a bra at all.”

Well, they got that part right. I’m a big girl in the boob department, and the seamless bra did little to defy gravity. What it did do was flatten my ladies and push them downwards in a most unflattering way! The silhouette created when I looked in the mirror was soul-destroying.

And then there are all those beauty products which make promises they cannot keep. I have not yet found one which significantly reduces wrinkles, repairs damaged hair or gives my complexion the dewy glow of my youth! But I keep buying them because of their clever advertising, I have versions in every premier brand cluttering my bathroom cabinet, each one ultimately a crushing disappointment. Little jars of lies which taunt me every time I reach for the floss. What they do, do is empty my bank balance and make me feel stupid for trusting my aging body with them in the first place.

And as for the miracle grass seed I purchased to repair the bald patches in my lawn. You PROMISED the seed would begin to grow in just SEVEN days. It’s day twelve. There has been plenty of rain and a good amount of spring sunshine. The exact conditions, I am reliably informed, which are perfect for grass seed to grow in.

Look at my lawn people. Just look at it…

Virginia Heath writes witty, fast-paced Regency romantic comedies with a modern twist for Harlequin Mills & Boon Historical. Her novel,The Discerning Gentleman's Guide, was recently nominated for a RoNA (Romantic Novel of the Year Award)

'Choosing a wife is not a task that should be undertaken lightly.’

Bennett Montague, sixteenth Duke of Aveley, is seeking the perfect bride. He’s narrowed his search to five worthy ‘Potentials’…until the arrival of his aunt’s companion unravels his carefully laid plans.

Having fought for everything she has, Amelia Mansfield is incensed by Bennett’s wife selection methods. But as she’s forced to spend time in his company, she begins to see another side to Bennett – and that man is infinitely more tantalising and enticing …

Rebecca York/Ruth Glick: Vicarious Adventure and Weight Loss

As a writer of romantic suspense, I spend a lot of time sitting in front of my computer dreaming up dangerous adventures for my heroes and heroines.  Which means I spend a lot of time SITTING.  And even though I am pretty faithful about exercising, putting on extra pounds is always a hazard.

Which was why I got excited when some of my writing buddies at Novelists Inc. started discussing a new diet called the Fast Diet or the 5-2 Diet.

You eat normally five days a week; and on each of two non-consecutive days, you restrict yourself to 500 calories. (Guys get 600.)  It’s not complicated or elaborate.  You just have to keep those calories low two days a week. 

Maybe it was too good to be true. Why not give it a shot? 

Losing four pounds on the first try got me was hooked.  But unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot of interesting food to eat on diet days. After a couple of boring weeks, I set out to remedy that failing.

In addition to writing romantic suspense novels as Rebecca York, I’ve also written sixteen cookbooks under my own name, Ruth Glick, most with low-cal recipes, so I was pretty sure I could come up with good diet-day selections.  And after my initial successes, my next thought was—this diet needs a good cookbook.

Because I knew it would be more fun to work on the project with a friend, I asked my longtime cookbook co-author to join me.  And in January, Nancy Baggett and I published The 2 Day a Week Diet Cookbook, since we think the concept of a 2 Day a Week Diet is easier to understand than a “Fast Diet.”

Nancy and I have written nutrition-oriented cookbooks for Rodale, Surrey Books, and the American Diabetes Association. And Nancy also writes for Eating Well Magazine.  Both of us firmly believe that no one will eat low-cal meals unless they taste good.  For the book, we worked on over 100 recipes and put in the best 75, along with 50 color photographs.  All are 200 calories or fewer per serving, so they fit easily into the 2-day diet.  And with the selection of tempting dishes available, we persuaded our husbands to join us on the new lifestyle adventure. We’ve all lost weight.  I’ve lost seventeen pounds, Nancy (who never loses on any diet) has lost six, and I had to punch another hole in my husband’s belt so his pants would stay up.

Here’s one of my recipes.

Manhattan Clam Chowder          

Canned clams and fresh vegetables team up to make a hearty main-dish soup. This classic recipe is low in calories, high in flavor, and quick and easy to prepare.

 Makes 3 170-calorie servings, about 1 2/3 cups each--

1 6.5-oz can minced clams, including juice

2 1/2 cups 99 percent fat-free chicken broth or bouillon

3/4 cup chopped celery                             

1/2 cup diced sweet green pepper

1 cup cubed red-skin potatoes                                     

1 cup chopped green cabbage

1 tsp Italian seasoning

1 15.2-oz can tomato sauce

2 to 3 drops hot pepper sauce, or to taste

Salt to taste

1. Drain clam liquid into a large, heavy saucepan or small Dutch oven, reserving the clams in a small bowl. To the pot, add chicken broth, celery, green pepper, potatoes, cabbage, and Italian seasoning.

2. Bring to a boil, cover, lower heat and simmer 12 to 16 minutes, until potatoes are very tender when tested with a fork.

3. Add clams, tomato sauce, and hot pepper sauce. Bring to a boil. Lower heat, cover, and simmer about 5 minutes longer until flavors are well blended.

The 2 Day a Week Diet Cookbook is available for Amazon Kindle.

Rebecca York’s latest romantic suspense novel is Diagnosis Attraction, out this month from Harlequin Intrigue.

Ruth/Rebecca will give away a copy of her Intrigue, Carrie’s Protector, to one U.S. resident who comments.

***Ruth's winner is Traveler! Please email totebag@authorsoundrelations.com with your details!***

Michelle Conder: Words of Wisdom

Great things, words of wisdom. Not that I have that many of my own. I still feel too much like a newbie in this business and am bogged down in the middle of my seventh book. I know where I want to go with it but right now I think I’d have more fun prying my fingernails away from their fleshy beds than getting on with it. That said, once I sit down and immerse myself in the story and turn off my supersonic (I’m sure I could hear it from the moon) critical voice then the magic takes over. And that’s why I write. Apart from having a head full of character’s who love to talk and who make me want to daydream for hours on end, I love that process of losing myself in the story. Of feeling as if I’ve lost time when I raise my head hours after I started. The buzz is incredible and the adrenaline rush makes me feel like I could scale Mt Everest singlehandedly.

But when my supersonic voice gets a little loud I think of all the words of wisdom other authors and artists have given me and I always feel better.

So here’s a few I have stuck on my magnetic board.

1. Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it. (Salvador Dali, I think)
2. At some point in the process of writing your novel you will hate it and want to throw it away. (Alexandra Sokoloff)
3. The first draft is meant to be crap and up to 70% will get tossed in the bin (Can’t remember who said it but this is definitely me!)
4. Not knowing doesn’t hurt anyone except those who get hurt because nobody knows (Erich Fried)
5. Come up with 5 things your hero/ione would hate to have happen to them and make it happen (Nalini Singh)
6. To succeed in life is to be able to transform. (Hmmm, not sure…)
7. Athletes play hurt. Warriors fight scared. (Steven Pressfield in his book Turning Pro)

I also really like what Woody Allen said on a documentary TV show about his work – and I’m paraphrasing like mad here – but essentially he said that he makes a film and sometimes at the end when he watches it he finds that it’s not the film he had intended to make when he set out at the beginning. Knowing that such a prolific artist feels that way about his work was very freeing for me because I often feel the same way about my first drafts.

Initially I used to feel like I had failed when this happened but over the years I have learned to be kinder to myself and to go with what is in my heart to write and let the work be what it will be. I think my characters are much happier with this personal insight – as are my family!

And when I really feel bunched I read over my collection of words of wisdom and feel comforted that if I push forward the story will come.

Below I have included an extract from my next Harlequin Presents novel, Socialite’s Gamble, due out in June this year. I hope you like it.  Leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of this book!

AIDAN SAW A flash of pink hair and one long slim leg before the limousine pulled away from the kerb, its taillights blinking in the gloomy night.
Amazing. The woman he had thought a cheap tourist at best could afford a limousine. Or perhaps she’d had a rich lover waiting outside.
With legs like hers it was probably the more likely scenario. Long and golden brown. He had no doubt they’d be smooth to the touch and his hand would have no trouble sliding all the way up to those tiny shorts. He imagined her breathless little gasp as he slid one finger inside the leg of those shorts and teased—what the…?
He pulled himself up short as he realised he was turning himself on.
Rubbing at the space between his eyes he shook his head. He must be going mad to fantasise about a woman like that.
A woman who wore clothes that revealed more than they hid. Well, okay, her purple blouse had been loose and only hinted at the small, high breasts beneath, but it had been designed to make a man think about exactly what they would look like underneath. And those shoes? If they hadn’t been created with sex in mind, he didn’t know what was.
Oh, she had been advertising, all right, and although his body had perked up with interest at her wares he’d had no intention of taking the bait. He was in Vegas for one night and one purpose and it had nothing to do with bedding a woman.
He buttoned his jacket against the cold and glanced around for his limousine. His HR manager had assured him that it would be waiting at the kerb as soon as he exited the main terminal and he was a man who knew how to do his job.
Noticing a white sign on the damp pavement he walked closer and saw that it had his name printed on it.
His gaze narrowed. Why would a piece of cardboard with—? Son of a… She’d stolen his limousine!

***Michelle's winner is Cindy Hamilton! Please email totebag@authorsoundrelations.com with your mailing details!***

Christine Merrill - I Hate Perfect People

Probably because I am an accident waiting to happen. If I eat, I spill.  Usually on myself, but I am also the person at the table most likely to break a wine glass.  Like Jennifer Lawrence, if I wear heels, I trip and fall.  Actually, not like J-Law at all. When she does it, it’s cute. If you put me in an evening gown, there is a chance I will blow out a spaghetti strap and walk through a hotel lobby with one lace covered boob hanging out, until one of my friends can pull out a safety pin and rescued me.

And then, there was the time I wore my dress inside out for a two hour book signing. That time, I didn’t notice until I got back to my room.

It should not be a surprise to anyone that I write deeply flawed characters. When I introduced the Duke of St Aldric in THE GREATEST OF SINS, he was beloved by all.   He was rich, handsome, intelligent, and good humored. Everyone called him ‘The Saint” (although he was far too modest, to encourage the use the word to describe himself). He gave the heroine a kitten.  He got mumps from tending to sick orphans.

The hero of the book hated him for being so damned perfect. He had good reason. I got reviews that said, ‘Didn’t care for the hero. But when will Saint Aldric get a book?’

In THE FALL OF A SAINT, he gets his book. To readers who expected continued perfection, I’m sorry.  Truly, I am. But according to dramatic principals that go all the way back to the Greeks inventing hubris, someone as good and kind as Michael Poole falls hard when he finally makes a mistake.

Michaels’s story begins a few months after he drank himself insensible, wandered into the wrong room, and had sex with the woman in bed. There was no force or coercion. He stopped when she said “No”. He had no intent to hurt anyone.

But sometimes good intentions don’t matter. Now, Maddie Cranston is pregnant, and the duke is going to marry the only woman in England with a reason to hate him.

I think everyone deserves a second chance. At least, everyone fictional does.  Real men are much harder to change than the ones in my imagination. If I’m making them up, I prefer bad boy heroes. I cannot help but try to redeem rakes. But in poor St Aldric is the first time I had to ruin a perfectly good hero, so he could fall in love and find redemption.

  

Kathie DeNosky: Something You Probably Didn’t Know About Me…

…I’m a fairly decent poker player.  Oh, I’m not saying I’m ready to chuck my writing career to join the World Poker Tour or anything like that.  Believe me, I’d starve to death if I had to make a living at it.  LOL  But I have won my share of games, as well as several small stakes tournaments.  My game of choice is Texas Hold ‘Em.  It’s a game I understand and enjoy.  That’s why I knew one day I would have to write about a professional poker playing hero.

In the 3^rd installment of my The Good, The Bad and The Texan mini-series from Harlequin Desire, Lane Donaldson is a highly successful professional poker player who wins half of the Lucky Ace Ranch.  Sparks fly when fiery red-head, Taylor Scott shows up claiming that he had to have cheated her grandfather to win and she’s determined to win it back.  The only problem is, Taylor doesn’t know the first thing about playing poker.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading about these two as they face off in a game of winner take all in YOUR RANCH…OR MINE?, coming out in May from Harlequin Desire.

Know when to hold 'em…  

One winning hand of poker and the Lucky Ace ranch was his—half his, at least. The only thing standing in the way of Lane Donaldson making it his permanent home is the ranch's other owner.  

Taylor Scott sure is something fine to look at, but she's adamant about running the ranch herself. And then she moves in—with him! So Lane challenges Taylor to another game of poker for the ultimate prize—winner takes all.  

But who's to say they can't have a little fun while they wait for fate to deal their hand….

Building a heroine...

To write their story you will have to know your characters intimately. For this, you need to do more than fill out a character worksheet with all their physical characteristics, their birth sign, their place in the family hierarchy, the names of their siblings. — from Liz Fielding’s Little Book of Writing Romance

My new book, started at the beginning of the year, has a ready-made heroine (always a help!) Sorrel is the younger sister of Elle Amery – the heroine of Tempted By Trouble – so I know quite a lot about her before I start. She’s tall, willowy, with dark red hair and a wicked sense of humour that she does her best to keep strapped down.

She’s totally focussed on her career, determined to be a success and to never have to rely on anyone else. To never be poor. (She’s been there, done that…) She was a student when we last met her, taking a business management degree and determined to make her first million by the time she’s twenty-five.

Her sister’s creation of Scoop!, an ice-cream events business, gave her big ideas and by the time Elle is ready to take a back seat and concentrate on being a mother, she is ready to take over the management of the business and propel it out of the local, small business category and into the big time.

But it takes more than a driving ambition to make a heroine. She has to be someone your reader can empathise with, someone with those little failings, weaknesses that we all have. She has to be human.

Sorrel has always had style — she’s an expert at spotting classic bargains in charity shops and wearing them like a model. The budget isn’t as tight as it once was, but she’d still rather hunt down a great “previously owned” find in the local Oxfam shop, or on eBay than shop in the local high street (one of the suits she finds gets her into trouble from the word go). For clothes, that is. 

Shoes are something else and the minute I saw this pair of gorgeous Mui Mui sandals, I knew she would live on bread and water for a month in order to have them.

What heroine weakness would make her your natural best friend? 

What would you give up your lunchtime chocolate bar, your double skinny latte, for?

I’ll put all the comments in a hat and draw one on Monday. The winner will get the book of her choice from my backlist.

The publication of my sixtieth book, FLIRTING WITH ITALIAN, this December is on the anniversary on the publication of my first book, AN IMAGE OF YOU, in December 1992, 19 years ago. Sixty books. Nineteen years.

It’s not just the books, though. The writing life tends to be a solitary one, but since my first book was published things have changed out of all recognition. There were no mobile phones in those early books. No internet. No email. My characters had to make do with a fixed landline to make those calls, write letters.

It was the same for authors.

My very first manuscripts were typed on a portable typewriter on the dining room table. By the time I sold my first book they were being laboriously printed out from a computer with the memory the size of a goldfish. Contact with my colleagues was via a photocopied newsletter produced by Valerie Parv in Australia and distributed by post in the UK by Charlotte Lamb. It was Charlotte who threw a tea party at the beautiful Brown’s Hotel in London where we all met for the first time and I was a bundle of nerves as I met iconic authors such as Carole Mortimer, Elizabeth Oldfield, Jessica Steele, Anne Weale and Sally Wentworth.

I need not have worried. Romantic novelists are the kindest, warmest, most welcoming women I’ve ever met. Many of them have become firm friends over the years and now that I am myself a veteran of the genre I never forget their kindness and do my best to pay it forward.

Millions of words. Millions of books. I did try and do the math but my brain fried. Whatever the number, it feels like a huge milestone and I’m delighted that FLIRTING WITH ITALIAN is the book I’m celebrating with. Set in Italy, one of my favourite places in the entire world here’s a little taste: -

     ‘Have you found him yet, Sarah Gratton?’
     For a moment she was mesmerized by the way he said her name. The vowels long and slow, like thick cream being poured from a jug. The man exuded sensuality. Every movement, every syllable seemed to stroke her…
     ‘Him?’ she repeated, before she began to purr. No… That wasn’t right. She was looking for Lucia…
     ‘The “…dark-eyed Italian lover…”?’ he prompted.
      Oh, great. He’d found Lex’s email. But no one who taught a mixed class of teenagers could afford to betray the slightest sign of embarrassment. The first hint of a blush and you were toast.
You had to look them in the eye, stand your ground, come back with a swift riposte that would make the class laugh with you, not at you.
     ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Are you interested in the job?’
      It would have been spot on if it had come out sharp and snappy as intended but something had gone seriously wrong between her brain and her mouth. Between concept and delivery.
      It was his eyes. Dark as night but with the crackle of lightning in their depths…

     Under that gaze, sharp had lost its edge, snap had turned to a soft, gooey fudge and apparently taking it as an invitation, he reached out, slid his fingers through her hair, cradling her head in the palm of his hand. There was a seemingly endless pause while she frantically tried to redial her brain.  Send out a call for the cavalry.
     Her brain was apparently engaged, busy dealing with a bombardment of signals. The sun hot on her arms, her throat, her breasts. The sensuous sweep of the mouth hovering above her own. The scent of warm skin, leather…
     The world seemed to have slowed down and it took forever for his lips to reach hers. Somewhere, deep inside her brain the word “…no…” was teetering on the brink. All she had to do was move her lips, say it, but her butter-soft mouth seemed to belong to someone else.
     When it parted, it was not to protest and as his mouth found hers a tingle of something like recognition raced like wildfire through her blood, blotting out reason. Her body, with nothing to guide it, softened, melted against him, murmured, “Yes…”

FLIRTING WITH ITALIAN is available in paper and eBook format in December 2011.

For more information check out my Website