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Wednesday, March 31, 2010

ahhhhhh, yay.

This is our first formal Gentleman and the Rogue review and I've checked it a few times. I like it THAT MUCH. It's gotten a lot of hits, I notice.

Many were me.

I hope I never get used to people loving my/our books. I hope I also get a chance to really find out if it's possible to get jaded by positive attention.

Thanks for pointing me in that direction, jmc!

Sunday, March 28, 2010


see this stuff?


It's what you buy when you have the frizzies. Instructions for use are: Dispense 2-3 drops into palm, then spread between hands to form a thin layer. Gently smooth over hair surface.

Nowhere on the bottle does it say "shampoo."

NOWHERE.


See this person?

What several things strike you about her? Here are the correct answers:

1. She has a lot of hair

2. She's not wearing her goddamn reading glasses.

3. She looks like the sort of person who'd be confounded by simple things.

When this person not wearing glasses runs across a mysterious little bottle, she doesn't think "I better get my glasses to make sure this shampoo before I get in the shower and dump much of a bottle (approx 300 drops rather than prescribed 2-3) on my head."

No, she doesn't.

She takes the bottle into the shower, dumps a shitload, nearly the whole small bottle's worth, onto her head and rubs for about a second before she realizes there's something wrong.

Yessiree, switching gears time because by now you've guessed correctly. That's what I did.

I went through most of a bottle of regular Suave (labeled SHAMPOO) and all of the hot water in the house before I realized it's a lost cause.

My hair is now as dry as it'll get but I'm not taking a picture because I'm lazy. Here's a reenactment of what my head looks like, sort of. Ugh.

I'm thinking I should go through the bathroom and throw out all bottles with tiny print. Or get a big pen and write "NOT SHAMPOO" in big letters on them.

This is worse than the time I accidentally used the dog shampoo.

Friday, March 26, 2010

interview with the bod

me: okay, I've given you some coffee, bowing to your need for decaf, let's go sit and have a talk.

body:

me: I think you need to decide which physical imperfection you want. Your current forays into two extremes is just unfair. You can't have it both ways.

body: huh?

me: Pick one. Dry, wrinkled skin or pimples. Not both.

body:

me: And the hair. Frizzy, fly away or greasy. Not both.

body:

me: And you can have either PMS or hot flashes. Irritability or ..... irritability. Okay, maybe that one doesn't count.


body:


me: And about the sleep thing. Either insomnia or exhaustion.

body:

me: Okay, fine. Ignore me, I'm used to it. But.....oh, for God's sake. Would you look at that?

body: huh?

me: You're ignoring me. I can't get anywhere with you. I'm going to have a talk with the weather. Maybe I'll have better luck . . . . Excuse me, weather?

weather:

me: I see you're trying to do too much here and I think you need to pick one season or the other. Rain or snow. Winter or spring. Hello? Are you listening to me?

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

about that cant. . .

We have gotten a couple of reviews for The Gentleman and The Rogue and one person wondered if the slang we used was real.

Yup.

I fished all the phrases from this great book.

I recently also bought these volumes online. The good thing about this slang dictionary is that it has the dates of usage listed. Trouble is---as Erastes (who frequently shows up at this site) pointed out---you have to know the phrase you're looking. Can't go looking for a common word (something like"leg") and find its various nicknames.

But that means I have an excuse to just sit and flip through these things looking for fun words.

Jeez, I love this stuff.

Monday, March 22, 2010

The fabulous cheesy** ad featuring my middle boy



He's the one with the mustache and top hat. Not a bad guy so much as misunderstood.


_____
**cheesy and it's for an ice cream store. ha...? get it?

Puppy Love

You know one of my favorite things about parenting? And, for the record before we begin, I'm not being snarky.

It's that you can be utterly proud and heart-warmed by something you KNOW is not just worthy of your huge response. OR that if one of your friends went on and on about that same sort of thing (and they will) your first urge (before you remember) is to roll your eyes.

But it doesn't matter. At all. Because we're not talking about thinking here. This is pure emotion.

When that kid first smiles or poops in a potty or writes a cool story on his or her own, your heart will swell with so much proud love, you almost topple over--all that, even when you know that this is something just about every person goes through. It's just such a cool thing about being human. Or maybe it's not just part of being a person. Maybe tiger mothers, watching their young pounce on bugs, just like tiger cubs have done since the beginning of time, have that same incredible surge of "isn't that amazing? isn't she wonderful?!"

And the nice thing? It doesn't go away. Sure it cools down, especially once they hit rebellion head-on. It would have to once that initial baby love stage is over, or you'd never get on with life as more than a drooling love-enslaved moron -- and your children will grow up to be horrible people. But it hangs around and gives you a jolt now and then. A little fix of pure, overwhelming love.

sbd hunger games

I got this as an audiobook from the library. I listened non-stop over the weekend, on bright sunny days working in my garden, cleaning up the house, so I don't know if I was operating in the proper sort of atmosphere to have the story work right. Anyway, the horrific situation the main characters were in didn't grabbed me by the throat any more than a reality show does, which is, of course, ironic, since that's what their lives were.

Basic premise: you got 12 Districts under the control of a decadent Capitol and every year, the districts are forced to send two people (1 boy, 1 girl, all kids aged 12-18 are eligible) to go fight to the death for public entertainment.

I got to say it was the reality show bits that gave me the willies more than the death--maybe because they felt familiarly creepy. I'm not fond of those shows so I wonder if the story would have had even more of an emotional connection/clout if I got caught up in them and knew them well.

The other bits ...., eh. The writing was pretty good, solid and not dumbed down or at least no more than the books I usually read. (I don't go for the challenging, as you may have guessed). Issues? I could sort of guess what was going to happen and I was usually right. I didn't love the main character/narrator but I think that's mostly me, not her. I felt removed from her in part because I didn't see that she changed much over the story and I'm used to huge character arcs. From the get-go, we knew she'd be competent and strong and so she was.**

It occurred to me that except for the ghoulish delectation of the deaths, I'm not sure the horror of the games is worth condemning more than any other war. Less in some ways, because there are at most 23 deaths a year and the homecoming winning soldier is treated beautifully--compare that to the thousands killed and the lack of care the regular soldier returns to. The touches that compared the hunger games to other wars were great: the way the "arenas" are turned into memorial parks and people "reenact" the battles. That really worked for me. The fact that those 12 districts are still at war and don't even seem to know it. . .

I'm glad I read it even though I didn't feel caught by it. Eh, I wouldn't have written about it except that it's SBD, I'm avoiding work.

Except just now, as I write this, I realize I'm caught like freaking crazy. The more I think about it, the more I realize I appreciated in this story. The next book of the trilogy isn't available on ebook and there's a wait at the library. I'm going to Borders to work today and I plan on buying book 2. I know I better wait until I'm done there or I'll sit and read instead of working.

* * *

And also as I sit and write this, yet another Tiger Woods mistress is being interviewed and the throbbing concern in the interviewer's voice reminds me of folksy friendly interviewer, whatshisname, in the novel. Not quite the same level of horror as the novel, but definitely in the same family of entertainment glee at human suffering. Ugh. And wtf? Who are these women? And why aren't the interviewers giving them shit too? Like "and did you ever stop to think about his wife and kids?" IF they're going to get the fame from this stuff, they ought to get the heat, too.

No, I don't particularly want to hear those questions. I don't want to hear any of it. (click, it's off.) but if they're going to pummel Tiger with this crap, everyone should be getting the self-righteous airing, especially the women who are raising their hands volunteering -- telling us about their private lives that impacted a private family. UGH. I can't believe I'm writing about that idiocy. Ugh. Never again. I have to go wash my hands because I'm dipped in slime because I actually watched for a minute or two.

_______
**although come to think of it, she does learn to perform for the cameras. That twisting the truth to win sympathy and stay alive is pretty compelling. And creepy.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

here's what I am worried about

I'm slogging through a story, 25K words into it and it's not coming together. I had a brief rant over it yesterday and one of my two crit partners who've been complaining about the meh story suggested I take a break and write the book of my heart.

I have no book of my heart.

At the moment I don't seem to have any particular books at all--not even of the liver or brain or kneecaps. I sit down and write because that's what I'm supposed to do. Then I end up with a slog, apparently. Soggy slog, a bog of chapters.

So do I keep slogging, waiting for the book to appear?
Do I take a break?
Take another walk? It is absolutely gorgeous out (no, that isn't the issue.)

I'm used to this sort of thing happening temporarily. Heck, everyone I know who's written more than a couple of books gets this condition eventually. But my boggy brain fizzle has been going on since about the middle of my last Bonnie cowritten book. I had to force that out. Luckily Bonnie was there to de-slog it for us.

No one wants to read a fluffy romance with no sense of fun, forced ha, ha, yay enthusiasm. I don't want to write 'em either.

Ah well. Until I can figure out another solution, I'm going to start work in a half hour. Sit down, put on the Wellies and head into the great dismal swamp. At least there's something on the page.


about the errors.

Someone sent a sympathetic note saying tough luck about the mistakes so it must sound like I'm upset.

Nope. Not at all. Stuff happens and compared to what I did to my garden yesterday (sorry, strawberries) this is nada. I haven't lost a minute's sleep. I haven't lost ten seconds sleep.

I'm really mostly interested in how to address that sort of situation. Truly there should be a protocol.

And also? Getting huffy would be ridiculous because those are exactly the kinds of mistake I'd make -- that I do make all the time. (Except in this case I didn't which is nice for me).

Friday, March 19, 2010

Oh, oops

So let's say you have a blurb/back copy for a book and a kind reader points out that there are glaring historical issues with the copy. (and really, a very kind reader since he/she didn't blast it all over the internets.)

The issues are only with the blurb, not the book. Trouble is you've put those particular paragraphs all over the webs. Every. Where. You. Can.

Do you.
1. Go back and change the very few places you can change....very quietly. Don't say anything and post correct info henceforth.
2. Go back to the various groups you've visited and say "HEY, yeah, we got that wrong. Here's the right way. And not to look defensive or anything but it's not like that in the book. No really!"

It's not a life or death issue, barely worth a groan and eyeroll. But it's interesting only because the times I've seen public corrections by authors they tend look defensive or nit-picky or both.

So that's why it's worth writing a post about--trying to figure out that careful mincing dance writers do as they attempt not to look like either ignorant twits or hypersensitive jerks.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

New BOOK! and other stuff

Bonnie and I have a new e-book out today! Yay! I like the characters in this one, particularly Jem. And that Anne Cain cover. Nice, eh?


You can find the book here.

and an excerpt here.

blurb:

A lad from the streets meets a lord of the manor...

When Crimean Peninsular War veteran Sir Alan Watleigh goes searching for sex, he never imagines the street rat he brings home for one last bit of pleasure in his darkest hour will be the man who hauls him back from the edge of the grave.

A night of meaningless sex turns into an offer of permanent employment. As Sir Alan’s valet, Jem offers much more than polished boots and starched cravats. He makes Alan smile and warms his bed. Just as the men are adjusting to their new living arrangement, news about a former soldier under his command sends Sir Watleigh Alan and Jem on the road to save a child in danger.

The journey brings them closer together as they travel from lust toward love. But is Alan's love strong enough to risk society discovering the truth about him?

* * *

I'm not sure that last question fits the main plot points but hey, I am most certainly not complaining because:
1. It's a pretty good cover copy.
2. I didn't have to write it. **

In other Kate news, I'm still not writing very much---except I'm coming up with script ideas for videos for the Scottish-bound kids. My middle boy is going to Scotland and we're coming up with ideas to make money, including flat out asking for it.



Shameless begging is fun when I'm not the one doing it.

And what the dog thought was an injured animal in the house, what made her crazy with interest, turned out to be a cell phone in need of a charge. Poor dog.

____

** oops, but I really should have read it more carefully before sending it out all over the webs.


Friday, March 12, 2010

?? for other mothers of males

do your kids touch each other? all the time? while shrieking unintelligible insults?

do they absentmindedly break everything they touch? just bending or twisting or picking at an object until it's dead? then do they abandon that object in a part of the house where it doesn't belong?

when do they stop?

I've been telling myself for almost two decades that they're going to outgrow this stuff. I just spotted the oldest (19) fiddling with a pen until it broke, then drop it on the piano.

They will stop eventually, won't they?

dialogue

I'm having a hell of a time writing these days. For once it's not outside forces conspiring to make my life miserable.** Here's the sort of dialogue I have with myself when I sit down to work.

me: what's the use? It'll be dreck and I'm out of good ideas anyway.

myself: Shut up. You've been here before and the only way to get past this is to ignore yourself and just write.

me: But we just reread the thing we're writing and it's stupid. Not just badly written but STUPID. POINTLESS. And no one's buying the stuff I already wrote. I mean we love Thank You Mrs. M and no one is buying it. No one.

myself: Would you concentrate on the work at hand? What comes next in that scene with Billy? write it. And please shut up unless you have something useful to say.

me: Fine, all right. But can I just say, it's pretty cool that I know this is a temporary sort of situation. But um ... could you take a moment and reassure me? Please? Maybe tell me that we're probably going to come out the other side and write something okay, right?

myself: It doesn't matter if it's okay. At the moment you're in no position to judge anything. You're entirely unreasonable. So what you have to do is write and shut the fuck up.

me: but I've been internally whinging and doubting myself so much, I need a pick-me-up. Let's see what's going on in Twitterland.

myself: five minutes. Then work.

2 hours later.

me: okay, we'll write. Oh, hey, wait! maybe we should do taxes instead. Yeah, taxes looks like more fun. And they've got to get done.

myself: Taxes are important enough I won't give you crap about avoiding work. But listen, I know you've blown today. Tomorrow you won't have an excuse.

I: Hey, guys! Is it time for my line yet?

me and myself: buzz off. It's a big enough PITA internalization-instead-of-working thing we got going now. We don't need any more voices.

I: well, screw you. I'll have you know there's more going on than just writing and fretting, you know.

me: Oh, that is such bullshit. And by the way? Screw you too.

myself: Okay,enough. Just stop. Thank you. It's time to concentrate on finding that 1099-MISC.

me and I: That we can do with pleasure. Yay taxes!

_____

**actually, come to think of it, it rarely is outside forces. My outside forces are always pretty cool. I mean rejections aren't fun but they're not exactly wolves at the door.


Sunday, March 07, 2010

remembering a time of grace

only that's not the word I want. Something less celestial and more down-to-earth -- most definitely the opposite of the silence of the lambs.

A zillion years ago when my friend Rosemary (really my sister's friend, but I could borrow her) was alive, but sick, I went to England take care of her. It was early spring and she wasn't up for much---she was being zapped by radiation at the time. My job was to hang around the house and....umm...hang around. I cooked food I ate and she didn't. She didn't complain and mostly wanted to be quiet and listen to books on tape.

Not very difficult work for me.

She lived in the country in a house called Dairy Cottage, one of the greatest spots in the world. Her house was walking distance from fields, sheep and barns. We're not talking about the wild uncivilized country we get around here. Her world had mud and artists but was still a tidy place. I bet it's now all suburban--then it was country just next to a village.

I visited that part of the world about five or six times in my life--that time I was lucky enough to show up at lambing time and her neighbor, the lord (he really was a lord, though I can't recall of what. I just remember his first name, and his ex-girlfriend's name), was kind enough to let me gawp at the sheep up close.

As Rosemary pointed out, there is nothing in the world as enchanting as a lamb. It was exhilarating watching those lambs, just hours after birth, enjoying life as much as they did. Sheep seem stupid and lambs might well be one of God's dumbest critters, I don't know -- but they seem more than cute. They were alive and kicking in a way most of creation can only watch and envy.

Anyway. I had a couple of weeks with Rosemary. We did some lamb-petting. I got to spray-painting one or two. I did what I always did there, nothing much more energetic than tromp across fields, before I scraped off my wellies and headed back to the US.

I was in the airport at Boston, going through customs, when the woman asked me what I had to declare. I made some dumb joke about declaring the mud on my boots. Oops. Mistake. I had to be directed over to the guy in charge agricultural bushwa.

The guy asked me about the mud and farmland. I said something about I'd spent the weeks watching lambs being born. He'd been in automaton-bureaucratic mode but at that he looked up and smiled. "Oh, I've done that. There's nothing better in the world. Nothing better." And in that sterile airport we were both back in the country. That shared moment was almost as memorable as the time with the sheep.

My boots, by the way, really weren't that bad. I just was having trouble letting go of spring in the English countryside, that particular countryside, anyway.

I didn't get to see Rosemary or Dairy Cottage again. It wasn't long after that she remarried, a man I didn't know. And then she died a few years later. I haven't been back to England. I'm not sure I want to visit again because that spot and Rosemary were too important.

But I got the lambs again today when, not so far from downtown Hartford, I drove past what has to be the most pregnant sheep in the world. I wanted to get out and wait to see what would happen next. Yay for predictable and enchanting baby sheep still out there even if my connections to them are gone.

Friday, March 05, 2010

My sister sez go vote.


Have you met my sister's pottery yet? You can go see it here.

(The picture on the left is part of my collection of her pots, a Rosemary Zorza vase and cup, a Kevin Crowe casserole, and a bunch of vitamins and pills--and matches for our stupid stove.)

This isn't about her work but she's still connected to pottery in England, so this matters to her..... Here's a note from someone else in the US who also cares:

There is a major price in England called the "Art Fund Prize," and it awards a £100,000 prize to a museum or gallery, based at least partially on online voting, and anyone can vote. The facility that is currently in the lead is the recently restored and expanded Bernard Leach Studio in St. Ives, England. They have done a magnificent job of restoring the studio, and have expanded it on adjacent land to provide exhibition space and an educational facility for potters. My recent BFA grad Kat Livesey (who was featured in the Ceramics Monthly Undergraduate Showcase last year) is currently one of the first residents at the Leach Studio, studying with head potter Jack Doherty. She is really thriving there.

Most of the other galleries or museums under consideration are big places like the Ashmolean. Think what this would mean to the Leach Studio. I encourage you to go to http://www.artfundprize.org.uk/2010/vote and vote for the Leach Studio. It is a very simple process, and you will have an opportunity to write a short statement explaining why you support this facility. I encourage you to (in your own words) mention the importance of the restoration and preservation of the Leach Studio, and the creation of new gallery and exhibition spaces, but also the importance of the educational mission for upcoming ceramic artists. After you place a check in the box for the Leach Studio, write your statement, and submit your vote, you will see a chart of all the facilities being considered, and an indication of the relative number of votes for each.

The winner of the Art Fund Prize will be announced on Wednesday, June 30, 2010. The Prize is administered by The Museum Prize Trust and sponsored by The Art Fund. The Art Fund is a charity committed to helping Museums and Galleries across the UK build their collections for future generations; through campaigning to save iconic works or through grants to unlock further funding for acquisitions. Famous works such as the 'Rokeby Venus' by Velázquez, Canova’s Three Graces; Picasso’s Weeping Women and Turner’s Blue
Rigi all hang in public galleries today because of the Art Fund’s members and donors.

- Vince

Vince Pitelka
Appalachian Center for Craft
Tennessee Tech University
http://iweb.tntech.edu/wpitelka


Thursday, March 04, 2010

stuff

1. I just added this blog to my goodreads feed. I'm not sure how I managed to do that but woo, cool.

2. My dreams have been so vivid lately, I want to go to sleep to catch the latest.

3. 1 part cranberry juice, 1 part oj, 10 parts water--> I've been drinking that for years and the kids all laugh at me. And now it's apparently all the rage; I paid $3 for an 12 oz bottle of some healthy stuff at Whole Foods that tasted just like it.

4 . for anyone still interested in the crap car, the car I bought by accident, the car that Gene Weingarten loved and wrote about more than once, the car that made me famous, and then made every man who's ever read or written smut--and every woman who hates the term smut--despise me. . . . . We got the title for that very car a couple of days ago, and in big letters across the bottom of the title are the words MILEAGE EXCEEDS MECHANICAL LIMITS. We can guess at that meaning.

5. My baby's voice is cracking. It's funny and we all laugh at him, even those of us who don't mean to -- because life at that age is hard enough, for god's sake .

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Her First Published Book


Looking for a new sort of historical? Here's Lorelie Brown's book, Jazz Baby, set in the 1920s Prohibition USA.



In the world of illegal speakeasies, Kate Kirkland has her life running smoother than a Model T. Maybe moving the family bar into the basement wasn’t the best choice for her alcoholic brother, but Kate’s making them a living—until a local gangster tries to expand his territory. Right into her bar.

Luckily Micah Trent, her handsome and too-suave bootlegger, is ready and willing to offer her a helping hand. If Kate can bring herself to accept it. Since sharing one sensual dance to seal their deal, she can’t ignore the delectably wicked way he makes her feel.


Micah is keeping secrets of his own. He’s a Prohibition Agent, sworn to shut down the gin mills and distilleries that keep illegal booze flowing. Kate’s speakeasy is next on his list—right after he uses her as bait to catch the gangster hunting her.


But even if Micah and Kate can maneuver their way through the gangsters’ dangerous underworld, will their love survive the trial by fire?

Warning: This title contains steamy hot sex, big fancy guns that result in just a little bit of brains on the floor, and enough booze to float an armada.

Here's an excerpt:

Down, boy. Kate Kirkland was a means to an end, that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. Johnny Vittorelli was in the process of setting himself up to be bootlegger to all of lower Manhattan. Thanks to a luckily timed bust of Saul, Micah and Jake would be sitting pretty before Vittorelli even got his operation going.

He could hardly believe he was back here, in New York again. He’d grown up here, in the seedy Bowery, and left as soon as he was able, unwilling to watch criminals and the corrupt leadership of Tammany Hall politicians drag it down even further. Only to have life and work drag him full circle to take down a criminal enterprise.

When it was all over, the Prohibition Bureau would wipe through every club involved in the sting.

Not quite the way a man thanked a woman for a lovely romp in bed, and that wasn’t even touching on how he’d have to lie about himself every moment they were together. It’d be in his best interests to get his brain out of his pants. Pronto.

“It’s a deal, Miss Kirkland,” he finally replied.

“You got a bathroom in this joint?” Jake piped up for the first time since they’d sat down.

“Of course, Mr. Sterling. I’ll show you where it is.” She angled her body to get out of the booth, which left her facing him. “Mr. Trent, if you’d please let me out.”

For a split second, he was tempted to force her to push him out. She’d already put him to the test, so it would only be fair. But he slid out of the way rapidly. He needed to keep in her good graces, not piss her off enough to send her shopping for a new bootlegger.

Once again, Kate let them through the small club, this time to a shadowed hallway at the opposite corner. Micah stayed to the rear of the procession, the better to watch her hips sway. Her dress was open nearly to the small of her back, black silk framing creamy, porcelain skin. The soft sweep of her spine curved in exactly at the bottom of the opening, hinting at what was further below.

That whole keeping his mind out of his pants idea wasn’t going so well.

“There you go, Mr. Sterling. Second door on the right.”

Jake nodded briefly and moved toward the indicated door. Kate turned to Micah and propped a hand on her hip.

“Were you going with him? Maybe he needs help to shake?”

“You are a spitfire, aren’t you?” He leaned against the turquoise and silver wall.

“Most of us modern girls are.”

“To answer your question, no. Jake’s a big boy. He’s been toilet trained for a good three years now.”

“Then why did you feel obliged to follow?” Her tone was dry, but a smile quirked her cupid’s-bow mouth. “I’d think you’d be enjoying your drink with Saul. Our business is finished for now.”

“We didn’t seal the deal.” He’d followed to ensure Jake would have a private moment to snoop around, but it wouldn’t serve to say so. In his line of work, the truth was seldom the best choice. He and Jake specialized in undercover work. In quickly, get the information, or make the bust and slide out again. No muss, no fuss. Already this was shaping up to be one of the longest operations they’d orchestrated. He couldn’t afford to get side tracked by the sexy speakeasy owner.

“We agreed. That’s enough for me.”

“Not me.” He caught her hand in his, loosely holding her fingertips. Every cell in his body popped to life, the same as when they’d shaken hands before. “Dance with me.”

“Is dancing often a part of forming new business relations for you?”

“Nope.”

“Then why make the exception for me?”

“It’s rare I get to do business with such a beautiful woman.” He tugged gently on her fingers, aiming her at the postage-stamped dance floor. She took a small step in that direction. Her mouth was saying all the right things, but she was weakening. “Dance with me.”

“I have work to do. This isn’t necessary.”

“Of course not. That’s why it’ll be fun. Come on, it’s a fast one. We’ll swing around the floor a time or two and I’ll let you get back to work.”

With a short nod, she acquiesced. He lost no time in hauling her out to the floor. The instant they set foot on the parquet, the piano player segued into a slow, smoky number. He couldn’t have planned it better if he’d slipped the man five bucks.

She considered backing out. He could see it in the rigidity of her shoulders and the brief frown that wrinkled her pale brow. Then she took a deep breath that lifted her small but perfectly formed breasts and raised her arms into waltz position. Micah scooped her into his arms and swept her out into the dance before she could have second thoughts.

Monday, March 01, 2010

New BOOK!!!


coming soon, to an online bookstore near you. (This is actually the first book we wrote together. )

Cover by Ann Cain, who must have read the book because these guys look just about right to me.