In REMNANTS OF FIRE, newspaper reporter Sara Woods is investigating a string of deaths that seem to involve the new-found, avant-garde medical facility she hopes can cure her chronic pain. Dr. Ruprei has taken such good care of Sara, that she is reluctant to believe it could be possible. But then, over dinner, she speaks with traditional-Western doctor Rick Paulsen, who suspects the clinic–and has evidence:
When the waiter brought the souvlaki and more bread. After he left, I leaned forward and put my elbows on the table. “So what’s going on here? Why did you call me?”
Rick’s blue eyes dissected me. “Because there’s something unusual about you.”
Oh, please. That was as bad as ‘What’s your sign, baby?’ “Do I seem naive enough to fall for that line?”
“Not really.” He speared a chunk of lamb and dipped it in the creamy cucumber sauce. “That doesn’t make it any less true. And I think you really care about Lily Kimball, and what happened to her.”
“Then you believe something ‘happened.’” Remembering his outburst at the hospital, I added, “You think she was killed by someone. You even know who.” I watched his face for reaction.
“I suspect. I don’t know.” He took a long drink of water, as if he were trying to swallow something unpalatable.
“But you haven’t gone to the police.” He shook his head. “Why not?”
He started to answer and then Athena swept over, wanting to make sure everything was to her dear doctor’s satisfaction. She effused with grand passion about how wonderful Rick Paulsen was, as a medical professional and as a man, her praise transparently designed to convince me, as his dinner partner and potential life mate, of his worth. He squirmed as she continued, but seemed loath to interrupt her. Once we had assured her that everything was delightful, she withdrew at last, to observe from behind the cash register.
When he didn’t answer my last question, I asked again. “Why haven’t you gone to the police?”
“You don’t understand. The police won’t be any help in this matter.”
“They’re investigating her death—”
“They’re not investigating her death! They’re just going through the motions until everyone forgets about her and they can toss her file in a cabinet, never to be seen again!” He slapped his fork onto the table, a flush of anger suffusing his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. “Just like the others.”
*****
REMNANTS OF FIRE has recently been named a finalist in the 2025 National Excellence in Story Telling (NEST) Contest! Time to check it out at one of the following sales points or order it at your local indie bookstore.
BLURB: Looking for a fresh start, Sara Woods takes a job as a news reporter in a small town. Her first assignment is to investigate a string of deaths, all young women her age linked to a local healing center with a strange reputation. The deeper she digs into the clinic, the harder it is to deny links to the paranormal. Can she figure out what is going on and who to trust before it’s too late?
Two men—enemies of her people—will stop at nothing to have her gift, her desire and love
The Prophecy, Book 1
Trapped in a blood feud, Liz uses her healing power to bring Zeke Neekoma from the brink of death so her clan can exploit his prophecies. During the ceremony, she drapes her nudity over his, experiencing his building strength, the stunning pleasure of his caress as he takes her without warning, using her as he wills.
His hunger for a woman he’s supposed to hate isn’t what Zeke expected, nor does he intend to deny himself. Kidnapping Liz, he’s resolved that she heal his brother Jacob ambushed by her people. At his stronghold, Zeke keeps Liz captive to his and Jacob’s desires. The brothers pleasure her without restraint and in ways she’s never known. Before, her life was filled with loneliness and wanting. Now…
Used by two powerful men, threatened by her clan’s determination to get her back, Liz risks all as she surrenders to Zeke’s and Jacob’s lust, the ecstasy of their touch and her most traitorous needs.
EXCERPT:
He lay in the center of the king-sized bed. His breaths were quiet, his eyes closed, legs sprawled, one arm draped over his head as though he was sleeping.
The bullet holes in his muscular left pec contradicted that notion.
Forcing down a swallow, Liz pulled her attention from his wounds—three perfect black circles—to his face.
Her lips parted on a quiet sigh. Rarely had she seen a man wear such a look of serenity. So unlike the terror she’d witnessed on Carreon’s features or those of his men when they’d been so close to death.
Zeke Neekoma was different. The words boyish and innocent came to mind, which Liz dismissed quickly.
Looking to be in his early thirties, he was no boy. Nor was he innocent. His size, surely six-three, his sharp, masculine features and powerful form were perfect for battle against men and pleasure with women.
Heat suffused Liz, making her limbs feel heavy and weak. She recalled what Carreon and his men had told her about Zeke, no doubt a mixture of truth and lies. Not knowing which was which, she moved deeper into the dimly lit room. Spanish-style lamps created pools of honeyed light, giving the space a sacred feel one might experience in a church. The cherry-wood four-poster dominated the sparsely furnished chamber, while a series of leather wing chairs—reserved for observers—circled the bed.
The man who’d been guarding Zeke left the room. Carreon and his men went to their seats, their weight causing the chairs’ legs to scrape against the polished hardwood floor.
For one foolish moment, Liz thought the intrusive noise would cause Zeke to open his eyes and lose his blissful expression. That he’d ask why they’d pulled him from such blessed rest and what appeared to be happiness.
This man didn’t want to be healed. Liz knew it in her soul; saw it in the upward curve of his beautiful mouth. Was he the same as her father, tired of fighting? Or was he welcoming the end so he could reunite with someone he’d loved?
His parents and siblings, perhaps…or a wife.
A new rush of warmth stung Liz’s chest.
Disturbed by the sensation and her aching loneliness—the need for a powerful yet good man at her side—Liz recalled what Carreon’s lieutenants had claimed the first night she’d come here.
“He’ll murder our women and children so our line dies out, just as his kind have always wanted.”
If that was the truth, then Zeke was no different from Carreon, who hunted the weakest, eliminating them first. Once more, she examined Zeke’s face, lingering on his mouth. Instead of a sneer or a smirk, she imagined him smiling at her, his grin honest, reaching his eyes, his wanting of her obvious and—
Stop it.
What was the matter with her, indulging in a romantic fantasy when she was well aware of their people’s conflict and unending hatred for each other? Even if Zeke wasn’t a murdering psychopath, he wasn’t likely to be stirred by a woman from an enemy clan. So why was he affecting her like this? Was it a power he had…or something else. Perhaps the truth as to who he really was?
Ignoring her persistent longing, Liz replaced it with a healthy dose of distrust. “This is Zeke Neekoma?”
“You sound surprised,” Carreon said. “Why?”
About Tina:
Tina’s an Amazon and international bestselling novelist who writes passionate romance for every taste – ‘heat with heart’ – for traditional publishers and indie. Booklist, Publisher’s Weekly,Romantic Times and numerous online sites have praised her work. She’s won Readers’ Choice Awards, was named a finalist in the EPIC competition, received a Book of the Year award, The Golden Nib Award, awards of merit in the RWA Holt Medallion competitions, and second place in the NEC RWA contests. She’s featured in the Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market. Before penning romances, she worked at a major Hollywood production company in Story Direction.
On a less serious note: she’s an admitted and unrepentant chocoholic, brakes for Mexican restaurants, and has been known to moan like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally while wolfing down tostadas. She’s flown a single-engine airplane (freaking scary), rewired an old house using an ‘electricity for dummies’ book, and is horribly shy despite the hot romances she writes.
“BDSM? Yuck!” I have the impression that this represents the reaction of many romance readers when someone offers them a title that includes Bondage, Discipline, Sadism, or Masochism. What is romantic about pain, suffering and humiliation? Why would anyone enjoy reading about whippings, spankings, restraints that contort the body into embarrassing and awkward positions, severe punishments that are administered in response to the tiniest lapse in obedience? My personal position is that BDSM literature (sometimes labeled D/s – Dominance and submission) can be as emotionally satisfying and erotically charged as any romance.
For me, the essence of a D/s relationship lies in the emotional bond between the dominant and the submissive. The physical trappings and conventional activities – the riding crop and the gag, the handcuffs and the nipple clamps, the whippings and the binding – are side issues, merely the methods chosen to express, explore, and strengthen the bond. Others may associate BDSM with humiliation, cruelty, abuse, and agony. In my view, BDSM is about devotion, commitment, trust, and ecstasy.
The BDSM that I write, and that I enjoy reading, focuses primarily on the connection between the characters in the “power exchange”. What do I mean by “power exchange”? This D/s jargon refers to the fact that submissive voluntarily gives up control to the dominant. In return, the dominant accepts responsibility for the submissive’s well-being and ultimately, for his or her pleasure. The sub surrenders herself to the Dom, in devotion and trust. (For now I’ll assume a female submissive. I’ve written both male- and female-dominant tales, as well as some lesbian D/s, but it gets awkward to keep using multiple pronouns!) The Dom can do whatever he wants with the sub; she has, after all, given her consent. He has the intoxicating knowledge that by taking what he desires, he will also give his sub what she most craves: the satisfaction of pleasing her master and the freedom to experience her most intimate fantasies of ravishment and abuse.
But what about the pain? Intense emotional connection, trust, devotion, that all sounds wonderful, but is it worth suffering beneath the lash, enduring the ropes biting into your flesh? I don’t particularly seek out pain, though I understand that some BDSM practitioners do. In any case, pain is a strange thing. It depends on expectations as much as on reality. I have read that native American women did not experience any pain at childbirth because their culture viewed labor and delivery as joyous and easy. (Those of you who are mothers might be skeptical.)
Personal experience has taught me that when you are unbelievably turned-on, pain does not necessarily feel bad. For one thing, elevated levels of endorphins decrease pain sensitivity levels. Whip strokes and spankings stimulate the senses; it is the mind that translates them as pleasure or pain, or sometimes both at once.
Have I convinced you that dominance and submission can be romantic? If not, perhaps you’d be interested to know that, although I live half a world away from him, and am married to another man, the man I call Master and I still send each other Valentines. And every time I write a BDSM scene, I think of him, with gratitude and love.
I am who I am, and I know what you want.
Rebecca believes in magic. She has never lost her childhood love of Halloween, when she can don a costume and step away from her boring, ordinary self. For one night, she transforms into someone else – someone mysterious, daring, sensual and seductive.
When All Hallow’s Eve finds her stranded at a seedy motel a hundred miles from her friend’s annual party, she is desperately disappointed. Then she discovers that her room is haunted by the invisible but unquestionably virile ghost of a rake who seduced local women nearly half a century earlier.
EXCERPT: (rated R)
The costume worked its magic. I was astonished at how regal I looked, and how desirable. The bodice pinched my waist to tiny dimensions, and forced my breasts upwards. The square-cut neckline drew attention to my swelling flesh, barely hiding my nipples. In fact, they were not hidden at all. Though I’d lined the top with muslin as the pattern specified, the tight nubs were clearly visible through several layers of fabric.
I cradled my breasts and used my thumbs to trace circles around those sensitive buds. With each cycle, the spring of tension in my pelvis wound tighter. A light flick of my thumbnail sent electricity down my spine and triggered spasms of pleasure. I worried briefly that the juices trickling out of my pussy would spoil the satin. But after all, what did it matter? There was no one to see me tonight, no one to please but myself.
“You certainly do look sexy. Like something right out of de Sade.”
“What? Who…?” I whirled around in confusion, my heart slamming against my ribs. The voice had been close, right next to my ear. Yet the room was empty, unchanged. The same warped walls, the same thread-bare carpet, the same rusty stains on the ceiling. The rumpled bed where I’d had my tantrum. The almost-empty glass on the dresser.
Ah, the liquor. I must be more drunk than I thought. I turned back to the mirror, searching my face for signs of intoxication, and yelped as something, someone, pinched my nipples.
“Hey! That hurts.” Indignation overwhelmed fear.
“It does, at first. But afterwards, it changes, doesn’t it? Afterwards, it feels quite delicious.” I stared at my image, mouth hanging stupidly open, as invisible hands caressed my breasts. Strong hands, gentle hands, hands that seemed to know exactly how to make me shiver with delight. “That’s what most people don’t understand about pain. It’s the gateway to the most exquisite pleasure.”
The voice was a melodious baritone, rich, deep, almost hypnotic. “You fear the pain, but that’s foolish. You must surrender to the pain. Let it move through you. Let it wash away your doubts and your inhibitions. Let it open you to ecstasy.”
Firm, unseen lips nibbled at my neck. A warm, wet tongue traced the curve from below my ear to my exposed shoulder, then down to the hollow at my throat. With each touch, extravagant new species of pleasure bloomed in my sex. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back, savoring the delicate caresses and the amazing sensations that they triggered.
Suddenly something sharp pierced the rounded flesh of my shoulder. I screamed, surprise heightening the agony that gripped me, and tore myself away from the grasp of the unseen intruder.
My reflection made me gasp in horror and wonder. Droplets of blood oozed from several wounds on my shoulder, wounds arranged in the distinctive semi-circular shape of a bite.
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
Have you found Shepherd.com yet? Ben has curated lists of books chosen by authors to get you to the exact category you want! Lyndi’s first list came out today–but there’s lots more! Can you guess what her other four are?? https://shepherd.com/best-books/fantasy-with-female-underdogs
She’s everything he’s desired… He’s the one man she shouldn’t crave.
Knowing the danger the Wanderers pose, Erica Vega intends to hunt down the mysterious
group steeped in dark magic, curses, and mind control. As a Deputy U.S. Marshal,
she has the law behind her, along with her telekinetic powers. Let the chase
and battle begin.
Not so fast. Her superior forbids her to go after any Wanderer, instead ordering
her to work cold cases with her new partner Lucian Navari.
Tall, dark, and hotter than sin, Lucian doesn’t play by the book. He has his own
agenda and agrees to help Erica hunt Wanderers on the sly where he and she can
be up close and personal.
Erica’s not one to mix duty with pleasure, but he’s impossible to resist in too damn
many ways. As they investigate an elusive Wanderer, nothing is as it appears—she
can’t trust what she sees or believes. Lies masquerade as truth, and deception
rules while she and Lucian grow closer in a carnal dance that will change their
lives.
Excerpt:
He shoved his hair back. “You still don’t trust me.”
She did, more than any man in her life, except for Mike. However, when people got
rattled or drank, they sometimes blurted stuff they shouldn’t. Not their fault,
but it didn’t make things better. “If by chance you ever say anything about my
power, I’ll deny it. I’ll make you sound like a loon. That’s a promise.”
“You think I’m that much of a prick?”
She’d never met a finer man. With him, she felt comfortable and safe. He’d protected
her after the tree incident and tried to stop her from behaving like a maniac.
Today, they’d become friends without even trying. She should have been scared
at the notion and for breaking one of her work rules. Instead, relief washed
over her. She wasn’t alone in this. “You’re the man. How many times do I have
to keep telling you?”
He chuckled. “God, you’re something.” He searched her face. “Are you all right?”
Her insides still trembled. She suspected from doubt and unease about Pope, and at
having Lucian here, close and alone with her. “I won’t lie, I’ve been calmer.
Maybe a beer will help. Can I get you one?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She delivered the brew, along with damp dish towels to clean their faces and hands.
Once they were finished, she dropped the things onto the cocktail table and
gestured him to her cloth sofa, large enough to seat four or serve as a
makeshift bed for an overnight guest. They sat on adjoining cushions. She
didn’t mind having him near. His proximity, scent, and heat unsettled her in a
good way. She gulped her beer, hoping it would help her forget the bad stuff.
Lucian sipped his drink and regarded her.
Her throat and face stung with heat. “You’re staring again.”
“Do you mind?”
“Maybe.”
“Then stop making it so easy.”
She lowered her face and smiled. “There’s dust on your shirt and pants.”
He looked and shrugged. “I don’t care, if you don’t.”
His deep voice soothed. His big body promised excitement, comfort, refuge from a
crappy world. Stuff she shouldn’t want, at least from him. Work relationships
always got complicated no matter how she controlled her feelings. Throwing
attraction into the mix made things worse. She gulped more beer.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
Bubbles tickled her nose. She rubbed it and wanted to lie, tell him to go home, she was
okay and didn’t need him here. The words wouldn’t come. She looked at him.
He lifted his shoulders. “What?”
Never had she wanted a man as she did him. “Screw this.” She put her bottle on the
cocktail table and crawled onto his lap, straddling his legs. “Don’t talk, please.” She cupped his face. “Unless you don’t want me.”
His eyes rounded. “Are you joking? Hell yeah, I do.”
“Shhh.” She didn’t want words. She needed intimacy and fitted her mouth to his.
He smiled. So did she, their lips lifting together, seeking each other.
The room spun. A ride like no other. His stubble rasped her cheeks and chin. His
lips couldn’t have been softer or warmer. Better than what she’d experienced in
her dream.
He pulled her close and speared his tongue into her mouth.
Shelost her breath. This was past epic and straight into legendary. Even her
fantasies weren’t this good.
They kissed with abandon and stark need, each pressing nearer, trying to eliminate
any separation between them. His strength thrilled, showing her his power, yet
it also felt like a caress.
He growled and tore his mouth free.
“No.” She cupped his head to pull him back to her. “I’m not through.”
“Neither am I.” Holding on to her, he leaned forward, put his bottle on the table then
twisted around and pushed her to the sofa. The cushion whooshed from her weight. “Not a word, understand?”
Several locks had fallen over his forehead. His eyes were bright with lust. Face flushed. So gorgeous. “Yes, sir.”
He laughed and captured her mouth with desire, using it with skill. His kiss was savage and unrestrained, tongue burrowed deep, giving her no chance for words. Wild sounds poured from them, more animal than human. It fueled her lust.
Reason and good sense fled, replaced by carnal instinct feral in its intensity, nothing timid or gentle about the act.
They rocked and rolled deep kissing. The sofa jerked on the hardwood floor.
He broke free again.
He had to stop doing that. She grabbed his hair. “Come back here.”
He hauled her up then pushed to his feet.
She wrapped her legs around his lean hips, her arms about his shoulders.
“Where’s your bedroom?” He looked right, left.
“Behind you.”
He pivoted, carried her across the room, and halted. “Where’s Rápido?”
“By the chair. Give me a sec.” Using her power, she transported him to his tank. There he could take a soak or bask beneath his warming lamp. Turtle heaven. “What are you waiting for?” She squeezed Lucian’s shoulders. “Get going. I’m about to die.”
“And I’m not?” Huffing, he raced into her bedroom and brought her down to the mattress with him. Springs popped. The frame creaked.
Their mouths were welded together, their kiss long and lingering, deep and wet. The best kind.
He jerked free. “Wait.”
“No.” She kept kissing him.
He pulled away. “We have weapons.” He left the bed and put his Glock on the bureau.
She was right behind him and placed hers next to his.
Grinning, they tore at each other’s clothes. Shoes, pants, tops, and underwear flew.
To break this curse, they’ll have to turn the heat up. Way up.
Jasmine Dante prowls Key West’s nightlife, fighting a losing battle against a jealous rival’s curse that forces her to seek carnal pleasure, no matter the danger. Weakened from lack of sleep and driven by insatiable lust, she spots a man who stirs her desperate craving, and begins yet another dance of seduction.
Except the dark stranger who returns her direct stare is no ordinary lover. Inside his powerful body lies a raw sexuality that just might be enough to break her curse. There’s only one way to find out—imprison him in her bed and feed on his passion.
Former Deputy U.S. Marshal Mike Stearn is many things, but he’s no woman’s sex slave. The deadly telekinetic power he ruthlessly suppresses comes alive again at Jasmine’s touch. Beneath her bold, potent sensuality, he senses vulnerability and desperation. He may be in handcuffs, but she’s the one who’s enslaved.
As Mike resurrects his power to free himself so he can find the curse’s source and defeat it, Jasmine revels in his masterful rule. Her ravenous yearning evolves into rapture as she surrenders to his hunger, her darkest needs—and the emotional connection that lies beyond. Unless the curse takes her life first…
About Tina:
Tina’s an Amazon and international bestselling novelist who writes passionate romance for every taste – ‘heat with heart’ – for traditional publishers and indie. Booklist, Publisher’s Weekly,Romantic Times and numerous online sites have praised her work. She’s won Readers’ Choice Awards, was named a finalist in the EPIC competition, received a Book of the Year award, The Golden Nib Award, awards of merit in the RWA Holt Medallion competitions, and second place in the NEC RWA contests. She’s featured in the Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market. Before penning romances, she worked at a major Hollywood production company in Story Direction.
On a less serious note: she’s an admitted and unrepentant chocoholic, brakes for Mexican restaurants, and has been known to moan like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally while wolfing down tostadas. She’s flown a single-engine airplane (freaking scary), rewired an old house using an ‘electricity for dummies’ book, and is horribly shy despite the hot romances she writes.
Thanks! What inspires me? Many of the characters that live and work in Pinecone Creek are drawn from my real-life encounters and observations. Pinecone Creek itself is a compilation of my experiences in the small towns in which I’ve lived, worked, or visited in the Northwoods territory of Wisconsin. My imagination also contributes to my overall plots and stories. You could say I make stuff up for a living, lol. End of the day, I hope my tales transport you to a different, fun, reality.
Another aspect of my life that I share with the kind-hearted people of Pinecone Creek is a driving desire to give deserving animals a second chance at finding loving homes. Emily Slater (Hometown Spirits, Caveman Creek 4) finds a German Shepherd mix that has given birth to a litter of four in an old shed on her newly acquired property.
After her new dog gobbles her lunch, Emily calls for reinforcements in the form of Mike Lambert. The gallant Mr. Lambert answers the call with twenty pounds of dog food, and various canine necessities. (And lectures Emily about personal safety!)
Momma dog looks remarkably like a dog we adopted a few years ago. Unfortunately, the real Momma passed away several months ago. She was a wonderful, loving, companion. I miss her terribly.
I also share my home with several cats, one of whom belonged to the real Letitia. Belle survived a year on her own after Letitia’s death. I found her at dusk, huddled underneath a chair on our deck. She was desperately ill and covered in fleas. It took weeks of food, medication, and love to bring her back to health. Belle is now a house cat who has no desire to return to the great outdoors.
I hope it gives her former pet mom some comfort knowing her furbaby is loved and happy.
Nurse Practitioner Emily Slater wants a home of her own in a welcoming community. She fell in love with Pinecone Creek and hopes to connect with the people she serves and give back to her town. Emily needs the kind of relationships that last a lifetime.
Brothers Mike and Paul Lambert have always called Pinecone Creek home. They need a woman to share their lives and their bed. One look at Emily sends their hopes soaring, and they spin dreams of having a family and children. Their protective instincts roar to the surface whenever they’re close to her. Even though they’ve been disappointed before, they’re willing to risk their hearts again.
But Emily hasn’t finished unpacking and her ‘to-do’ list is a mile long. The men are panty-dampening hunks, and they make her feel safe, but she isn’t ready to commit to the brothers quite yet. And that cabin she just bought? Someone or something doesn’t want Emily there.
Excerpt:
“That’s Letty Nelsen’s old place. No one’s lived there in a while. Not since—” Mike’s gaze traveled downward.
“Letty got murdered,” Angie finished. “People say strange things happen out there at night. Lights, sounds of a woman crying and moaning…” She shivered.
“The realtor told me a lady died there, but he didn’t say anything about a murder. I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts or hauntings, but that is awful. I planned on stopping out there tonight to unload tools, take measurements, and try to get an idea of how much DIY is in my future.” And how much it’ll cost, Emily thought. “But I haven’t been back in weeks. Can you give me directions? It’s no fun wandering around in the dark.”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you follow me?” Mike offered.
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t want to put you out. If you don’t mind just directing me…” Emily honestly didn’t want to impose on Mike, but going off with a strange man to an isolated cabin in the woods wasn’t a smart thing to do—no matter how nice he seemed or how fast a woman might drown in his soulful brown eyes or notice the muscles straining against the Henley underneath his flannel shirt or…
“No trouble. It’s on my way home,” Mike coaxed.
“You’ll be safe with Mike. Besides, I know you’re leaving with him, so he’d be in for a big hurt if you disappeared!” Angie declared while she cleared their plates.
“Thanks, Angie.” Mike rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“My pleasure, Mike,” Angie answered over her shoulder before she disappeared into the kitchen.
“With a reference like that, how can I say no?” Emily laughed and laid some bills on the counter. “If you’re sure it won’t take you out of your way, I’d appreciate the help.”
Biography and Social Media:
Pia Manning is the erotic romance author behind the Caveman Creek series. She is married to a wonderful man. Rides herd on four cats (not easy to do) and canine Noodles the Schnoodle (schnauzer/poodle cross), raises monarchs, and plays Clash of Clans. Not a morning person.
Maeve Jackson is starting over after a broken engagement—and mustering out of the Army. No job and no prospects, she spins out on black ice and totals her car.
When struggling vintner Luke Kaylor stops to help, they discover they’re distantly related. On a shoestring budget to convert his vineyard into a winery, he makes her a deal: prune grapevines in exchange for room and board.
But forgotten diaries and a haunted cabin kickstart a five-generation mystery with ancestors that have bones to pick. As carnal urges propel them into each other’s arms, they wonder: Is their attraction physical…or metaphysical?
Kissing Kin Excerpt –
“Mind if I camp out ’til the roads clear?”
“Under the circumstances?” The clerk shook his head. “Not a problem.”
“Thanks.” He started toward the sitting room and nearly bumped into Maeve, leaning against the wall. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” She tossed her chin. “I was cat-napping.”
“Right.” He compared her guarded veneer to her sleeping-beauty persona. Which is closer to her true self?
“Couldn’t help overhearing.” Gesturing toward the clerk with her chin, she grimaced. “I’m responsible for you being out tonight–”
“No.” He shook his head. “This is just a freak storm.”
“You don’t have to sleep in a chair.” She took a deep breath and gave a quick, tight-lipped smile. “My room has two queen beds, and you’re welcome to one of ’em.”
Unsure of the extent of her invitation, he did a double take.
“Just so we understand each other, this is a bunk, a place to sack out. Period. Amen.” She spoke in a low-pitched, no-nonsense voice. “Nothing more, so don’t get any–”
“Got it.” He covered his disappointment with a laugh. “Thanks, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine dozing by the fire.”
“Hey, I’ve bivouacked with soldiers in Afghanistan. We do what’s necessary under extenuating circumstances.” Shrugging, she glanced at the door. “And this blizzard qualifies.” Her face relaxed into a smile.
Her offer tempting, he compared sitting up all night to stretching out in a bed. Then he glimpsed the clerk.
“If you’re worried about my reputation, don’t be.” She laughed, the sound like sleigh bells tinkling on a crisp, wintry night.
What is it about her that conjures thoughts of other times–other eras?
****
How long did it take you to write Kissing Kin?
Kissing Kin has undergone several iterations. I began the first version in 2020–a storyline of two generations of the same family linked by Covid and (via journals) the Spanish Flu of 1918. However, publishers turned me down, saying readers were sick of pandemics. Time passed. Kissing Kin languished.
The second version would have been part of series set in Colorado. I changed the location, the names, the family connections, adapted the story to the series’ outline, and left out the flu. That rendering didn’t fly, either. Time passed. Kissing Kin languished.
My third attempt is the version being released today, which underwent further changes and required rewrites from the previous two iterations. Overall, I’ve been writing Kissing Kin for four years, but had the first version clicked, the process would have taken less than a year.
Author of the Trans-Pecos, Sacred Emblem, Sacred Journey, and Sacred Messenger series, as well as Kissing Kin, Fox Tale, Wild Rose Pass, The Keys: Voice of the Turtle and more, Karen is a best-selling author, motivational keynote speaker, IT technical editor, wife, and all-around pilgrim of life. She writes multicultural, offbeat love stories steeped in the supernatural. Born to rolling-stone parents who moved annually, Bartell found her earliest playmates as fictional friends in books. Paperbacks became her portable pals. Ghost stories kept her up at night—reading feverishly. The paranormal was her passion. Novels offered an imaginative escape. An only child, she began writing her first novel at the age of nine, learning the joy of creating her own happy endings. Professor emeritus of the University of Texas at Austin, Karen resides in the Texas Piney Woods with her husband Peter and her mews—three rescued cats and a rescued *Cat*ahoula Leopard dog.
Thanks, N.N. Light’s Heaven for selecting REMNANTS OF FIRE asBest Fiction Book reviewed in 2023! In a previous version, this story languished in a small publishing house that never really wanted it. But after some redding up, now it’s an award winner! Check out the excerpt, and enjoy!
Looking for a fresh start, Sara Woods takes a job as a news reporter in a small town. Her first assignment for the Ralston Courier is to investigate of a string of deaths, all young women, all her age.
To deal with chronic back pain, she seeks help at a local healing center. She soon becomes convinced that there is something strange about the Goldstone Clinic. Its doctors and nurses are all the picture of perfect beauty and health, while their patients at first seem to improve and then mysteriously deteriorate.
Dr. Rick Paulsen, a physician at the local hospital, offers to teach Sara how to access her internal power, enhancing hidden skills and revealing secrets from her past.
Police officer Brendon Zale also takes an interest in Sara, watching her every move.
The deeper she digs into the Goldstone, the harder it is to deny links to the paranormal. Can she figure out what is going on and who to trust before it’s too late?
Click here for buy links, excerpt, information, video, and reviews:
I try not to be super “HEY LOOK AT ME!!!” here, even though I suppose that’s what the purpose of the blog is. LOL. But on this occasion, I just can’t help it.
I chose to ask for my rights back for three of my books that had been with diverse small press that were not helping me sell books, or even listing them correctly at Amazon. Tired of being the red-headed step-child, if you will, I found a new publishing home, totally rewrote them and got them on the publishing track again.
One of the three is supernatural thriller REMNANTS OF FIRE, which came out in September from Dragonfly Publishing.
Here’s the story: Looking for a fresh start, Sara Woods takes a job as a news reporter in a small town. Her first assignment for the Ralston Courier is to investigate of a string of deaths, all young women, all her age. To deal with chronic back pain, she seeks help at a local healing center. She soon becomes convinced that there is something strange about the Goldstone Clinic. Its doctors and nurses are all the picture of perfect beauty and health, while their patients at first seem to improve and then mysteriously deteriorate. Dr. Rick Paulsen, a physician at the local hospital, offers to teach Sara how to access her internal power, enhancing hidden skills and revealing secrets from her past. Police officer Brendon Zale also takes an interest in Sara, watching her every move. The deeper she digs into the Goldstone, the harder it is to deny links to the paranormal. Can she figure out what is going on and who to trust before it’s too late?
Still wondering? Don’t take my word for it– after multiple 5-star reviews, the book has been nominated for Fiction Book of the Year at well-known review site N.N. Light’s Book Heaven. We’ll know next week how we did, but I’m beyond excited.
Stay tuned for updates. And please let your friends and family know about this book. Better yet, it’s on sale for those with ereaders from now through December 31 at smashwords for 99 cents!! As my dad used to say, you can’t beat that with a stick! Although I don’t know why you’d want to… he said a lot of weird things, come to think of it.
ANYWAY. Please check out the book, now that it’s done right. Thanks, readers, and Happy Holidays!
My latest book, Serpent’s Kiss, is dedicated to my father. He has been gone for for nearly fifteen years, but I still feel his presence, every day. During the time since his passing, the pain of loss has healed. I’ve come to understand that he’ll always be with me, in my memories and in my heart.
More than any other individual, it was my dad who inspired me to read, and to write. He had the gift of words, and passed it on to his children. I recall him reading aloud to my siblings and me, folk tales, fairy stories, adventures like Treasure Island and Robinson Crusoe. He told his own stories, too, inventing worlds and characters for our pleasure. There were the Gulkons, terrible demons who lived in the fire on the hearth, and Houligan, the god of snow. (I grew up in chilly, stormy New England.) I still remember sitting spellbound while Dad recounted his story of the hapless wizard Thomas Carl Sefney who had to touch his wand to every one of the monster’s thousand tentacles before it consumed him.
Both my parents encouraged me to write. My first poems date from about third grade. During my childhood I wrote fantasies about Martians and ghosts, and plays about the Beatles and politics. In my adolescence, too shy to speak to any of my crushes, I poured out my adoration in anguished free verse. In my twenties and thirties, I wrote science fiction and first tried my hand at romance. Finally, in my forties, I actually managed to publish something (other than in my high school newspaper). My first thought was to call my father.
My dad and I shared favorite books, characters and authors. When he and I got talking about Sherlock Holmes or Frodo Baggins, H.P. Lovecraft or Edgar Allen Poe or Anne Rice, the rest of the family would roll their eyes and leave us to our obsessions. I never had any difficulty figuring out what gift to get him for his birthday or Father’s Day. There was always some book that I had seen or heard about that I knew he’d love.
I never did introduce him to my erotica, though. I was so tempted to show him the pile of paperbacks with my name on the cover, the multiple volumes I had penned or edited. I wanted to autograph him a copy of my first novel, telling him how much he had contributed to my literary endeavors. I wanted him to be proud. However, I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. I recalled the way he reacted when I gave him Anne Rice’s BDSM classic The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty – an embarrassed grin and a “oh, that’s interesting”. We didn’t discuss that book much. Though I would have welcomed the opportunity to open up to him about my own pursuits in the world of sex and sensuality, dominance and submission, I sensed that he would rather not know.
I guess that there are just some things you can’t share with your parents, no matter how close you are. But at very least, I can acknowledge him as my lifelong inspiration.
OUR STORY:
When a woman atoning for past sins heals the human avatar of an ancient god, she’s drawn into a perilous dance of destiny and desire.
From the first, Dr. Elena Navarro senses that the wounded man she discovers outside the gate of her rural clinic is not an ordinary mortal. With his chest ripped open, Jorge Pélikal still demonstrates unnatural strength and power. Elena is irresistibly attracted to Jorge, although he warns her their coupling could open the gates of chaos and cost her life. Despite his dire predictions, they fall in love. Gradually Elena comes to understand that Jorge is a supernatural player in a cosmic drama that will determine the fate of the earth and of mankind—and that even if he triumphs in his apocalyptic struggle with his nemesis, she may lose him forever.
Note: Serpent’s Kiss was previously published by Totally Entwined. This new edition has been re-edited, revised and expanded.
Reader Advisory: This book may not be appropriate for individuals with a fear of snakes.
Excerpt :
“Doctora!” The voice rose out of the darkness—the voice of the man who had vanished that morning from a sealed room, leaving no trace but a brilliant, multi-colored feather. As if conjured by her thoughts, Jorge Pélikal emerged from the shadows. He waited at the foot of the steps, mutely requesting her permission to ascend.
He looked far healthier than when she had seen him last. His step was firm and strong, with no indication that he was in pain. His hair cascaded over his shoulders, gleaming in the light of the rising moon. She could not see his face—he was still too distant—but she could smell him. Vanilla and wood-smoke—the same scents that were evoked by the mysterious token she had found under the bed.
He was dressed in rough-woven trousers and a peasant’s cotton tunic, all in white. His skin, in contrast, was a deep cocoa-brown.
Elena’s heart rose into her throat. He was beautiful. He was dangerous—she sensed this—not because of what he might do, but because of who he was. But who exactly was he?
“Jorge! Why did you run away?” She gestured for him to join her on the porch. In an instant, he stood in front of her, a half-smile on his full lips.
He grasped her hands. His skin was cool now, and moist like the jungle night. His fever is gone, she thought gratefully. Joy bubbled up in her chest. She almost laughed. She had thought that she would never see him again.
“I had no choice. I was in grave danger. And by remaining in your clinic, I was placing you in danger.”
“Moving when your chest has been ripped open and is held together by nothing more than a few feeble stitches wasn’t exactly the safest thing to do,” she scolded. “But I’m happy to see that you’re so much better.”
“Much better, thanks to you…Elena.” He squeezed her hands. Desire raced through her, sharp, irrational, irresistible. “I’m sorry that I had to return and place you at risk once again. But I left something behind. Something important.”
“I know. I have it, hidden safely away.”
He searched her face, apparently trying to determine how much she knew about the feather. “Give it to me, then, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No—I don’t want you to go. I’ll give you the feather, but only if you promise to spend the night with me.” Listening to herself, Elena was appalled. What was she saying?
She had not planned this. She was keeping the feather for him and had honestly intended to return it. But now she wanted him, with a single-mindedness that drove out all reason. She would do anything to satisfy this uncharacteristic craving. She could not let him escape again.
He cupped her cheek in one of his strong brown hands. Elena nearly swooned.
“You don’t know what you’re asking. It’s not possible.”
“I know what I want. What I need. And I won’t return the feather until you give it to me.”
He removed his hand, leaving her mourning for his touch. “I could force you.” Though his voice was soft, his words rang with power.
“Go ahead and try.” Elena’s words were defiant, but there were tears in her eyes.
“You don’t understand what you ask. If we couple, you and I, we will open the gates of chaos.” He hovered close, leaning over her, gazing into her eyes. His scent made her dizzy.
“I don’t care. So be it.”
“No. I dare not, Señora.” Taking a step backward, he glanced around the porch, as if seeking a way to push past her and enter the clinic. She moved to block the door, legs apart and hands on her hips.
Perplexity marked his handsome features. She didn’t doubt he was strong enough to physically overpower her, but he seemed reluctant to do so.
“Please.” Now his voice held a note of supplication. “Be reasonable, Elena.”
“Don’t you want me?”
“What I want does not matter. I must do my duty and refuse you. The tasks before me will be difficult enough without the distraction of love.”
Love? That wasn’t what she was asking for, was it? The desire that raged through her seemed as far from love as a fierce hurricane from a gentle spring shower. At the same time, her intuition told her that a single night in Jorge’s arms would never be enough.
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, LGBTQ, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
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Alana Lorens, author 