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.
Genre: Sweet Romance, Wholesome Romance, Friends to Lovers Romance
Book Trailer:
Book Blurb:
The day her grandfather died, Sally’s life changed forever.
Twenty-two-year-old Sally Rayton returns to the family farm she deserted four years ago to bury her grandfather. Her plan: to settle her grandfather’s estate and return to her life in the city with her boyfriend, Trevor Mattson.
Her childhood friend, Jack Smith, has other ideas.
Jack convinces Sally to transform the farm into a brewery and fulfill her grandfather’s dream while keeping the Rayton Farm in the family. Sally works side-by-side with Jack while Trevor is hundreds of miles away in the city. The more time she spends with Jack, the stronger her feelings are for him. Sally’s torn between her new feelings for her best friend, Jack, and her boyfriend, Trevor.
When Trevor shows up to propose to Sally right before Christmas and finds her in Jack’s embrace, she’s unsure which man she loves. Will it be her best friend and farmer, Jack, or will it be rich, successful Trevor? City or country… only Sally’s heart knows what’s right and true.
EXCERPT:
Jack looked where she pointed.
“Sally…” he began.
”Yes?”
”Are you planning on selling it when the farm’s made a profit?”
Sally sighed.
He turned her body around, his gaze penetrating hers.
”I don’t know,” she whispered. “I know Grandpa wanted me to keep it in the family.” She furrowed her brow. “I’m not a country girl; my heart belongs to the city.”
”Hey, it’s okay.” He moved a step closer. “Farming is hard work and you have to love it to make it successful.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up for following your heart.”
Sally winced.
”What?”
”Jack, I’m not sure what my heart wants. Part of me loves being here, carrying on the family name.”
”But…” Jack raised an eyebrow warily.
”But I have a life in the city. I’ve almost finished my degree –“
”You have Trevor,” Jack interrupted her. He shook his head.
”What’s wrong with that? Yes, I have a life and a boyfriend in the city. I’ve told you a thousand times my dream is to open my own sidewalk cafe.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t you want me to be happy, Jack?” Her voice sounded hurt, even to her own ears.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
”This isn’t going how I wanted it to.” He glanced up at her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just –“
”What?” Sally cocked her head to one side.
The telephone rang inside.
”I have to go answer it. I’ll be right back.” She ran into the house.
”Hello?”
”Hi beautiful.” Trevor.
Here’s what readers/reviewers say:
”I don’t usually read romance novellas (or romance in general, call me hard-hearted if you want to), but this is a sweet coming of age novel which makes you wish too could come back home.” – Author Ann M. Noser
“I found N. N. Light’s book refreshingly honest in its character development while still laying out those adult themes of desire, loss of control and jealousy.” – L. Paul
“For a short story, this one is so well-developed and full of wonderful characters, it was a pleasure to read. ” – K. Westrope
Buy Links:
In honor of Valentine’s Day, we’ve slashed the price of the ebook. Get your digital copy for only $1.99, 50% off the regular price.
If you purchase it via Smashwords, here’s the coupon code: RDY7Q
N. N. Light is the award-winning husband-wife writing team, commonly known as Mr. N and Nancy. Books are their addiction and lifeblood.
Life is meant to be lived; cherish the exciting moments, and relish in those all too brief moments of relaxation. They are here to live their own lives, read as many books as humanly possible and live it passionately. N. N. Light’s Book Heaven serves as a vessel to project their passions, and clue in their loyal readers as to what inspires them in this crazy world. So, sit back, relax, and read on.
Most authors put some of themselves into their characters. We can’t help it, really. We’re all shaped by our experience, in ways we can’t fully or consciously appreciate. Our characters are likely to share our assumptions, our biases and our values, whether this is our intention or not.
For instance, my female characters tend to be independent, well-educated and unapologetic about their sexuality. Anyone who knows me at all will recognize these traits also describe me. I don’t think I’ve ever written a helpless, timid virgin or a self-obsessed beauty queen. I don’t create violent characters, either, or at least not violent protagonists. You won’t find any mafia capos or special forces agents in my books. (The one exception is Cecily Harrowsmith in Rajasthani Moon, who is Queen Victoria’s spy, and she’s a slightly comic figure.)
Sometimes I deliberately try to create characters who are different from me, but that can be a struggle. The thing is, how can you imagine the inner life of someone whose background, priorities and goals deviate significantly from your own?
So my success varies. In that regard, I’m pretty proud of Wild About That Thing.
My heroine Ruby Jones is definitely not me. She’s a black woman, for one thing. As much as I try to empathize, I doubt I can really understand what it’s like to grow up black in America. She’s also a mother – a single mother, having divorced her cheating ex-husband. I’ve never had children, so it’s a stretch to imagine what it would be like to have total responsibility for someone else’s safety and well-being. Scary. My experience with marriage has been ninety nine percent positive. Ruby in contrast has been badly burned, and is naturally wary of new commitments.
Despite our differences, however, I feel that I know Ruby well. Early in the writing process, I learned about Ruby’s parents and came to see how her relationships with both her mother and her father shaped her personality and her behavior. Somehow these insights were not intellectual. Instead, I found myself in Ruby’s head, listening to her inner critic who often speaks with her mother’s voice.
Ruby is constantly torn between her analytical tendencies and her passionate nature. I suppose this is somewhat true of me, but in Ruby’s case the conflict is particularly painful. One minute she’s a hard-headed businesswoman. The next, she’s a puddle of lust.
Anyway, I do hope my readers enjoy Ruby Jones. I feel that she’s one of the most realistic heroines I’ve created, as well as one of the most likable.
Note, though, that she still shares some attributes with me. She is independent and, as you might guess from the tag line, unapologetic about her sexuality.
She’s always been proud of her sensual nature. Now it seems to have landed her in an impossible situation. Two lovers…and she wants them both.
Ruby Jones has clear priorities. Her teenage son comes first, then her struggling blues club. Her love life ranks as a distant third, despite the efforts of Zeke Chambers to convince her otherwise. Zeke’s the lead singer in her house band, a devoted friend, and an occasional lover. He can drive her wild with desire, but can’t get her to make a commitment. Deserted by her cheating ex-husband, Ruby’s determined she’s going to make it on her own. She’s hot-blooded like her bluesman daddy, happy to satisfy her physical cravings, but she’s not about to let any man into her heart.
The stranger who takes the stage on open mike night upsets the delicate balance in Ruby’s world. From the moment Ruby sets eyes on him, Remy Saint-Michel inspires irresistible lust and inexplicable sympathy. Confused, guilty and worried about her prized independence, Ruby decides that the only way to deal with the two men is to push them both away. Zeke and Remy, however, have other ideas.
Note: Wild About That Thing was previously published by Totally Entwined. This new edition has been revised and re-edited.
The crowd erupted into claps and whistles as the Travellers finished their number. “Thank you kindly, ladies and gentlemen.” A decade in New York hadn’t erased the softness of the South from Zeke’s speech. “Welcome to our first open mic night here at the Crossroads. Hope you brought your axe, your sax or your harp—if you didn’t, well, hell, you can borrow ours! Everybody gets the blues sometimes. This is the place to let it all out!”
Fresh applause greeted Zeke’s invitation. He stood up there on the platform—his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans jacket, his axe hanging around his neck—and grinned like the country boy he used to be. At six-foot-one, with the solid build of a halfback, Zeke was an imposing figure. He’d broken up more than one drunken brawl for her over the past two years and he had a temper that could be scary. To Ruby and Isaiah, though, he’d been nothing but kind. Whatever success the Crossroads could claim was largely due to him.
“To kick things off tonight, I want to invite a very special lady to join us here on stage. She’s been through some hard times, friends, and she knows the blues. It’s in her blood, passed on from her daddy, Jimmy ‘The Harp’ Jones. When she sings, she spills her soul. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Ruby Jones, the lovely owner of the Crossroads Blues Bar!”
Applause filled the club. Zeke’s invitation hadn’t been a surprise. They’d discussed having her warm up the crowd, and of course, she’d been performing since she was a kid. Nevertheless, his effusive introduction made her feel self-conscious. Ruby wished she’d worn something a bit more glamorous than her usual jeans and tailored shirt.
She picked her way between the tables, headed for the stage. Zeke held out a big hand. When she grasped it, he swung her onto the platform, and quite neatly, into his arms. The crowd roared.
Zeke brushed his lips across hers. His distinctive scent engulfed her—clean sweat, Jim Beam and Ivory Soap. It was like turning on a movie—she instantly remembered the last time he’d been inside her. His blond stubble grazed her cheek. She saw him in her mind’s eye—body suspended above hers on powerful arms as he buried his cock in her pussy, fucking her with a smooth, steady rhythm while he scanned her face, focused on her pleasure. She felt again the way he stretched and filled her. The seam of her jeans teased her suddenly swollen clit. She wondered if Zeke could smell her growing dampness. Hell, what about the rest of the band?
“Stop it,” she whispered, pushing against his rock-hard chest.
Zeke released her with obvious reluctance. “I love her,” he told the audience, eliciting a chorus of hoots and whistles. Aching, hungry and guilt-ridden, Ruby knew he meant every word.
About Lisabet
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.
Just in time for the season–a collection of bright novellas and short stories to decorate your holiday mood. Author C.L. Hart shares her story UNEXPECTED ANGELS and the rest of the volume with us today. Check out the contents:
Book Blurb:
Bake your cookies, light some candles, trim your trees, and be enchanted with thirteen sweet-to-spicy Chanukah, Christmas, and New Year’s novellas that will sweep you from colonial days to contemporary times—each bearing a gift of happily-ever-after grand finales. This joyous collection is…
A Winter Mating by Lia Davis. He returns to Willow Glen with one goal, to claim his mate. Convincing her that she belongs to him will be his toughest challenge, but he’s not above using seduction to get what he wants.
One Night at Christmas by Danica Winters. As the busy owner of a veterinary clinic, Emily Avery always has her hands full of puppies but empty of the one thing she really isn’t sure she wants anyway—a man. When the kind-hearted Derek Night makes an emergency call to help his mom’s naughty pup, they both must step outside of their shells and let the magic of Christmas and one mischievous pup bring them together.
The Christmas Crash by Tessa Lyons. Sparks fly when a relentless optimist and a grieving veterinarian are snowed in together at Christmas. Can they rediscover the magic of the season and find love in the most unexpected place?
His Christmas Date by Sara J. Walker. In this heartwarming story of seasoned romance, Dino Dudley and Hilde McQuire must navigate family drama and their own emotional baggage to find true love.
Jordyn’s Christmas Gift by Marie Morton. Jordyn Billings, a busy marketing executive, is gifted a holiday getaway to Chateau D’Or by her family, where she discovers an unforgettable and life-changing Christmas gift.
Four Chanukahs and a Wedding by Merrie Angel. Widowed and alone in 1973, Millie explores a professional photographer’s life, and stumbles upon Adam–an insatiable adventure seeker related to Jackie Kennedy. Will they find a way to ignite a flame that burns far beyond Millie’s expectations and set ablaze their own festival of lights?
Recipe for Romance by Gloria Ferguson. Ashley McClain wants to win the Holiday Bake-Off with her late mom’s cupcake recipe. Can she join forces with her friend and neighbor to claim the prize and a bit of romance just in time for Christmas?
Before the Rising Sun by V.L. Czerny. Their romance blighted at a colonial ball, Gertrude and Nicholas, forgetting their past acquaintance, are maneuvered by the Christmas spirit to set love loose and so refashion time’s expected plans.
Unexpected Angels by C.L. Hart. Sometimes the best things come together when everything is falling apart.
Christmas Market Magic by Tessie Benton. Sydney Hawthorne hires an escort for a business date, but he’s not what he appears to be, and their mutual deception sparks desire while careers hang in the balance.
A Merry White Christmas by Sally Murphy. Merry London, tasked with organizing an opulent Christmas ball for the McPhersons, faces an unexpected challenge in the form of Joel McPherson, whose fiery charm threatens to melt her icy exterior and unravel her meticulously laid plans.
Lavender and Love Restored by M.J. Gates. Chief architect Jess Carlson is restoring a haunted historic hotel and helping a friendly spirit while reclaiming her life and love before the hotel’s grand reopening on New Year’s Eve.
Marry Me by Midnight by Leah Miles. Navy SEAL Kendall Nelson can’t manage a successful proposal, and single mom Luisa Sanchez has no time for romance.
Proceeds benefit the First Coast Romance Writers, an independent non-profit organization helping writers hone their craft and expand their knowledge of the publishing industry.
BUY LINK AT AMAZON
Here’s an excerpt from UNEXPECTED ANGELS:
“Gran, is Helen feeling up to joining us for dinner tonight, or should I fix her a tray with soup and crackers?”
A sturdy woman in her early thirties stood in the doorway of a large, cluttered kitchen filled with various cooking implements and both working and non-working appliances. She wore a goldenrod-hued apron with an image of a large lemon on the front over a short-sleeved red flannel shirt and black leggings. She reached up to run her hand over her metallic silver pixie shag and groaned.
“Crumbs—now my head is going to smell like French fried onions,” she sighed.
“Are we having a Thanksgiving-style dinner, Dear?” an older woman dressed in black jodhpurs and a short-sleeved black sweater with a white lace collar inquired. The lady’s cheap-looking bouncy black bob wig sat cockeyed on her head.
“Miss Helen, your…” the younger woman started, unconsciously gesturing at her own head. When the lady gave her a puzzled look, she changed the direction of her conversation.
“I’m glad you’re up and about,” she said. “Will you be joining us for dinner?”
“Well, Darling, as my Pete always said, I haven’t a bigger appetite than a bird. Though I did read in one of those clever books written by that delightful science gentleman that birds eat their weight in food every day. If I might just have a yam and a garden salad, that will be enough for this old girl.”
“Come, Helen, your coif is askew. Let’s get you fixed up,” a second elderly lady suggested, turning to give her granddaughter a conspiratorial wink. The younger woman mouthed the words “thank you,” and returned to dinner preparations.
“Where has that grandson of yours gotten off to, Rana?” the first woman inquired.
Author bio and links
About the Author:
C. L. Hart, the owner and sole employee of Naughty Netherworld Press, is spoken of in hushed tones. She is described as The Mad Scribe of the Northeastern Colorado Plains, The Terrible Old Woman, and The Author That Should Not Be.
When not penning sanity-destroying works of dystopian fiction, Lovecraftian fantasy, or old-school horror with the occasional sweet romance thrown in to upset the cosmic apple cart, Ms. Hart enjoys creating baked goods she hopes will be considered palatable.
Ms. Hart shares a home in a remote rural town of 134 souls with her adult son and three cats. Her sense of fashion is best described as Early Twenty-First Century Unmade Bed. This disabled former nurse can usually be found arguing with herself about subplots or rehabilitating eldritch horrors.
What romantic pairings do you love to read? Straight f/m? Bisexual f/f/m? Lesbian f/f? I’m half of the writing duo Adriana Kraft, and we love writing (and reading) all these pairings. Our newest release is a sapphic short story we wrote for an anthology over a decade ago, then revised and updated to release under our indie imprint. Is it really erotic romance? It’s definitely erotic, featuring one of my favorite f/f scenes as Natalie is caught between her fears and her desires in the middle of the night. Since it’s a short story, I’d call it happy-for-now, with a promising future.
And the inspiration? I love New York City, and we love setting stories there. I especially love it in the winter – Rockefeller center, with its giant tree and all the skaters, Central Park, Fifth Avenue with all the shoppers and window displays. Was I ever snowbound there? No, but I was stranded for two steamy August days during the great East Coast blackout of 2003.
Our conference was just concluding on the NYU campus in Greenwich Village when the power went out. When we left the building across from Washington Square Park, it seemed the entire city was on foot, rumors circulating wildly. Pretty quickly we knew it wasn’t just New York. With 9-11 less than two years behind us, there was speculation about the possibility of terrorism. I can’t remember how quickly that was dispelled with information about failure of the power grid in the heat wave. I do remember that several of us decided to walk the two miles north on Fifth Avenue to our hotel rather than try to board a bus. With no stoplights operating, traffic was basically gridlocked.
Part way back we found a Chinese restaurant with ready-to-go meals they had no way of keeping, and we bought supper, then sat and ate it on the steps of the beautiful beaux arts library at 42nd Street. When we finally reached the hotel, the elevator was out of service, but the staff had set out small candles on every step of the narrow spiral staircase leading up from the lobby, a welcome sight.
So many flights were cancelled that it was clear we wouldn’t get out of the city for a couple days. Some power was restored by the next day, and a friend and I took advantage of the nearby Times Square box office to get last minute discount tickets for two shows. I don’t know what adventures our heroines Natalie and Bridgette might get up to after their bedroom adventure, but I’m sure they’ll find ways to enjoy the city.
OUR STORY:
Natalie and the much younger Bridgette are real estate agents who’ve often traveled together for business seminars. Now they’re snowbound in New York City in a hotel room with only one bed. Will Natalie dare to make her move?
EXCERPT:
“Are you ready for me to shut off the TV?”
“Yes. I’ve heard enough chatter by pundits.”
“Me, too.” Natalie hit the off button, set the remote aside, and rolled onto her side to face the wall. The mattress shifted as Bridgette turned to face the opposite wall. “Good night,” Natalie murmured.
“Good night. I’m looking forward to being snowbound with you in New York.”
Closing her eyes, Natalie didn’t respond. She concentrated on breathing in and out. The predicted blizzard was a pleasant surprise that might prove to be the tipping point.
She’d done all she could do. It was up to fate now. She wouldn’t risk being rejected by her younger colleague. They’d traveled together several times representing their firm at realty conferences. She’d been surprised how comfortable they were as travel companions, respecting each other’s routines. Bridgette chattered too much, but then Bridgette had probably had to adjust to some of Natalie’s idiosyncrasies, too.
Usually they shared a room with two beds. When they’d checked in at the front desk, Natalie had somewhat berated the clerk for their sleeping arrangements—but she was the one who’d explicitly requested one queen bed when making the reservation. She’d also anticipated correctly that given the size of the conference, there’d be no available rooms with two beds.
Natalie wished she could make the next overture, but she couldn’t. Pride intervened. She had no idea whether the twenty-six-year-old lying next to her would be interested in a forty-year-old divorcee who hadn’t been with a woman since college.
I’m Adriana Kraft, and I write both steamy romantic suspense and smoking hot erotic Romance. My husband – a criminologist – is my partner in crime. We’ve been writing romance together for twenty years and by now have published more than fifty novels and novellas.
Our goal? To write characters you’ll care about, hot sex scenes, and compelling stories you can’t put down. Our romantic suspense novels deliver one man, one woman, danger, intrigue, and of course lots of steam. Our erotic romance is edgier and nearly always includes ménage or polyamory. As you’ve probably guessed, our romantic pairings include MF, FF, and the ménage arrangements FFM, FMF, MFM, foursomes, and more.
After many years in the upper Midwest struggling with ice-packed driveways and foot-deep snow, we gave my mother’s antiques to the kids, sold our house, and spent a couple years traveling the county in our motor home while working remotely. We especially loved spending several weeks in a region, learning its history and its less popular hidden gems. Santa Fe, Taos, Puget Sound, and the Black Hills were special favorites.
We now live in sunny southern Arizona, where we enjoy hiking, golf, and travel, especially to the many Arizona Native American historical sites. Oh – and if it’s too hot to go outside? We’ll probably hold an impromptu writing retreat. Arizona summers give us lots of opportunities.
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.
Who wants to tour a haunted hotel? You should all have your hand up! After all, it’s Halloween season.
While I write paranormal mysteries that are pure fiction, I love a good ghost story based on reality. My tour of The Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, CO, fed those cravings. I’ll tell you upfront that I did not see any spirits with my own eyes (insert disappointed foot stomp here), but the whole time spent had a spooky vibe, which I loved.
The first surprise about the hotel is that it’s a stone’s throw from the town of Estes Park. As hauntingly beautiful the drive to The Overlook Hotel is depicted in Stephen King’s The Shining, it is not off by its lonesome. Rolling up to the actual structure, however, wiped away any disappointment as the hotel is simply majestic.
Of course, there were many touches referring back to the original movie, despite not being filmed there. It surprised me to hear from the tour guide that Stephen King and his family only spent a single night. The author received enough inspiration from the setting and the stories told by the staff that he wrote the novel.
My tour guide not only believed in spirits, but related personal encounters she’d had at The Stanley. She also shared pictures of apparitions that were sent to her from previous guests. Room 217 has been renamed after the famous writer who stayed there, and reservations for the suite are booked out two years. The only paranormal experience I had took place in a large room on the ground floor, which had once been the bar. Immediately upon entering, most guests (myself included) felt a heaviness to the air.
Many of the historical facts about the two Stanley brothers, who built the structure, can be found online. My attraction for the place lies in the paranormal aspects attributed to the hotel. As a writer, much of my own inspiration comes from places I’ve lived or visited. Every trip I take leads me to create plot lines, scenes, and even mishaps which could find their way to the pages of my books.
Today’s release of Manatee Soul, The Marni Legend Series Book 2, came about from a girls’ trip to Crystal River, FL. My two main characters, Marni and her sister, Gloria, participate in some of the tourist activities I enjoyed. While my travel companion and I both willingly ventured into the water, Gloria didn’t have quite the same enthusiasm, as you’ll discover. Add in Phil, a snarky ghost demanding the sisters’ attention, and you’ll embark on quite the aquatic adventure.
Book & Author Details:
Title: Manatee Soul
Author: Terry Segan
Blurb:
Marni Legend has embarked on the most perilous journey of her life—a vacation with her sister. The women are like two peas in a pod, providing each pod came from a different mother ship. One day into their Florida adventure, Marni questions her choice of travel partner. Gloria strives to understand her carefree younger sibling while kayaking and snorkeling without chipping a nail.
With nothing but eternity on his hands, Phil insists the sisters resolve the circumstances of his untimely demise. The wise-cracking spirit leads them on a trail filled with bartenders, bikers, and the promise of a hidden treasure.
Her greatest challenge will either be enduring a week with Gloria or surviving the thugs searching for the stolen booty. Can Marni figure out who to trust, who to avoid, and who she’d most likely want to be trapped alone in an elevator with?
EXCERPT
“What’s wrong? Can’t hold your liquor?” Phil quirked from beside the outer rail.
“You are not allowed to comment,” Gloria rasped.
“Why not? This is terribly amusing.” Phil stood with arms crossed.
“We went to the bar because of you,” Gloria said.
“And did I make you down several beers and shots of tequila?” Phil asked.
Gloria put a palm to her forehead. “Can you talk quieter? I can’t handle shouting right now.”
Phil snickered.
“Phil, give her a break. She’s not used to playing the wild girl.”
“And I’m not used to playing the dead guy. Guess we all have our issues. At least she’ll recover from hers.”
She sucked down more soda. “Why is he still here?”
“Because you haven’t helped me to move on. You really are slacking on your responsibilities.” He shook his head.
Letting out a loud gasp, Gloria said, “I don’t mean here, like still on this planet. I mean why are you still here on our balcony? If you don’t stop prattling, my head will explode.”
Phil rubbed his hands together. “Now that would be fun to watch. And by the way, I do not prattle.”
“Just let me die in peace.” Did she end that comment with a growl?
“If that were to happen, then we’d be together for eternity.” Phil clapped his hands together like an excited toddler. “Marni, quick, more tequila.”
Terry Segan, originally from Commack, NY, now resides in the desert where she’ll never require an ice scraper or snow shovel again. The beach is her happy place, but any opportunity to travel soothes her gypsy soul. The stories conjured by her imagination while riding backseat on her husband’s motorcycle can be found throughout the pages of her paranormal mysteries. Growing up immersed in sarcastic humor and science fiction movies, Terry’s goals are to cause her readers to laugh out loud, cry with joy, or cower under the covers wondering if the noise under the bed was real or imagined.
FROM HERE TO FOURTEENTH STREET from author DIANA RUBINO
Now on Audio with the soothing voice of narrator Nina Price
Read About FROM HERE TO FOURTEENTH STREET and how Vita Found Love and Success Against All Odds
It’s 1894 on New York’s Lower East Side. Irish cop Tom McGlory and Italian immigrant Vita Caputo fall in love despite their different upbringings. Vita goes from sweatshop laborer to respected bank clerk to reformer, helping elect a mayor to beat the Tammany machine. While Tom works undercover to help Ted Roosevelt purge police corruption, Vita’s father arranges a marriage between her and a man she despises. As Vita and Tom work together against time and prejudice to clear her brother and father of a murder they didn’t commit, they know their love can survive poverty, hatred, and corruption. Vita is based on my great grandmother, Josephine Calabrese, “Josie Red” who left grade school to become a self-made businesswoman and politician, wife and mother.
An Excerpt:
As Vita gathered her soap and towel, Madame Branchard tapped on her door. “You have a gentleman caller, Vita. A policeman.”
“Tom?” His name lingered on her lips as she repeated it. She dropped her things and crossed the room.
“No, hon, not him. Another policeman. Theodore something, I think he said.”
No. There can’t be anything wrong. “Thanks,” she whispered, nudging Madame Branchard aside. She descended the steps, gripping the banister to support her wobbly legs. Stay calm! she warned herself. But of course it was no use; staying calm just wasn’t her nature.
“Theodore something” stood before the closed parlor door. He’s a policeman? Tall and hefty, a bold pink shirt peeking out of a buttoned waistcoat and fitted jacket, he looked way out of place against the dainty patterned wallpaper.
He removed his hat. “Miss Caputo.” He strained to keep his voice soft as he held out a piece of paper. “I’m police commissioner Theodore Roosevelt.”
“Yes?” Her voice shook.
“I have a summons for you, Miss Caputo.” He held it out to her. But she stood rooted to that spot.
He stepped closer and she took it from him, unfolding it with icy fingers. Why would she be served with a summons? Was someone arresting her now for something she didn’t do?
A shot of anger tore through her at this system, at everything she wanted to change. She flipped it open and saw the word “Summons” in fancy script at the top. Her eyes widened with each sentence as she read. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”
I hereby order Miss Vita Caputo to enter into holy matrimony with Mr. Thomas McGlory immediately following service of this summons.
How FROM HERE TO FOURTEENTH STREET Was Born
New York City’s history always fascinated me—how it became the most powerful hub in the world from a sprawling wilderness in exchange for $24 with Native Americans by the Dutch in 1626.
Growing up in Jersey City, I could see the Statue of Liberty from our living room window if I leaned way over (luckily I didn’t lean too far over). As a child model, I spent many an afternoon on job interviews and modeling assignments in the city, and got hooked on Nedick’s, a fast food chain whose orange drinks were every kid’s dream. Even better than the vanilla egg creams. We never drove to the city—we either took the PATH (Port Authority Trans Hudson) train (‘the tube’ in those days) or the bus through the Lincoln Tunnel to the Port Authority Bus Terminal.
My great grandmother, Josephine Arnone, “Josie Red” to her friends, because of her abundant head of red hair, was way ahead of her time. Born in 1895 (but it could’ve been sooner, as she was known to lie about her age), she left grade school, became a successful businesswoman and a Jersey City committeewoman, as well as a wife and mother of four. She owned apartment buildings, parking garages, a summer home, did a bit of Prohibition-era bootlegging, small-time loan-sharking, and paid cash for everything. When I began outlining From Here to Fourteenth Street, I modeled my heroine, Vita Caputo, after her. Although the story is set in New York the year before Grandma was born, I was able to bring Vita to life by calling on the family legends and stories, all word of mouth, for she never kept a journal.
Vita’s hero Tom McGlory isn’t based on any real person, but I did a lot of reading about Metropolitan Policemen and made sure he was the complete opposite! He’s trustworthy and would never take a bribe or graft. I always liked the name McGlory—then, years after the book first came out, I remembered that was the name of my first car mechanic—Ronnie McGlory.
Changing the Title
When I proposed the story to The Wild Rose Press, I wanted to change the title, as it went through so many revisions since it was first published. I wanted to express Vita’s desire to escape the Lower East Side and move farther uptown. I considered Crossing 14th Street, but it sounded too much like Crossing Delancey. After a few more hits and misses, the title hit me—as all really fitting titles do.
A Bit of Background—What Was 1894 New York City Like?
The Metropolitan Police was a hellhole of corruption, and nearly every cop, from the greenest rookie to the Chief himself, was a dynamic part of what made the wheels of this great machine called New York turn.
The department was in cahoots with the politicians, all the way up to the mayor’s office. Whoever wasn’t connected enough to become a politician became a cop in this city. They were paid off in pocket-bulging wads of cash to look the other way when it came to building codes, gambling, prostitution, every element it took to keep this machine gleaming and efficient. They oiled the machine and kept it running with split-second precision. The ordinary hardworking, slave-wage earning citizen didn’t have a chance around here. Tom McGlory and his father were two of a kind, and two of a sprinkling of cops who were cops for the right reasons. They left him alone because he was a very private person; he didn’t have any close friends, he confided in no one. He could’ve made a pocket full of rocks as a stoolie, more than he could by jumping in the fire with the rest of them, but he couldn’t enjoy spending it if he’d made it that way. They knew it and grudgingly respected him for it. He was here for one reason–his family was here. If they went, he went. As long as they needed him, here he was. Da would stop grieving for his wife when he stopped breathing. Since Tom knew he was the greatest gift she gave Da, he would never let his father down.
Meet Vita: An Interview With Vita Caputo, Heroine of FROM HERE TO FOURTEENTH STREET
Vita, we know you and Tom overcame astronomical odds to stay together. It’s like Romeo and Juliet. I can imagine how torn you felt when you wanted to be with Tom, but didn’t want to defy your father. Tell us, what was your family and homelife like when all this was going on?
Well, I loved my father and brothers more than anything, and didn’t want to defy them. Yet at the same time, I felt they weren’t respecting my wishes. I was in love with Tom, and they hated him for two reasons, which to me, were irrational—he’s Irish and he’s a cop. But you have to understand their underlying reasons—cops always gave Italian immigrants a hard time on the Lower East Side. They didn’t give Italians a fair shake. Many of them were bullied, arrested for crimes they didn’t commit—and of course if you know my story, you know that the police framed Papa and my brother for the murder of Tom’s cousin, also a cop. I can understand their hatred of the police force for this heinous act. But not the entire police force is corrupt. Teddy Roosevelt, the Commish, certainly wasn’t, and Tom certainly isn’t. But when you face this hatred and injustice every day, it’s easy to be bitter. Our homelife, before I met Tom, was the usual Italian household—we struggled to make ends meet and didn’t have much, but I always made sure we had more than enough to eat, and to share with those who had less. I went without new clothes, shoes, coats, to buy groceries so we wouldn’t go hungry. We argued over petty things—like who left the stove on—but we always made up in the end. We were very affectionate, and gave each other a lot of hugs and kisses. We sometimes felt the world was against us—and at times it was.
What did your childhood home look like?
Did you ever see the classic Jackie Gleason sitcom The Honeymooners? They had a walk-up flat in Brooklyn. Well, ours was on Mott Street in Manhattan, but our flat looked much like that—it was called a ‘railroad flat’ because all the rooms were in a row—kitchen sitting room, bedrooms in back. We shared a toilet on the landing. But compared to other Mott Street tenements, we had it made—we had indoor plumbing. No bathtub, but a sink with running water. We didn’t have to go to a backyard privy. The bedroom was partitioned off by a curtain that I’d made—one side was mine, the other side my brother’s. Papa and his wife Rosalia had another bedroom to themselves.
What is your greatest dream?
To be a Senator or Congresswoman, but I’m happy enough as a committeewoman for now.
What kind of person do you wish you could be? What is stopping you?
I wish I could be calmer and slow down. I do too much—run the household because I refuse to hire help, raise our 3 kids, work and invest our savings. I follow the stock market and purchase stocks that have long-term growth potential. What’s stopping me is my drive to get ahead.
Who was your first love?
Tom, of course. My father tried to throw me together with ‘a nice Italian boy’ Roberto Riccadonna whose family owned a music store and was ‘well off’ – but he was arrogant and controlling. He threatened me when I told him I wasn’t interested in him. He and Tom got into fisticuffs when I found Roberto under my boardinghouse window singing “O Sole Mio” with a mandolin. He had a nice voice, but Tom was hardly impressed.
What’s the most terrible thing that ever happened to you?
When Papa and my brother Butchie were arrested for the murder of Tom’s cousin Mike. It tore me into pieces, because Tom didn’t want to believe Papa and Butchie were the killers, but evidence pointed to them. We made it our quest to find the real killer, and we did. It created a huge rift in our relationship of course, but we overcame that as we got through all the other hardships and prejudices that tried to keep us apart.
What was your first job?
I started out as a sweatshop worker sewing ‘shirtwaists’ (blouses), and now I’m a committeewoman, with a view to being New York City’s first female mayor.
What’s your level of schooling?
I left school at 16 to go to work in a lampshade factory.
Where were you born?
Sassano, Italy, near Naples.
Where do you live now?
Greenwich Village, in a brownstone on East 14th Street.
Do you have a favorite pet?
They’re all favorites, two mongrel pups, Charlie and Shirley, two cats Romeo and Juliet, and assorted goldfish whose names we can’t keep up with!
What’s your favorite place to visit?
Coney Island, to sit on the beach, frolic in the ocean, eat those delicious hot dogs and fried dough, and stroll the boardwalk!
What’s your most important goal?
To see my three children become successful, respectable citizens. Doing all right so far—my daughter Assunta (Susan) owns a clothing store, my son Virgilio (Billy) writes Broadway musicals and my youngest Teresa (Tessie) wants to be a baby doctor.
What’s your worst fear or nightmare?
That the stock market will crash again or some other disaster will plunge us back into poverty.
What’s your favorite food?
My homemade lasagna with my grandmother’s sauce recipe (it’s a secret)
Are you wealthy, poor, or somewhere in between?
We’re finally members of the solid middle class.
What’s your secret desire or fantasy?
To sing in one of my son’s musicals.
What would you do if you won the lottery?
I’d buy my own airplane and give the rest to charity.
A Review From Romantic Times:
Immigrant Vita Caputo escapes New York’s Italian ghetto and secures a job in a Wall Street bank, along with a room in a Greenwich Village boarding house, thanks to Irish police officer Tom McGlory. With her new beginning, Vita even joins the Industrial reform movement.
Tom is an honest cop, with little interest in women until he meets Vita. When Tom’s cousin is murdered and Vita’s father and brother are arrested for the crime, the two team up to investigate and soon discover that they are falling in love.
Vita and Tom face economic problems, prejudice, and cultural differences. Ms. Rubino’s research is obvious.—Kathe Robin
From Rhapsody Magazine:
FROM HERE TO 14th STREET by Diana Rubino is all that and then some. Everything about this book is what writing should be–original and wonderfully executed. Bravo!—Karen L. Williams
From Book Nook Romance Reviews:
Diana Rubino has done a masterful job of researching the life of Italian and Irish immigrants in turn-of-the-century New York, its society and politics and crime. She paints a vivid picture of the degradation immigrants of Italian descent suffered, particularly at the hands of the earlier Irish immigrants they succeeded. Barred from all but the most menial jobs, forced to live crammed into the worst slums, she makes it easy for the reader to understand why many of them turned to a life of crime and violence. Not only can the reader see what Vita and Tom see, they can smell it, hear it, and taste it.
Vita is a delightful heroine, as full of vivid life as the city she lives in. Stubborn, determined to escape the ghetto in which she lives and make something of herself, she never loses her commitment to and love for her family. That very devotion, however, threatens her growing relationship with Tom, since the Irish and Italians are the Capulets and Montagues of 19th century Manhattan. Although she cannot help falling deeply in love with him, she knows that her father and brothers will never permit her to spend her life with him. And, in a departure from the usual super-masculine hero, Tom is a sensitive, secret poet as well as a cop.
If you like vivid characters and a book that carries you effortlessly back to an earlier time, FROM HERE TO 14th STREET is a good choice. –Elizabeth Burton
MORE ABOUT THE LOWER EAST SIDE: One fascinating place to visit is the Lower East Side Tenement Museum at 97 Orchard Street, once an actual tenement. They have tours describing life as it was back then, with each floor of the building decorated (if you want to call it ‘decorated’) to depict each time period when immigrants lived there. I read a lot of books to research this story. One book I remember reading as a kid is How The Other Half Lives by Jacob Riis, a photographer and reformer of the time. The photos in his 1901 book vividly illustrate the poverty and deprivation of the times, for adults and children alike.
ABOUT ME:
My passion for history and travel has taken me to every locale of my stories, set in Medieval and Renaissance England, Egypt, the Mediterranean, colonial Virginia, New England, and New York. My urban fantasy romance, FAKIN’ IT, won a Top Pick award from Romantic Times. I’m a member of Romance Writers of America, the Richard III Society and the Aaron Burr Association. I live on Cape Cod with my husband Chris. In my spare time, I bicycle, golf, play my piano and devour books of any genre.
The historical monarch I’d most like to meet is Richard III, my favorite of all time.
And now for the adventurous side…CONTENT WARNING: This promo is for an erotic steampunk novel…so be governed accordingly.
Please welcome our storyteller, Lisabet Sarai!
Who is Gillian Smith?
Gillian Smith, the heroine of my Toymakers Guild series, is a scientific genius and a sexual adventurer. She’s only nineteen when she shows up at the door of Randerley Hall, successfully figures out the access code and demonstrates sufficient talent in both the technical and carnal realms to win a place for herself among the secretive and selective band of erotic artificers.
As the series continues, she becomes more mature, taming some of her impulsiveness and learning to understand the nuances of desire. She assumes increasing responsibility for the work of the Guild, providing design guidance and supervising the other engineers. Meanwhile, she remains open to the varied opportunities for sensual pleasure offered by Guild membership. She understands that lust is the lubricant for the Guild’s creativity and that despite the outrageous ways that it is sometimes expressed, the bonds among the Toymakers go far beyond the physical.
Authors often – perhaps even always – use aspects of themselves when creating their characters. Nevertheless, Gillian is not me. When I was nineteen, I was a dreamy bookworm, not an engineer. While she is bold and self-confident, I was painfully shy. Her appearance – tall, slender, with curly reddish hair – has little in common with my short, curvy build and mousy brown locks.
Still, at her age I was as fascinated by sex as she is, if nowhere near as active. As I grew older, that fascination deepened. I began to explore my kinks and cravings and live out my fantasies in a manner that she’d understand. I’ve had sexual adventures she’d find quite familiar. In the meantime, my view of sexuality ended up having quite a lot in common with hers – that even what seems like casual lust has emotional and spiritual dimensions.
I also must admit to basing some of Gillian’s emotions and behavior as a technical project leader on my own experience. I did end up as an engineer of sorts: a software engineer. Most of the technology in the Toymakers Guild series comes straight out of my imagination. I couldn’t wire a motor or machine a set of gears to save my life. But I do know what it’s like trying to deal with bugs in your programs when you’re facing a critical deadline. I understand the heavy burden of responsibility that comes with commitments that seem impossible to fulfill.
So, yes, Jill and I do share some traits and beliefs, though there’s more than a century between our worlds and half a century between our ages. To me, though, she’s an independent individual – and after three novels, remarkably real. As an author, I’m amazed by the way characters develop over the course of writing a book. They begin as a sketch, perhaps borrowing from people we know (including ourselves), but before long they have lives of their own. Having followed her for more than three years and two hundred fifty thousand words, I know who Gillian Smith is. Honestly, though, I don’t know where she came from.
At Randerley Hall, lust is a lubricant to creativity. Nothing is impossible. Nothing is forbidden.
Defying the repressive morality of the Victorian era, the Toymakers Guild uses advanced technology to fabricate bespoke sexual devices for the discrete pleasure of select clients. Its members are not only brilliant engineers but also sexual renegades seeking freedom from the prudish society that surrounds them.
Nineteen-year-old prodigy Gillian Smith arrives at Randerley to apply for an apprenticeship in the Guild. With her technical abilities and her lascivious temperament, she is eminently suited to join the Master Toymaker’s close-knit band of uninhibited erotic artisans. Gillian flourishes among the Toymakers, designing and implementing ever-more-outrageous carnal contraptions. Each voluptuous commission she completes, each sensual adventure she enjoys, binds her more tightly to the Guild and to the perverse, tortured genius who is its founder.
If you like brilliant, wanton women and kinky steam punk sex toys, dive into the alternate universe of the The Toymakers Guild.
Gillian stepped into a vast space, two storeys high, luxuriously panelled in dark wood. Excitement made her heart race. The place was like something from a dream.
Overhead, a dome of leaded glass bathed the room in daylight. At the second storey level, a semi-circular gallery followed the curving walls, reachable from a stair to her left. Arrayed on the wall to her right was a dazzling collection of pliers, metal snips, tweezers, wrenches, hammers, drills, clamps, vices, springs, glass tubes, rubber piping, brass flanges, hydraulic cylinders, coils of wire, gears and pulleys, switches and dials, gauges and meters—every sort of tool and part she’d ever encountered as well as many that were unfamiliar.
On the far wall hung parts of another sort: hands, fingers, feet, splayed thighs, open mouths, as well as phalluses of varied proportions. She could not determine the materials from across the room, though some of the models looked startlingly life-like. Her diligent studies of the catalogue suggested some might be fashioned of leather, others from India rubber.
Several large workbenches filled the centre of the room, each cabled with its own electric lighting fixture dangling from a rack above. Ian and Archie huddled together at the closest table, peering through a magnifier at a mess of wiring.
“Mr. Burns! Mr. Fawcett! Let me officially introduce our new apprentice. This is Gillian Smith.”
Archie looked up, startled. “What? You accepted a girl?”
“Provisionally.” Amelia frowned at the florid young man. “Subject to the Master’s final approval. Meanwhile, I expect you to welcome her, introduce her to our procedures and processes, and put her to work.”
“I’ll put her to work, for sure,” Ian muttered.
“What did you say, Mr. Burns?”
“Um, nothing, ma’am.”
The director stepped closer to the contraption on the bench. “Is this the circuitry for the Marlborough device?”
Ian swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And do you have it functioning yet?”
“Almost,” Archie volunteered. “Just one more small problem to fix, and we’ll be ready to test.”
“Indeed.” She scrutinised the web of copper strands for several minutes, then turned to Gillian. “Perhaps you can assist them, Miss Smith. They appear to be somewhat out of their depth.”
Apparently feeling that this was sufficient instruction, Mrs. Featherstone headed for the door, but she paused exiting. “I shall see you all at dinner. And I shall expect a full report on your progress. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Mrs. Featherstone,” the young men chimed in unison.
Gillian just grinned.
Ian and Archie wore glum expressions in the wake of Amelia’s departure.
“So what’s the problem?” Gillian asked.
“You know about electrical stuff?” Archie asked.
“To some extent. My father taught me the basics.”
“Main motor’s not getting power,” said Ian.
“Or else the motor itself is defective,” countered Archie.
“Impossible. I’ve built a dozen motors with this design.”
“Well, I’ve successfully wired at least two dozen dildos.” Archie grimaced in Gillian’s direction. “He does mechanical, mostly. I do electrical. How about you?”
“I have some experience with both types of work, though my speciality is mathematics and logic.” She stepped closer to the circular magnifier. “Might I take a look?”
“Be our guest,” said Ian. “We are well and truly stuck.”
Under the lens, every detail of the circuitry became clear. In fact, the design was quite elegant, the layout logical and precise. She scanned the interwoven wires, focusing on their connections. In thirty seconds, she had located the fault.
“There,” she said. “Between pins fourteen and fifteen. The solder is not adhering.” Backing away, she let Archie look.
“By Jove, you’re right.” A smile lit his boyish face. “Thank you!”
“May I try fixing it? Just for practice?” She added a bit of softness to her voice, a tentative quality that did not reflect her true nature. The last thing she wanted was to intimidate the other apprentices.
“Why not?” said Archie gallantly. “If you have trouble, I can take over.”
He handed her a length of solder and a tiny torch. The tip where the flame emerged could not have been more than a sixteenth of an inch in diameter. Gillian had never seen anything so marvellous.
It took no more than a minute for her to melt the silvery metal into a miniscule blob that bridged the two wires. She surveyed the circuit again. “That’s the only issue that I can see. Why don’t you switch it on, Archie? We can see if that did the trick.”
AboutLisabet
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.
Welcome sister lawyer author Seelie Kay and her latest, SAINT CON!! Let’s get to know her first.
Q. Why do you write romance? It began as a way to relieve the stress of a career as a lawyer/journalist and dealing with MS “on the side.” Writing has always been my outlet and the best way to break away from reality for a bit was to write romance. Plus, I love happy endings. I get rather emotional (yes, I’m a crier) but it’s a wonderful release. Q. Do you prefer a certain type of romantic hero? I adore smart, dashing gentlemen who aren’t afraid to live on the edge. They can be a lawyer, a bad boy, a billionaire, a prince, or a secret agent. That hint of danger just hooks me! However, they have to be paired with strong, independent women who aren’t afraid to fight for what they want, even love. And brains over brawn, every time! Q. Why did you write “Saint Con?” It all began when I woke up to an AMBER and SENIOR alert on my phone. For some reason, I began to wonder why I never saw an alert for an able-bodied adult gone missing. I did a little research and found that in WI, only proof of harm or the passage of 72 hours will trigger a missing person’s investigation. The burden of finding an able-bodied adult falls on friends and family. That just seems wrong, because most people don’t have the skill or resources to conduct an investigation. However, as you learn from crime shows, the first 72 hours are critical to gathering evidence and finding a missing person. Suddenly, I had the plot, and I knew I wanted to incorporate a character I had been playing with, a street lawyer for the homeless. “Saint Con” was born. Q. You pretty much use lawyers as your main characters. Why? It’s what I know. After 30 years, the law and the legal world are so firmly embedded in my brain that I can’t flush them out. That has become the lens through which I view the world and that naturally guides my characters and plots. Injustice infuriates me, but it also leads me to great stories. Even in this book, I find a way to explore social and criminal justice issues.
It was a night dreams are made of, until the man of Jessica Knight’s dreams disappears.
Genre: Romantic Suspense
It was a night dreams are made of, until the man of Jessica Knight’s dreams disappears.
When self-proclaimed good girl Jessica Knight literally bumps into apparent bad boy Connor O’Brien in a suburban Milwaukee wine bar, she is skeptical—of his intentions and the prospect for real love. A former priest, Saint Con is now a street lawyer for Milwaukee’s homeless. After a night of sizzling romance, Jess begins to thaw, and in the days that follow, she is so charmed by Con that she allows herself to start falling in love. Unfortunately, on their first real date, Con fails to appear. Jess doesn’t know if she’s been ghosted or if Con was unavoidably detained, but she leaves their meeting spot devastated.
Until she discovers that Con is missing. Really missing.
The police won’t help because he’s not a vulnerable adult nor is there proof that he has been harmed. So, it falls to Jess and her friends to find him. After surmounting numerous obstacles, Con is finally found, gravely injured and in a coma. Suddenly, it appears a promising love match may be over before it really began.
Award-winning author Seelie Kay writes scintillating tales of lawyers in love, sometimes with a dash of kink.
Writing under a nom de plume, the former lawyer and journalist draws her stories from more than 30 years in the legal world. Seelie’s wicked pen has resulted in more than 24 works of fiction, including the new paranormal romance series Donovan Trait, as well the erotic romance Kinky Briefs series and The Feisty Lawyers romantic suspense series. She also authored The Last Christmas, The Garage Dweller, A Touchdown to Remember, The President’s Wife, The President’s Daughter, Seizing Hope, The White House Wedding, and participated in the romance anthology Pieces of Us.
When not spinning romantic tales, Seelie ghostwrites nonfiction for lawyers and other professionals. Currently, she resides in a bucolic exurb outside Milwaukee, WI, where she enjoys opera, the Green Bay Packers, gourmet cooking, organic gardening, and an occasional bottle of red wine.
Seelie is an MS warrior and ruthlessly battles the disease on a daily basis. Her message to those diagnosed with MS: Never give up. You define MS, it does not define you!
Alana Lorens, author 