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.
PLEASE WELCOME GUEST AUTHOR CATHY HESTER SECKMAN and her new release, RIGHTSIDE/WRONGSIDE!
I wrote my first novel when I was 10. It had at least a dozen pages, and featured a scarecrow, a tin man, and a lion.
It’s been a very long time since then, and my writing journey has diverged in multiple directions along the way.
1971: a teacher told me I had writing talent
1984: a newspaper editor said I was a “very good writer”
1984-present: I worked for three different newspapers; won some newswriting awards; wrote more than 150 magazine articles; became a professional indexer with more than 200 to my credit (so far); had a middle-grade novel released; indie-published three novels and an anthology with friends; and had two non-fiction books published.
2023: “Rightside/Wrongside,” my dystopian matriarchal fantasy, debuts today from The Wild Rose Press!
“Rightside/Wrongside” developed from a thought about the absurdity of one sex dominating the other. What would happen if the Middle Ages dynamic between the sexes was reversed? What if women had a turn at being in control?
I loved the idea, but the actual writing took more than a dozen years. After several starts and stops, it was finally finished in 2017. Being tired of the indie-publishing slog, I decided to look for an agent. Sixty-seven rejections later, the R/W files got buried and forgotten.
Fast-forward to 2022. I signed up for a pitch appointment at a local writers’ conference, and lightning struck. I signed a contract with Wild Rose, and here we are!
In Rightside, women are in charge of everything. Men live behind a 200-mile Fence in Wrongside, and can only see women when the women feel like having sex. Sounds great so far, doesn’t it?
But there are difficulties (of course). Women keep their daughters, and men never know of them. Sons are sent across the Fence to their fathers, and their mothers never know if they live or die.
Women live in a rigid, stifling society plagued with political strife, smuggling, and sabotage. Men live in a lackluster kind of way, raising their boys and not caring much about the kind of society they live in.
Things start to come to a head. In Rightside, Jessie takes an illegal test to discover the sex of her baby. It’s a boy, and she vows she won’t send him to Wrongside alone. Her friend Tenosha has already sent a son across the Fence, then vows she can’t live without him.
In Wrongside, childless Bud sees a smuggled piece of Rightside art depicting a mother and daughter. For the first time, he vows to find out if he ever fathered a daughter. Doc Medina pines over a woman he met once for sex, and vows to find her somehow.
Things fall apart, trouble escalates, civil war erupts. When the last shot is fired and the last combatant falls, both sides realize their way of life is untenable and they need to begin talking to each other. My next book, “Oceanside,” will continue their story.
EXCERPT
The old man dozed over his paperback. Even in a busy week his job was boring as hell. What made it worthwhile, besides the status and the pay bag, was the free bed. Old Willie lived right in the Transfer Cabin, backed up against the Border Fence in Cody, and that suited him fine. He took his meals at a bar down the street – had a few good friends there – and spent most of his free time nodding over a book or stoking his small stove.
It was a nice quiet life, a safe life. Nobody bothered the man in the Transfer Cabin. Yeah, it suited him fine.
The bell rang, startling him out of his doze. It wasn’t a simple ring, for boxed goods or vehicles through the big Door, but the four-note flourish they used for a baby. It sounded again, signaling two to transfer. “It never rains but it pours,” he mumbled, and limped over to answer the bell.
When the ready light flashed on, Old Willie pulled out the heavy metal Drawer set into the back wall of the cabin. He smiled down at the two sleeping babies.
“Welcome to Wrongside,” he said softly.
The babies didn’t even wake up as Willie started his paperwork. That was good – it would give him time to heat some bottles after he finished.
He puzzled over the babies’ names, rolling possibilities slowly across his tongue. “Trader, Travis, Trevor? Brandon, Bert, Brock, Buford?”
Willie liked naming babies. It was his favorite part of the job. The last few transfer agents had been lackadaisical about it – most folks around here were named Bob or Mike or Tom – but Old Willie tried to be creative. He had an antique pre-Settlement book on baby names, and it was brittle and dog-eared with age and use.
“Henry, Hollis, Hoss, Hud?”
The dark-haired baby let out a wail.
“Okay, Hud, you little asshole, couldn’t wait till I was finished, could you?” Willie scolded. He picked up the crying infant and slung him over one shoulder, cradling the head carefully.
“You’ll just damn well have to ride over here with me till I get you a bottle warmed up,” he said, heading for the kitchen.
The baby, lulled by the warmth of Old Willie’s body and the rumble of his voice, drifted back to sleep.
Willie peeked down at the closed eyes. “Little asshole,” he commented absently.
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.
Shea O’Bannon feels like a fifth wheel around her romantically paired-off friends, but there’s too much slime in the dating pool for her to bother with it. Then she sees her two-timing ex, Trevor Madero, serenading the mostly female crowd at a live-music bar. God knows trouble follows him around, but her desire for him rushes back in anyway. After he rescues her from a handsy drunk, temptation takes over.
Determined to prove he never stepped out on Shea, Trevor slides back into her life—and her heart—with forever in mind. Even with the wall he keeps up to protect her, his secret criminal life weighs heavy on his soul and drives a wedge between them.
When the truth comes out and his enemies target them both, they’ll have to fight for their love, or kiss it goodbye.
Tagline: Will the truth send her running, or will she fight for the man she loves?
EXCERPT:
Trevor cracked the billiard balls with a hard, steady strike of the cue and grinned as two strips landed in the corner pocket. As Radster grumbled a curse, Trevor circled the green-felt pool table in the back of Slayers and twitched his nose from the godawful stench of beer, body odor, and cigarette smoke. He narrowed his gaze and blocked out the blaring sound of thrash metal coming from the stereo as he took the shot. The cue ball hit the eleven red-striped ball at the perfect angle, but a solid followed the eleven home into the middle pocket.
“Too bad, Alto. Let a master show you how it’s done.” Radster chalked his cue from across the pool table and struck three solids into the pockets. “Beat that, man.”
Damn. Trevor eyed the one hundred dollars on the edge of the pool table that he’d laid down for the bet. Radster could kick anyone’s ass at pool, but once he got a few beers in him, his winning streak always turned south. Had he not drunk enough? Trevor glanced at their booth where a dozen empty bottles cluttered the tabletop.
K-Pic and his latest flavor of the month made out hot and heavy on the bench seat as though Trevor, Radster, and a dozen-plus pricks in leather and dog chains weren’t hanging out in the seedy bar. Some of the bikers were getting busy with their chicks, too, and giving everyone else a show.
He turned back to the game as Radster missed what should’ve been an easy shot.
“Aw, hell.” Radster ran his hand over his short hair.
“Perhaps you should have another beer?” Trevor examined the placement of the balls. “It might clear your head.”
“Screw you, dude.”
Trevor chuckled and aimed his cue. The hair on his nape prickled. He looked up and spotted Shea a few feet away near the long, scratched-up counter that stretched along the right side of the room. Shock sucker-punched him. He fell against the table and accidentally took his shot. The cue ball went wide and hit one of Radster’s balls that bounced off the edge. His pal laughed in triumph, but Trevor didn’t care. He stomped to Shea.
“What are you doing here?” He gripped the cue so hard his knuckles smarted. “How did you find me?”
Amber Daulton is the author of the romantic-suspense series Arresting Onyx and several standalone novellas. Her books are published through Daulton Publishing, The Wild Rose Press, and Books to Go Now, and are available in ebook, print on demand, audio, and foreign language formats.
She lives in North Carolina with her husband and demanding cats.
Kylie Claremont wants answers. She was the victim of a brutal experiment that caused her to develop telekinetic abilities. The position she’s offered as a liaison between Shifters United and the Psy Guild will give her the chance to find the elusive research company that disappeared after experimenting on her and bring them to justice. The only thing standing in her way is an arrogant coyote shifter who is convinced that Kylie is a threat to shifters and shouldn’t be allowed to be a part of Shifters United. She never expected to fall for the gruff, mistrusting man.
Coyote shifter Trevor Ryland will never trust the psy. Still, he knows the time has come to strengthen the tentative alliance between shifters and psy. He fully intends to ignore his attraction to the beautiful psy liaison, but he’d never forgive himself if something happened to her. His plan to protect Kylie from afar is wrecked when they’re forced to work together. She could be his mate but Trevor can’t let that happen. The struggle to deny his need for the one woman with the power to destroy him gets harder every day.
Trevor and Kylie uncover a web of greed and deceit during their search for a travelling research group. They’ll have to work fast and fight hard to stop the CEO’s latest plans or shifters and psy everywhere will suffer.
EXCERPT:
Kylie told Trevor, “I’ve heard about coyotes’ trust issues, as well as some of their other issues. Believe me, as much you want nothing to do with me, not even for a fun, adrenaline come-down session, I have no desire to spend any unnecessary time around you either.”
He wanted to tell her that being with her that night would have been so much more than a quick moment in the sheets to ride the adrenaline high of a rescue nearly gone wrong, but he didn’t dare, instead he signed, “I don’t blame you for not wanting anything to do with me.”
Kylie glared at him. “And no offense but coyotes seem wired wrong if they can’t deal with a break up or a backstabbing. When someone screws you over, you’re supposed to cry, punch things, get a little more cynical, maybe exact a plan for petty revenge, and then move on.”
She’d twisted a knife into the heart of the truth. Coyote shifters were wired just a little wrong. They were more feral than other shifters and needed more time in their animal form. Their curving canines were designed for causing maximum pain and damage. Their claws could shred any living creature in seconds. Coyotes were often gruff and not too sociable but they used their strength and abilities to protect the people who needed protecting.
“Yes. I’m,”since he didn’t know the sign for the word defective, he signed “broken,”then added, “and not good to people who deserve better.”
She closed her eyes and took in a breath as if she were gathering strength for something. When she met his gaze again, he couldn’t look away. She had the most beautiful eyes, whether they were cold or angry or full of passion. Hell, if he could tell a joke and hear her laugh again like she had in her hotel room, her light might destroy him. Not happening.She thinks I’m defective anyway.
Before I had the wild idea to write a book, I worked in a few different fields. I was in sales for a while, and after I finished college, I worked as a case manager. When my children were little, I was a personal trainer and running coach. During the evenings, when I was supposed to be studying for another fitness training certification, I started writing a story. Finally, I gave in and acknowledged that writing is what I’m meant to do. I love creating imperfect but determined characters who find the courage to love and the strength to survive in a world where there are no guarantees. My stories include a fair amount of sarcasm, suspense, steam, and violence. When I’m not writing, I enjoy spending time outside and finding ways to avoid cooking. I live in beautiful Virginia with my husband, two teenagers, a sweet, hairy monster of a dog, and two devious cats.
My latest book is out, a supernatural thriller called REMNANTS OF FIRE. 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 and trying to get close to her.
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?
Of all the corpses I’d seen in six years as a news reporter, Lily Kimball’s hit me the hardest. Found in a drainage ditch along Route 24, two inches deep in snow, she wore only a shabby pair of Banana Republic jeans and a red jersey shirt, a dried clot of blood on her forehead where she’d taken a header into a discarded bottle.
In the half-light before dawn, two CSI-types crouched in front of the body taking pictures and samples, thick parka vests protecting them against the thirty-degree early March chill. Each breath left their cold lips as a mist of water vapor.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” the lead investigator said to the waiting medic from the volunteer ambulance service, “Why the hell would some girl be out here in the middle of a snowstorm without shoes, without a coat?”
Good question as far as I was concerned. I was freezing my butt off, despite a hoodie under my jacket, black sweat pants and fur-lined boots. I couldn’t return to the office until I had some answers. So far, all I had was her name, thanks to the CSI techs. No evidence of blunt trauma, no gunshots, no bruising—it didn’t even look like the girl had been tossed out of a car. I angled my pad to catch the headlights of the cop car and scribbled some notes, numb fingers slipping on the pen.
“Your tech pulled a bank debit card from her pocket. Maybe she needed cigarettes or something.” I gestured toward the lights of the all-night market a mile or so further along where the road
intersected with Declan Highway.
The officer’s glare roasted his techs for sharing information, then he eyed me. “Who’re you again?”
“Sara Woods, for the Ralston Courier.” I tilted my laminated badge so he could read it.
He squinted at the black and white picture of a pixie-like brunette with a slightly crooked smile, then compared it to my pixie-like face, much more florid in the wintry wind. I tried for the smile, too, in case it helped. “New blood, huh?”
“Just started. I’m covering for O’Neal this weekend.”
The officer chuckled. “He’ll be pissed. He loves dead bodies.” The medic snickered along with him and they walked away, back to the running patrol car. The heated, running patrol car.
With a disappointed shiver, I observed the techs. They hadn’t disturbed the body much, other than to rule out major trauma. Lily’s skin was icy white, her black hair patchy, so thin it lay atop the snow. Bony stick fingers and toes were dark red, almost violet, from frostbite at the bare tips. It seemed like she’d just fallen over into the ditch. Just let go, dead.
Satisfied with their photos, the techs turned over the stiff body. The girl’s pale, sightless eyes stared into the gray miasma of the late winter sky. Nausea crept from my stomach toward my throat. She had to be about my age, twenty-something; about my size too, although those fingers were wickedly thin. What would have compelled me to leave home in a blizzard, half-dressed, ending in a frozen ditch with my life sucked out? I didn’t know what could cause such desperation.
But the goosebumps that rippled across my skin told me it was still out there, lurking.
So what if I’ve gone through four nannies in three short years? I know what’s best for my children and it’s not the nanny my mother and ex-wife have hired.
Peyton may be all kinds of beautiful but she is totally unsuitable—city girl, former doctor and no experience.
Problem is, everybody loves her. I don’t want to feel the same; one failure at love is enough. Besides, I have a duty to my family and the farm.
Except the more I spend time with her, the more I’m drawn to her honesty and bravery. I need to remember, a farm is no place for a woman like Peyton; she will not stay.
Peyton
After an accident put an end to my surgical career, I jumped at the opportunity to be a nanny. Moving to Australia will get me away from my controlling family. It’s time I start making my own decisions.
But falling for my boss is not the wisest one I could make, even if it feels right. It doesn’t hurt that his singing makes my panties melt.
Everything is perfect—I feel heard and seen for the first time (and I don’t just mean my scars).
I’m where I belong…until my family get involved. Then I’m left with no job and no home.
Now I need to make the biggest decision of all—stand up to my family, choose my happy and fight for love.
**This is a standalone romance with medium heat**
Excerpts:
Two figures made their way down the stairs. I knew Ann instantly from our video calls.
The man beside her was striking. Sunlight glinted off his thick golden-brown hair like surgical blades would shine under focused lighting. He was tanned and muscular with tattoos down one arm, a mixture of black and white and colour, indistinct at this distance. Wowsers, I didn’t know farmers looked like that. I blushed. While Ann oozed warmth, he oozed stoic resignation.
***
“Peyton.” Lachlan’s voice aroused me from my sleep. I forced my eyes open. I was lying on the couch. Where were the kids? Lachlan reached out for the remote and turned the TV off. I must have fallen asleep during the movie.
“It’s time for bed,” he said.
I didn’t want to move. My eyes were awake, but the rest of my body was in slumberland. My eyes wanted to follow.
“Do I need to carry you to bed like the kids?”
I let out a soft laugh. “I’m quite a lot heavier than a child.”
“You don’t think I could?”
“No.”
Before I could swing my legs around to sit up, Lachlan had lifted me from the couch. I yelped. Then to help him with my weight, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I breathed in grass and man. Good man, not just aftershave and cleanliness. Earth and strength.
I melded into him, swaying with every step he took. Being in his strong arms, I felt secure. I shouldn’t feel like this. But I didn’t try to jump out of his arms. What was I doing?
“Show off,” I mumbled against his shoulder.
“Just proving you wrong.”
He walked into my room and made his way to my bed.
“Is it wrong to like you?” I asked. My heart beat fast in my chest. Would he think I was stupid?
He lay me down on the bed. His face was shadowed. Was he going to answer?
“No, it’s not wrong.”
He bent down and kissed my temple softly.
Oh, the sweetness of it. I sighed. My eyes closed as my body floated in bliss.
Cynthia Terelst is an Australian author based in regional Queensland, where the sun shines 283 days a year. She is a document controls manager by day and a writer by night. Her contemporary romance novels share a little bit of history, some Australian scenery and a whole lotta love. Cynthia does not shy away from difficult topics, as she feels they should not be ignored.
Terelst has published seven books in her Love Down Under Series and has added short stories to multiple anthologies. She refers to her writing style as heat with heart. Her stories will leave you feeling warm and hopeful.
Alana Lorens, author 