Champagne Book Group Blog

ROMANTIC QUOTES FOR THIS SPECIAL DAY

2012-02-14T00:00:00.000-05:00

For this wonderful day of romance, we compiled a few quotes to help set the mood.

Enjoy!

The most precious possession that ever comes to a man in this world is a woman's heart.
~ by Josiah G. Holland ~

There is only one happiness in life: to love and be loved.
~ by George Sand ~

Love is an act of endless forgiveness
A tender look which becomes a habit.
~ by Peter Ustinov ~

Love is a fruit in season at all times,
and within the reach of every hand.
~ by Mother Teresa ~

The best and most beautiful things in this world cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart.
~ by Helen Keller ~

The courses of true love never did run smooth.
~ by William Shakespeare ~

But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.
~ by Sir Walter Raleigh ~

Some people come into our lives and quickly go.
Some people move our souls to dance. They awaken us to new understanding with the passing whisper of their wisdom.
Some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon.
They stay in our lives for awhile, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never ever the same.
~ by Flavia Weedn ~

Seduce my mind and you can have my body,
Find my soul and I'm yours forever.
~ by Anonymous ~

So dear I love him that with him,
All deaths I could endure.
Without him, live no life.
~ by William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet ~

To love is to receive a glimpse of heaven.
~ by Karen Sunde ~

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself
But if your love and must needs have desires,
Let these be your desires:
• To melt and be like a running brook
• That sings its melody to the night.
• To know the pain of too much tenderness.
• To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
• And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
• To wake at dawn with a winged heart
• And give thanks for another day of loving;
• To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
• To return home at eventide with gratitude;
• And then to sleep with a prayer
• For the beloved in your heart
• And a song of praise upon your lips.
~ by Gibran Kahlil Gibran ~

Husbands ought to love their wives as their own bodies. He who loves his wife loves himself. After all, no one ever hated his own body, but he feeds and cares for it .. For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.
~ by The Holy Bible, New International Version Ephesians 5:25-33 ~

Love doesn't make the world go round,
Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.
~ by Elizabeth Browning ~

****

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at writingteamcw@yahoo.com (Write - Blog - in subject line) and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY
CHRISTMAS EVE...VIL ~ Christmas 2012
www.champagnebooks.com

Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
STEEL EMBRACE
BOOK NOOKIE-A LIBRARIAN'S BUIDE TO THE DO-ME DECIMAL SYSTEM http://www.carnalpassions.com/

THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN CINDERELLA Series
angelicahartandzi.com

WHEN THE THOUGHT REALLY DOES COUNT by Angelica Hart and Zi

2012-02-13T00:00:00.001-05:00

Every day romance crosses the transom from literary to reality. And since Valentine's Day is just around the corner while in an economy that urges more thought and less expense, we’d like to share a list of romantic gifts, some can be wrapped and others…well…unwrapped. (eyebrow wiggle moment)

For those physical gifts, you can create a computer generated gift certificate, using a fancy font, and then place the certificate in a box, wrap the box, taking care to make an elaborate bow. (Taking time with the wrapping is a gift within itself.)

1. Make a CD with his/her favorite love songs.
2. Create a handmade book of poetry; search the Internet for love poems. (Errr, just don’t pass them off as your own.)
3. If you are a poet, write one on special paper and frame it. You could even translate it into a romantic language such as French or Italian, and frame that one. (Have a translation on hand.)
4. A handmade box of chocolate candy. (Craft stores sell molds and molding chocolate.)
5. A special photo of the two of you framed.
6. A scrap book of your life together, or of special memories.
7. Basically, anything hand-crafted will melt a heart, for it means you took the time to put it together, thinking of the person you love while doing so. Ideas: Scented candles, scented soap, knitted hat and scarf, jewelry just to name a few.
8. A memory jar. (Any jar with a lid and a bow around the neck. Write your favorite memories that you share on bits of colored paper and put them in the jar)
9. Tickets to a either a high school or local theater play, a romantic one would be best, i.e. South Pacific, Romeo and Juliet…. (The tickets are often very inexpensive)
10. A collage of pictures that include all your favorite places as well as places you dream of visiting together, of course, include a few smiling photos of the two of you.
11. Turn your bathroom into a romantic spa complete with candles, soft music, bubbles and a willing attendant (YOU) to provide a chilled drink and tasty treats.
12. Declare that your partner will be King/Queen for the day, and do whatever they wish, maybe starting with breakfast in bed.
13. Invent a meal, cook it and name it after your partner.
14. Create a shadow-box using mementoes of all the things you’ve done together. (Example: Ticket stubs, seashells, a pressed flower, a program, cards….)
15. Recreate your first date, or your favorite date.
16. Give your partner a pedicure and foot rub.
17. Offer a back rub and full-body massage.
18. Write an old-fashioned love letter, be lavish, dramatic and flowery. Use fancy paper and script.
19. Create a website that is all about your relationship.
20. Using a pocket calendar, write a personal message or a love quote for each day of the year.

HAPPY VALENTINE'S MONTH!

****
We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at writingteamcw@yahoo.com with blog in the subject line and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY ~
CHRISTMAS EVE...VIL coming soon
www.champagnebooks.com

Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
STEEL EMBRACE
BOOK NOOKIE...
http://www.carnalpassions.com/

THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN CINDERELLA Series
angelicahartandzi.com

TheWritersVineyard.com (monthly piece)
www.champagnebooks.blogspot.com(monthly piece)
Dawn's Reading Nook (Thursday's piece)
lovesbooksandmore.blogspot.com/

CATHY COBURN AND DUAINE NEIL'S AFTER THE MIST

2012-02-12T00:00:00.000-05:00

An excerpt from AFTER THE MIST by Cathy Coburn and Duaine Neill, an exciting new writing team. Enjoy!

Story

Mike Reynolds always prided himself on being in complete control, and then his world toppled into the unfamiliar. Disturbing dreams plagued him, leaving helplessness in its wake and his control slipping away.

Though adventurous and fearless the young and petite Maggie O'Reilly doesn't recognize the devastating consequences of staring unswervingly into the black piercing eyes of absolute malevolence.

Together, the two, team with five others to forge ahead on a perilous mission that becomes a dire adventure beyond anything they could have foreseen or imagined.

They find themselves in direct confrontation between life and death, love and something else, an unlikely place for evil to be hiding or should we say, to be waiting.

Excerpt:

Mike Reynolds found himself hurrying up the side of a cliff, with no clear sense of where he was going, or how he’d come to be in a tropical environment.

His nerves surged with a sense of urgency mixed with fear. Was he running away from something or running toward something? He wasn’t sure; he only knew he had to keep going up.

He stopped for a moment to listen to the almost deafening roar surrounding him. “A waterfall. I’m by a waterfall,” he said aloud. The dense foliage obscured his view, but he forged ahead following the sound. Shoving aside the overhanging branches, he broke out into a clearing. He gazed upward. Two men fought, dangerously close to the edge of the cliff-side shelf.

Is that where I’m going? Am I going there to intervene? Mike pondered, watching the men for a moment, discomposed, a bit dazed and confused.

I don’t recognize either of those men. Do I?…Wait, they do look familiar… Don’t they?…I’m not sure.

Mike’s sense of urgency resurfaced, and he once again blindly rushed up the face of the cliff driven by a force so powerful that any conscious thoughts he had left were eclipsing rapidly.

As he pushed the foliage aside he caught a glimpse of his right hand. “Blood! My hand’s covered in blood. Is this my blood? Have I hit my head and that’s why I don’t remember anything?” Mike stopped abruptly; he looked at his bloody hand with earnest. He took his left hand and ran it through his hair, then pulled it back for inspection.

“No blood. So, where did the blood come from? I don’t appear to be bleeding.” Doesn’t matter…must hurry.

Cathy Coburn and Duaine Neill

After the Mist: February 2012
http://cathycoburn-duaineneill-books.web.officelive.com
http://www.facebook.com/CathyCoburnNovelist
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wlk_D_4nDp4

QUESTION MOST ASKED by Jude Johnson

2012-02-10T00:00:00.000-05:00

“What is it about the past that fascinates you so?” I get that question all the time. You see, I’ve loved history since I was a little girl; reading about times long past was like stepping into a different world. It wasn’t a difficult choice when I decided to start writing to choose telling a story set in olden days. What surprised me is that it turned out to be set in the Old West of the Arizona Territory.

You see, I was never a big Western fan. But the tales of people who came from all over the world to the seemingly desolate desert around Bisbee, Tombstone, and Tucson piqued my interest. Years of happily digging through the Arizona Historical Society archives and Bisbee Mining Museum’s records paid off. The discovery of the large number of immigrants from Wales fueled my imagination.

The result is my first novel, Dragon & Hawk, what one of my Welsh friends calls a “Welsh-tern”—a Welsh Western. The adventures of the Jones brothers—Dylan, Evan, and Huw—take you into the dusty mining towns of Bisbee and Tombstone, when the West is at its wildest. Evan Jones is a dreamer with a quick smile and decidedly quicker temper—hence his totem, his animal spirit guide is the Red Dragon of his native land. It is Evan who takes charge of getting his family out of the dangerous mining business, by hook or by crook. But when disaster strikes, it is a mysterious native healer—a Mexican mystic known as a curandera—who actually achieves that feat for them.

Reyna Montoya Svenson is a widow known to many as simply “The Señora” or “La Dama”—literally translated as The Lady. Her skill saves Evan and Huw and her generosity frees them from the mine. She is wise and strong and sees far more than the average person—her totem is the Red-tailed Hawk of the desert. She falls in love with Evan, but his prejudice and bigotry drives her away.

Evan must change his thinking on many levels and comes to realize he has fallen in love with the beautiful Mexican-Mayan widow. He goes on a quest to find her, earning the hatred of a vicious outlaw along the way. Vengeance is as brutal as the heat of the desert sun, and Evan must deal with the consequences of his previously thoughtless actions. Tragedy forces him to realize how valuable love and family truly are.

Dragon & Hawk—now available in both ebook and print formats from Champagne Books—is Book One of a trilogy following the Jones family saga from 1882 through 1904. Book Two, Out of Forgotten Ashes, is due to be released by Champagne in April 2012. My next post will give you a taste of what’s to come…

Jude Johnson
website: http:jude-johnson,com
Blog: http://wordsthatremain.blogspot.com

THE COMFORT ZONE by Michael Davis

2012-02-09T06:00:00.001-05:00

For must humans, there’s a place they go to relax, exchange some good words, or just because they feel comfortable there. For example, there’s a little hardware store near my house were all the local males come, like moths to a light. When I was six, it was Charlie’s Shack. My aunts and cousins would take me there to get a moon pie and an RC cola, and a can of snuff for my grandmother. I think most people have a comfort zone that makes them feel welcome and cozy inside.

The other day, I had an epiphany that all my romantic suspense novels possess one common property – they have a comfort zone where the characters return. For example, in FORGOTTEN CHILDREN, it’s a Bar and Grill named Tally’s. The hero and heroine spend a lot of time socializing there, especially on Goobers night every Thursday. In BLIND CONSENT, the hero focused on May’s Emporium, an old country store where the heroine worked. In TAINTED HERO, the hero spent a lot of time in ice cream parlors because he loved to watch the women in his life enjoy sweets. In VEIL OF DECEPTION, it was Ruth’s Place; a convenience store out in the middle of nowhere. In this case, it was an actual place where all the local’s hang out for coffee and a cathead biscuit.

I didn’t notice this pattern in my stories until a reader asked me, “Is there any common theme in the way you create scenes.” Then I realized there is; it’s the use of a comfort zone for the characters. Is that wrong? I don’t think so. As I mentioned earlier, most people have some comfort zone or zones in their lives where they go to get away. Come to think about it, those are the scenes I like writing the most. Maybe it’s just a “me” thing. Perhaps because I relate to gathering holes in my world, it’s just my comfort zone. I’ll have to see if the trend continues in my future stories.

Till next time, be safe.

Big Mike

Michael Davis (Davisstories.com)
Author of the Year, (2008 and 2009)

FROM THE DESK OF DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ. AND ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

2012-02-07T00:00:00.001-05:00

Greetings,

“It’s a hearts and bows and a kitten snuggling kind of day,” Dona
Penza Tattle decrees as she waltzes into the office wearing her
Valentine’s Day finery, including heart shaped candy box poised like a
corsage on her wrist.

Looking as if about to attend a wedding, top hat and tails included,
Wrye proclaims, “It is also a Love of Literature Leap day, m’esteemed
colleague. Shall we?”

Tattle takes his arm and the two jump.

“Is this a war zone?” Tattle contemplates as she watches Raith Malloy,
a hunky yuuummmmy cop, and Willow DeVane, an easy on the libido
sizzling lawyer battle it out in front of the Dexter County courthouse.

“Nada, m’inquisitive comrade. We’re in the contemporary romance
(Champagne Books) THE RIGHT TO REMAIN MINE by LINDA
KAGE, and these two strong willed adversaries can’t stop the
fireworks every time their sexy selves run into each other, and we’re
not just talking about the constant quarreling but the smoldering
attraction, and the com-n-git-me body language.” Wrye’s brows
adopt a wiggle dance. “Hubba bubba!”

“I see…” Tattle says dragging the word out as she pops a cream filled
chocolate into her mouth. “They are both too strong-willed for their
own good.”

Wrye attempts to snare a candy while the box is still open, but Tattle
smacks the top shut nearly catching his fingers. He frowns,
remembers his own stash of candy kisses and contentedly peruses the
story. “But like frothy cream the truth rises to the surface, they are
obviously smitten with each other, can’t help it, the chemistry is as
volatile as plutonium spontaneously ignited.”

“Yup, yup, yup, and just as hotly explosive,” Tattle agrees. “The
attraction becomes even more obvious after Raith insists she take
self-defense training after one of her clients attacks her. Of course,
he does the training, and they both end up steamy and not just from
the work-out.”

Wyre produces a mischievous chuckle and takes a poetic
Shakespearean stance. “Over hill, over dale, through bush, through
briar…from the training mat to lover’s ultimate flames and fire.”

“Huh?”

“In other words, they whisk each other off to bed.”

“Ahhh, true love awakens.”

“Sadly they refuse to see it; they both have wounded hearts and try
to keep everything just physical…just physical, ma’am.”

While adjusting Wrye’s boutonniere, Tattle adds a lollipop heart to his
lapel, and a chocolate from her own little box in retribution for her
earlier selfishness. “However, they can’t keep their emotions out of
the mix especially when he realizes Willow has a stalker, and that her
very life was in danger.”

“So can Willow overcome her own battered heart to reveal her love
and accept his? Or will the stalker have his way, and rather than
happily ever-after, love gives way to tragedy? Only Wrye, Tattle and
every tenacious reader will know!

With a whoosh and shimmer the two vanish then reappear in the
historical (Champagne Books) THIRD TIME’S A CHARM by STACEY
COVERSTONE.

“It’s wild. It’s dusty. It’s rural. It’s the untamed Colorado Territory,
and just where widow Sabra Bennett is traveling with a trio of males,
fifteen-year-old Rusty Paladin, a daring and gallant young lad who
eagerly befriends her. There is also the whiskey guzzling Irishman,
Noah Tucker, who reminds her of a place she no longer wishes to visit,
and the wealthy rancher Jason Lord, who has that look of a safe
harbor.”

Wrye flicks out the lollipop from his lapel and chomps down on it,
crackles interspersing his speech, “Still, it’s Noah who sends her heart
a fluttering.”

“Yessss,” Tattle says with that lisp of dispute in her tone, “but Jason is
looking for a wife, offers materialistic stability and a safe, tranquil life,
or so she thinks.”

Wrye lifts his hands as if balancing fragile items, lifting one higher for
a second, and then the other. “Heat and flames…warmth and calm....
Ahh, an impossible choice, poor dear.”

Having devoured her own Valentine treats, Tattle deftly worms a bit of
candy from Wrye’s pocket and indulges. “Meanwhile, Noah, having
been a carefree seaman is used to enjoying a variety of women from
port to port and sees Sabra as a suitable mistress until he begins to
realize she has secrets.”

“Secrets indeed!” Wrye proclaims in an excited tone, striking a match
against his booted heel and lighting a candle as if shedding
illumination on said secret. “Sabra had run from society into this
rough and tough wilderness for a reason, and she is not about to
divulge that reason to anyone.”

“I know…I know…she fears being caught!” Tattle exclaims with an Iknow-
something-you-don’t-know dance.

“Caught? Is she a criminal? A wayward ward? A victim? What?
How? Who? Why?”

“Let’s find out.” With an impish grin, Tattle winks at y’all as they
continue to read, closing the book cover behind them.join us next month when we snoop around CC KAUFMAN’s THE INVITATION, and THE DRAGON HOUSE SERIES, BOOK 1, TAKEN
IN by JANE TOOMBS.

Happy Valentine’s Month! May your month brim with love, flowers and all your hearts’ desires, as well as many CBG books!

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.
and Associate Wrye Balderdash
of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by
Angelica Hart and Zi

****

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at writingteamcw@yahoo.com (Write - Blog - in subject line) and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY
CHRISTMAS EVE...VIL ~ Christmas 2012
www.champagnebooks.com

Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
STEEL EMBRACE
BOOK NOOKIE-A LIBRARIAN'S BUIDE TO THE DO-ME DECIMAL SYSTEM http://www.carnalpassions.com/

THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN CINDERELLA Series
angelicahartandzi.com

ALL ABOUT VILLAINS ~ KILL FEE by Julie Eberhart Painter

2012-02-01T06:00:00.006-05:00

After all there is something utterly captivating about those we love to hate. Just like never knowing when a nasty little scoundrel will appear in a novel, you'll never know when a villain will appear here...but keep watching...they are all around us...maybe even right behind you! Angelica Hart and Zi ~ angelicahartandzi.com

In the form of excerpts, we’d like to introduce you to Ishmael Merlin Dickey, poet and poser from KILL FEE by Julie Eberhart Painter.

Ishmael hung over, under suspicion for murder and in jail.

“Mr. Martin, Cole Martin, the lawyer? He there?”

“Mr. Martin, Cole Martin, the lawyer?”

“Yes, he’s here, but—”

“ I need to talk to him.”

“Ishmael?” Penny asked and when he said nothing, she extended the phone to Cole, who took it, puzzled

“Cole Martin, here. What can I—”

“This is Ishmael Merlin Dickey. Ms. Olsen mentioned that you were an attorney. I'm in trouble, man. The cops want to fry me for that agent's murder. I'm bein' held down here for questioning, and I got a head on me… and I need a lawyer… of course, when I heard you were coming’ here I thought of
you—”

“Who in the hell is this, did you say?”

“Ishmael Merlin Dickey, the environmentalist poet. They don't like me, man. Get down here and bring me a gallon a tomato juice.”

“Mr. Dickey, what makes you think I would want anything to do with you? And where is here. I’m not licensed to practice wherever here is.”

“Support your local writer. You're from Florida; I'm from Florida.” Ishmael slurred his words. “We're stuck in Georgia…”

Cole watched Penny take the ice bucket to the bathroom to rinse it out before heading to the ice machine down the hall. He turned from the phone, shaking his head, felt himself weakening, and reached for his jacket.

“I can't actually take your case, Mr. Dickey. I'm a Probate Estate Administrator, but I will come down to the jail while the police question you. Do you have anything that would constitute a retainer? I'll get someone I know here in town to talk with you tomorrow. He’ll do a good job for you if I asked.”

“The cops said that they would release a dollar for me to give to you as a retainer. I'm here on a drunk and disorderly.”

When Penny came back with the ice, Cole said, “How do I get myself into these things? Where’s the jail in this town?”

Penny pinched Cole’s cheek. “You're one of the good guys, that's how. Ask at the desk for the nearest jail.”

Later Ishmael is “the Man who came to dinner”

True to type, Ishmael told his lawyer he was too upset to write, and that he needed a change of scenery. He decided to honor Penny with a visitation and thank his benefactors in person for their help. Of course, this required him to cross state lines illegally. He had been arraigned in Georgia. When he voiced this to his lawyer, Buff was adamant.

“You can’t. You’ll jeopardize your case. Anyway would they really welcome you?”

“Yeah, they'll be glad to have me. I'm gonna be famous some day. They can tell everybody that Ishmael Merlin Dickey slept here, or there—like Washington.” He chuckled.

Buff shook his head at the display of the massive ego. “I’m never sure when you’re kidding, Dickey.”

And so, the-soon-to-be-famous poet took off for Summerville to see his old friends.

Penny couldn't believe her eyes when she opened the door that blistering Wednesday and saw the smiling black Ishmael, dreadlocks swinging, suitcase in hand, standing on her porch.

“Mr. Dickey, whatever are you—?”

“Hey, Ms. Penny. Thought I'd pay y'all a visit, so to speak. I wanna thank your boyfriend personally for all he's done for me. Is he home?” Ishmael peeked beyond the door into the darkened room, looking for Cole.

“He's at the office today. I'll tell him you stopped by.”

“That's okay,” he said cheerily stepping over the threshold, “I'll wait here and tell him myself. Man, it's hot. Ya got any iced tea?”

Before Penny could stop him, he was through the door and making himself at home.

“Who's that? Mr. Arnold?” Bilgewater was still waiting for Mr. Arnold, his natural father.

“What the…” Ishmael leaped from the chair he'd just claimed and dashed toward the noise in the kitchen. Penny followed as fast as her short legs would take her, her hair curling under the hairspray streamed perspiration.

“That's my pet mynah bird, Bilgewater.” Penny explained, grabbing the teakettle before Ishmael could do it. She filled it half-full, and peeked at her watch, 3:35 p.m. The housekeeper would be back in thirty minutes. Cole wouldn't arrive until close to six. She'd have to entertain the pushy poet and accused murderer until Cole could rescue the situation.

“So, you been writin' anything new for the magazine?” he asked, folding up his angular body and tucking it around one of the kitchen chairs.

“No, I've had a hard time concentrating.”

“Yeah, me too. I'm startin' to worry. I was pretty mad when Ms. Kern wrote those nasty comments all over my manuscript. She didn't like my stuff. She laughed at the idea that I fancied myself another Derek Walcott. I guess I touched some things in her room while I was trying to make my point. The police are gonna nail my black ass to the wall if they can.”

A ripple of fear sped up Penny's spine, “How long were you with her?” Cole had said that Ishmael claimed she was dead when he arrived for the interview.

“Oh, she had a written critique just waiting for me. I had to thumb through all those damn folders to find it. I wasn't gonna leave without it. It's always the last place ya look, huh?” He laughed under his breath. “Ya know what I don't understand, there were lots of fingerprints in that room. Why me, why mine?”

“Do you think the police homed in on you because you're black?” Penny was very uncomfortable talking race with someone so different. She'd never been a bigot, but she didn't know many black people, and she feared offending him.

Ishmael, however, seemed perfectly comfortable. “I don't know, I didn't used to think so, but now, I wonder. I am originally from the ghetto—can't ya tell? He didn't wait for an answer. “Y'all know the ghetto, where old Chevies go to die.”

Penny couldn't help laughing. It seemed a perfect description.

“Too sad. This whole Kern thing doesn't make sense, but they sure were in a hurry to nail me.”

“It does look that way.”

“There's been so much new evidence . . . about Jessie’s checkered past . . . I can't understand why they are going ahead with this. Did Mr. Martin tell you, she was four months’ pregnant?”

Penny almost dropped the pitcher of tea. She set it down at the table. “Jessie was pregnant?”

“Yeah, ain't that a kick? She wasn't married, either. Had a roommate. Come on cops, let's do some thinking here.”

“That certainly puts a new perspective on the case,” Penny said. “Where did you hear that?”

“Mister Blackburn said it was in the autopsy report. She was smacked around, hit from pillar to post, died of a blow to the back of the head, but her stomach wasn't touched . . . not a mark.”

“The father. You think the father murdered her?”

“It makes sense.” Ishmael concluded, folding his arms across his flat stomach.

They sat drinking their tea, Penny's mind racing. Who could be the father of Jessie's baby? The police had all of New York to choose from. She couldn't wait to ask Cole if he knew about the autopsy report.

“So, what does the bird say?” Ishmael asked.

“Bilgie? His vocabulary is quite broad.”

“Really? Would he talk to me?”

“Probably. Try it. I'm going to run upstairs a minute.

“Take your time, Bilgie and I will be fine, won't we boy?”

“Do what!” squawked the bird.

“Mum, I see what you mean.” He laughed and reached into his briefcase to take out a small book. Penny left the room.

Mr. Dickey looked at the bird. “I know about you. Mr. Ogden Nash once said: ‘The grackle's voice is less than mellow, His heart is black, his eye is yellow. He bullies more attractive birds
With hoodlum deeds and vulgar words…’ ”

“You got me.”

“Now Bilgie, let's get down to cases.” Dickey began to recite aloud from his favorite poet, Edgar Allan Poe.

When Penny came back into the room a few minutes later, she saw Ishmael looking like the proud teacher of a favorite student. He lifted his hand as if he were conducting a full orchestra and said, “Bilgie?”

Bilgie leaned onto his left foot and said, “Quote the Raven, 'Nevermore.' ”

“How about that, Penny? Today Poe tomorrow Shakespeare!”

“I'm impressed.”

Ishmael had made himself completely at home.

An hour later when Cole came into the kitchen, Penny watched, amused as his jaw dropped.

He quickly recovered his composure. “Well, Mr. Dickey, I presume. What are you doing out-of-state?”

“Nothing to worry about. The presumption is all mine.”

Penny believed that.

“Your girlfriend, here, and I were discussing the case.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she didn't know the victim was pregnant.”

“I just learned that when I talked to Buff this afternoon. He says the investigation is turning up a lot of new evidence. Not only was she pregnant, but she'd had . . . relations . . . within the last twenty-four hours of her life. DNA should prove your innocence. You may be exonerated soon.” Cole kissed Penny on the forehead.

“Too late smart. What a farce. I should sue 'em.”

“They were in a hurry, all right. They're looking for the father of the victim's child now. They may be able to do a DNA match. That would be helpful. All the blood at the scene was the victim's.”

“You know, Cole, something that has always bothered me?”

“What, Pen?” Cole poured iced tea, dropping the ice cubes into the glass one at a time.

“Ishmael says when he was with her—”

“I wasn't with her, exactly. I had an appointment with her but I was late, and when I got there—”

“She was wearing a kimono,” Penny continued.

“And?”

“I remember that, too. If she was expecting Ishmael and Mary Perkins why wasn't she dressed?

“That's right,” Ishmael chimed in, “If she was expecting Mary, she'd have been dressed. Mary's name was on her schedule there on the desk.”

“She might have overslept between appointments.”

Ishmael shook his head, “But she only had a half hour of down time between me and Mary. Not enough to get undressed, have a nap and get redressed. It sounds like she had an assignation planned.”

“An assignation? Ishmael, that's so archaic,” Cole said.

“So she was meetin' a lover, plannin' a quickie.”

“It makes sense,” Penny agreed.

“Wonder who she was bangin'? The father? The lover? Any-old-body?”

Before Ishmael could get any more graphic, Cole interrupted, “Will you be staying for supper?”

“Thanks, man, I'd love to.”

Penny cringed, The Man Who Came to Dinner.

After dinner, Ishmael walked into the living room, picked up the TV remote from the coffee table and plunked himself down in Penny's chair. “Y'all ever watch Jeopardy? It's my favorite show.”

Penny mouthed the words, “Get him out of here.”

Cole quickly walked to his large winged recliner and sat on the edge of the seat. “So, where are you staying tonight, Ishmael?”

“Well, I'm low on money, the trial and all. I was hoping y'all would let me stay around here a few days.”

Penny's heart sank.

Cole tried to look stern. “I would think you'd rather be in a hotel where you’d have more privacy.”

“This is perfect, man.” Ishmael put his feet on Penny's ottoman and leaned back. “Just perfect.”

Cole glowered, pulling himself up to his full, five-feet seven. “Mr. Dickey, by all means stay the night, but please find somewhere else to stay tomorrow.”

“Okay, okay, I'll think of something. I guess I could camp on the beach or something.”

“How about your own place in Atlanta? It’s in Georgia where you’re supposed to be. Does the court know about your crossing the state line?” Penny asked “Doesn’t this make us guilty of harboring a fugitive?”

“Yeah, well, if the case breaks, maybe I'll leave you two and go back to see Mr. Blackburn tomorrow.”

“Great idea!” Cole said resisting the urge to applaud.

Penny breathed a tentative sigh of relief. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm tired. I have a good book. I'm going upstairs.” She had made up her mind that she was not going to admit defeat, but the interloper had stolen her chair.

***

Julie Eberhart Painter
http://www.books-jepainter.com/

RESEARCHING A TIME TRAVEL NOVEL ~ By: January Bain

2012-01-30T06:30:00.002-05:00

A new door has opened on my writing journey with time travel being the glorious package revealed. It's been like Christmas for the past two months around our house as I have spent every waking moment (and many sleeping judging by my dreams) unraveling this package layer-by-layer. I have had the luxury of contemplating such amazing ideas as the following plausible choices (just a few of them listed here) for building a "Time Machine" in 2012, according to some noted physicists and engineers that have spent time pursuing the possibilities:

(1) The most popular choice tends to be traversable wormhole like the one featured in the novel Contact by Carl Sagan. The hardest part—getting your hands on one! It would take a very advanced civilization to pull off the feat of selecting a wormhole out of the quantum foam and enlarging it to classical size. Then, it has to be stabilized with exotic (negative) energy against collapse by "threading" it with the equivalent of converting a planet the size of Jupiter into pure energy! (E=mcˆ2 to be specific.) Then, this is the most important part, if an advanced civilization had created it that civilization would have had to live before the time it was discovered to use in my story to allow backward (to the past) time travel.

(2) An intriguing choice I am also pursuing is Cosmic Strings. Discovered in 1991 by Gott, cosmic strings are thought to have been around since the Big Bang. They stretch the length of our universe and have a diameter millions of times smaller than that of the smallest atom. They too can warp space-time to the extent that closed timelike curves can be created. Perhaps a character can be accidently swept away by a cosmic string like an avalanche sweeps away a mountain climber? But not controllable enough for my story where I need my character to travel back to an exact place and time, a world-line to be specific.

(3) Rotating Cylinders (thanks to Frank Tippler) can create a time machine if we can construct a sufficiently large one that appears infinite at the center. (piece of cake, right!) However, keep in mind that you cannot travel further back than the creation date of the cylinder and it's travel to the past I'm most interested in. (I want to have one of my characters "fix" their past. Sounds easy, right! Well, it's not going to be easy to pull that out of my hat.)

(4) Rotating Black Holes or Kerr Holes has a ring singularity through it which a time traveler can theoretically pass to enter other universes and/or to time travel in ours. Means there are past or future versions of our universe. Now, those portals are the doors into time machines! Okay, there are lots of objections to this idea that a writer has to speak to in their work to show they understand the implications, but then, that is true of any time machine conjecture, this essential need for technical verisimilitude.

And, if that's not enough, here are other issues one needs to delve into and confront in writing a novel that hopefully will stand up to the scrutiny of most intellectuals: paradoxes, world-time lines, slip-time, causality, Einstein's General Theory of Relativity as well as his Special Theory, split universes, time tracks, Quantum Gravity, Quantum Mechanics and the unknown granddaddy of them all, The Theory of Everything!

This has been but a tiny snapshot of the wonders of pursing the concept of time travel.

Thanks for travelling a small part of the way with me.

Forever Man
July 2012
Champagne Books
First in the Forever Series

www.januarybain.ca

Telling The Truth by Julie Eberhart Painter

2012-01-27T06:00:00.005-05:00

Face it, we are all writing about ourselves. Those little gems that drop from the mouths of our characters are our opinions, things we wanted to say to someone at a party or during a confrontation but had the discretion not to. The most frequently published writers know how to put their words into their characters’ mouths.

Our characters are either mixes or matches of our friends and family members, whom we have observed with embarrassing scrutiny or they are parts of us. And we do choose the friends who make us feel good about ourselves; of course, most of them agree with us. Conflict must come from discord, opposing views…well…conflict.

Confrontations, scenes were the hardest for me to express on paper. I’m not a confrontational person. Eventually, I was able to vent my feelings though my characters so the scene became exciting and uncomfortable for the reader, not the wimpy way it might have gone for me.

We romance writers frame our love scenes to please our tastes—what we would like to see or feel, or in the case of the recent seduction scene following this brief essay, what we have learned, perhaps the hard way.

First: the seduction scene: Note the difference between these two people. Catherine comes from a simple background, where doors don’t close with a swish and a fine fur coat is a mink to be admired and envied, not a long sable coat in her own closet. Jack has been privileged, in the lap of luxury, protected from his own self-destructive ways by a family that encouraged his enormous ego and run-away ambition

Catherine offers to help sort through the clothes of his recently deceased wife, Mary. Catherine’s in love and he…?

A hush fell over them as they pushed through the door. The lush Oriental rug deadened the sound as it had the night she first saw Mary lying in the double bed. The lined draperies were pushed back, allowing the waning afternoon light to radiate into the room. The bed, its spread matching the curtains, was made up tight. The closets stood open, the rose sachet fragrance gone. Jack had placed packing boxes around the room in anticipation of her agreeing to this chore. Did he know she’d be willing? Catherine approached the largest closet, remembering the night that Mary had offered her the red dress.

“She told me she had small feet.”

“Yes. No point in saving the shoes for you.” He laughed, pointing to the shoe rack below. “Let’s put them into these two boxes first.”

They worked for almost an hour. Catherine took the dresses off the hangers and folded them in tissue paper prepared for the boxes. Jack sealed and marked each box as it filled. Eventually, she came to a cloth bag that held Mary’s heavy fur coat. She unsnapped the top and peered in. Pulling it free, she ran her hand over the luxurious dark sienna and black fur. “A genuine mink. This is gorgeous. You shouldn’t give this to charity unless you plan to auction it for a monetary donation.”

“It’s sable, Catherine. Would you like to have it? It matches your hair.”

“I couldn’t! It’s not proper. Anyway, it would make my other clothes look out of place.”

“Um.” He stood back, his eyes roaming over her, appraising her figure. “I think it’s perfect for you. Try it on.”

Catherine blushed, but slipped the silk brocade-lined fur over her arms and shoulders. She stood, self-conscious as it tickled her knees. It was a perfect fit and enveloped her like cream in a warm bath.

“Mary said it took someone with more color in her face to wear it. She was right.” He licked his lips. “She usually wore the squirrel cape. You must keep that coat.”

Catherine shook her head and began removing it. Jack raced across the room and grabbed her elbows. “Leave it.” He was panting, perhaps from the sprint. She smoothed the sleeves, tears beginning in her eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, “but I can’t take Mary’s lovely coat.”

He looked down at her. “You deserve it.” He touched her lips with the tips of his fingers, then encircled her waist and pulled her close to him. “You’re a delicious morsel in this coat,” he said hoarsely. “You would be beautiful, in it or out of it.” He slid his moist lips down her neck and kissed his way back up to her lips. Then he took her breasts in his hands, kneading them, making them swell. Her nipples were marbles. She gasped and sagged in his arms. He caught her, lifting her onto the bed. His hands traced the line of her legs; his fingers worked at her garters.

Her back arched.

“This is wrong, Jack. I’m your employee, and you’re out of your mind with grief.”

“I’m out of my mind with... you,” he growled. He lay down close to her and buried his face in the crook of her neck, trembling. “I know it’s wrong.”

She felt his tears soaking through the collar of her blouse.

“I can’t stop,” he said. “I want you.”

She rolled away from him, and slipped off the bed, but he caught her hand, kissing her palm. “Forgive me. It’s just that I’m so dammed lonely.”

She nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, her feet to the floor. She smoothed her blouse and pulled her skirt over her knees. “That’s no excuse,” she said primly.

He sat beside her, his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m lost. My marriage wasn’t real, just a sham for convenience. Mary deserved better. God knows she tried to please me, but my heart strayed, distracted by you. I’m crazy for you. I know it’s too soon.”

Catherine’s heart stopped for a beat before falling over itself. Had she heard correctly? “You... you care for me? You love me?”

“Since I first walked though the factory and saw you bent over your machine, your hair tracing the line of your face, I knew that you were special. You were so intent. The others looked up, put you kept that pretty nose of yours bent to the task, dedicated. I fell for you then and there.”

Catherine took her elbows in her hands and shimmied back on the bed, extending her feet, examining her slender ankles and trying to decide if this was what she wanted. “I don’t know what to say, Jack. We can’t be seen together this soon. It’s not proper. The first time the servants are gone and here I am sitting with you on Mary’s bed... I’m not... It’s not... I’ve never—”

“You’re innocent. Pure.” He kissed her cheek and ran his tongue around her earlobe.

“Yes...?”

“Then I want to show you what real love is between a man and a woman.”

Catherine felt her will dissolving. Wasn’t this what she had dreamed of, what she had wanted, what her body was telling her? She nodded and looked up at his handsome face. “But not here—not in Mary’s bed,” she said.

He stood and took her hand. “Leave your clothes but bring the coat.”

She shucked her clothes and reached for the fur to follow him downstairs. He flung open the door to the yellow guestroom where Catherine had stacked the coats the night of the party. It was much smaller than the master bedroom. A mixture of Bay Rum and apple blossoms made the room cozy and intimate.

“I’ve been sleeping in here. Mary never came into this room. She didn’t like the color; the yellow striped wallpaper washed her out.” He turned toward Catherine, devouring her with his eyes. “You absolutely glow in it. You belong in this room.”

As a guest, she wondered, or...?

He turned on the radio and pulled the bedspread off, dropping it in a heap on a chair. “Someone to Watch Over Me” played into the room.

Catherine swallowed. “I... I don’t know.”

“You belong with me now.” Jack dropped to his knees and embraced her around the waist, circling her hips and stomach, fingering her waist. “You have the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen.” He massaged her thighs and breathed onto her stomach. Her breasts tensed in the chill room.

“It’s cold in here.”

“We diverted the heat to the other parts of the house. When I’ve finished undressing you put the coat on and lie down on the bed.

Jack’s words sounded like a command. She did as asked, not really sure what he would do next. She slipped on the coat, pulling it around her, crossing the generous folds to cover her nakedness. Her face burned.

He lay down next to her, smothering her with kisses and murmuring, almost singing with the music, one of her favorites. Before she could move, he was inside the coat, pressing into her, warming her body with his rough shirt and hard, muscled skin. His pants had disappeared. She could tell that he was a big man, determined, with his own purpose, bent on making love to her. She gave herself up to her feelings and returned his love. The sharp pain was quickly gone, and a warm glow replaced it as her desire climaxed in tender release.

When he was done, he rolled off and stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You really were... innocent.”

She sat up, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I told you that. Didn’t you believe me?”

“Girls always say that.”

All her ambitions crashed around her. Pieces of her life detached from her plans. Nothing but shame remained. She’d slept with Mary’s husband.

“We’ll just pretend this never happened,” Jack said.

“How can I pretend? I... I love you, Jack. I wouldn’t have let you... if I... hadn’t. What if I get... you know... caught? What if I get a baby?”

“It never happens your first time, Catherine. Don’t even think about it. But there can’t be another time. This was a mistake. We’ll have to stay away from each other, at least for a while. You’re a temptation I can’t afford. I’ll hire another secretary—”

“No! I can work out of the mill office when you’re not there. You can leave me assignments.” She knew that if she had no reason to see him, she’d have no chance with him later.

“I suppose we could arrange that. I don’t want to ruin your life. Are you all right?”

“I guess.” Catherine blew out a long sigh. “You don’t think I’m bad, do you. I just didn’t expect...”

He took her in his arms gently stroking her in the coat. “Shush, my poor Catherine. You’re not a bad girl. You’re still sweet, and innocent in your way. You gave me comfort when I needed it.”

“Is that all you felt? Comfort?”

“Not like that sounds. But it’s natural for two people in love to express themselves together. Don’t question it.” He pulled the coat up under her chin, smiling. “You must keep the coat.”

“I can’t. It would be like payment. I’d feel like a... a kept woman. A prostitute…”

Second: the confrontation. Catherine tells Jack she is pregnant.

“I thought we were engaged. I’ll kill myself before I’ll allow my family to be shamed.” She huddled in her chair shaking.

“Don’t be so bloody dramatic. We can’t marry now. You’re already too far along for a decent wedding. Everyone would know—”

“I could wear a girdle.”

“Don’t be a fool. The newspapers would have a field day. By the time I’m finished with my mourning period, you’ll be huge.”

He might as well have struck her across the face. “But it’s your baby. I’ll be huge with... your child. You and Mary couldn’t have a child, but I can... I am.”

“Don’t talk about Mary.”

“You should want our baby. I thought you’d want... want me and your baby.”

“You women are all alike. Mary and I hadn’t been married a year before she started nagging me for children; my dynasty, she called it.”

That wasn’t the way Mary had described her situation to Catherine: not that her efforts to give Jack children would advance his career. Catherine sat slouched in her chair, shivering in cold fear, waiting for Jack to say something.

“You’ll have to go away. We can be engaged or something if you want, but we can’t marry.”

Catherine stood up and leaned over the desk, hoping to emphasize her point. “That’s not fair. I’ll be disgraced! And you’ll get off scot-free.”

“Sit down and stay calm.”

“I can’t calm down. I’m going to show soon.” She inhaled, heaving and hissing though her teeth. “I’ll be reviled, scorned. Thrown out of my family’s house.” She gulped air. “Hated by them. You said you loved me.” She gulped again. Her head swam. “What are you going to do to help me?” She swayed. Her eyes lost focus, and she fell in a dead faint on top of his desk.

~ * ~

Jack whisked the paper holder into the wastebasket to keep her from impaling herself.

To read more of Tangled Web, find the book on www.bookstrand.com/julie-eberhart-painter/, www.omnilit.com, or at www.champagnebooks.com. Julie’s website will take you there: www.books-jepainter.com

Julie Eberhart Painter
Mortal Coil
Tangled Web
Kill Fee

ONCE UPON A DIAPER CHANGE OR UNKNOWN TIDBITS ABOUT ANGELICA HART AND ZI

2012-01-26T06:00:00.000-05:00

An interview by Princess Annie ~ Angelica's cat!

Did you always want to become a writer?

A: Was born with a story in my mouth.

Z: Yup, her first words were gagagoba dada... which means... Once upon a diaper change.

What is the most, and the least interesting fact about writing?

Z: Most interesting... although we work in seclusion we're actually on a stage, displaying for the world the strange workings of our minds in the form of stories... all for the sake of entertainment

A: Less interesting... Zi makes great coffee

Z: Ang that has nothing to do with writing.

A: Sure it does... fuels my thoughts... energizes my body... puts me in a good mood

Z: You usually drink tea.

A: Well, there is that.

How did you celebrate your first release? Do you have a special ritual for celebrating a book release?

A: I sent smile-face e-mails to all my closest friends and family, engaging them to atta-girl me, and they do.

Z: The question asked about ritual.

A: It did?

Z: Yup! Ok, here's my ritual. My neighbor has this immense weeping willow tree, and after a book release, I wait for the blackness night in the heaviest rain, strip naked and run helter-skelter through the drooping branches screaming, "Look what I did... Look what I did... Look what I did..." Then I dress and act as if it never happened.

A: (Making a note to avoid the office when it is a heavy rain and the middle of the night)

If you could meet any paranormal creature, who would it be and why?

A: A wyvern... there is so much intrigue in a flying dragon. Could I see myself as the damsel in distress with the valiant hero racing to rescue me. Damn straight I can. But I could also see myself as the heroine rescuing the hunky hero!

Z: I'm kinda liking cupid... kinda short and pudgy, wearing a diaper, running around with a bow and arrow, popping people in the name of love. Is that a gig or what? Now, if he gets a good annual out of it, I can see that as a future job possibility. Though a diaper in my size would require me jumping a fence and measuring the arse end of a cow. But, hell, money and arrows, cool.

If you could change places with one character from any book, who would it be and why?

Z: Killjoy, the clown from Stephen King's IT. To be both humorous and diabolical and to wear a funny nose and wig, wouldn't that be a hoot. Don't make me laugh I just might have to kill you.

A: Ssisapho from our book SNAKE DANCE... She's not the heroine but she is one sassy, sharp, determined shero.

Z: Yeah, a big you know what and is half dressed all the time. I'd change my character to anyone who is near her.

If you could travel through time to visit a special time period or famous person, what or who would it be and why?

Z: I'd visit Ben Franklin during his kite and storm incident and get the poop about the key and the lightning. I don't believe it happened and he has gotten so much pub for something that couldn't have happened but people believe it must have happened. I need his publicist.

A: I want to go into the future when we can to travel to other planets. Imagine playing chess with Zisot from the planet Kilatot.

Z: Future... I saw Demolition Man. I think I might like that mental fornication. What do you think? Put on that little metal helmet, bingo, bango and whoa, whoa, whoa... Then again, chess is nice.

If you could meet your favorite celebrity and spend the day with them, who would you choose and what would you do?

Z: Do you remember Scrooge McDuck with his huge vault of coins? The richest duck in the world. Quote, “Me I’m different, everybody hates me and I hate everybody.” That would be me. He he he... One... two... three... million... he he he... Then we’d golf. And since it’s my fantasy, obviously I’d win every hole by two strokes each. And we were playing a million dollars a hole…

A: Are you done yet?

Z: Maybe… Ok… ok… you’re turn.

A: You took too long… I forgot what I was going to say

***

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at writingteamcw@yahoo.com (Write - Blog - in subject line) and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY
CHRISTMAS EVE...VIL ~ Christmas 2012
www.champagnebooks.com

STEEL EMBRACE by Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
http://www.carnalpassions.com/

DIME NOVELS by Susan Frances

2012-01-25T06:00:00.003-05:00

Dime novels, discernibly the precursor to today’s paperback novels, set the stage for writers to lure audiences into their imagination. Gaining vast popularity from the 1860’s until the 1940’s in America, dime novels were mass marketable stories that shared a counterpart in England known as the penny dreadfuls. These stories were commonly perceived as sensationalized puff pieces, because of their themes and topics being considered unsophisticated, completely lacking any intellectual or social significance.

These serialized stories invited audiences to stay tuned each week to find out what was going to happen to their favorite characters, or going on in their favorite fictional town or planet as the case might be. The dime novels are similarly to today’s televised drama series, actually becoming a forerunner to televised dramas and comedies. Imagine TV shows like “Chuck” or “The Mentalist” featured in daily periodicals instead of shown on television. In their day, dime novels were the television for their time.

Dime novels were generally written by hack writers, meaning the writers received a flat fee for their stories and no royalties from the reprints. Inexpensive periodicals like Scribner’s Monthly and the New York Weekly, and pulp magazines, pulp describing the paper that the stories were written on, like Marvel Tales and Amazing Stories brought new episodes each week starring characters whom the public became enamored of, from super heroes to amateur sleuths and daily life folks.

Some serials described the adventures of figures that have become icons of the twentieth century such as Buffalo Bill, Sinbad, Conan the Barbarian, Tarzan, and Detective Nick Carter. Comic strips remain one of the few remnants of dime novels as episodes of “Superman” and “Batman,” both characters that were initiated in the late 1930’s, continue to be serialized in periodicals.

Where would the world be without dime novels and the publishers of dime novels? Dime novels not only carved out a niche for fiction writers to serialize westerns, mysteries, action adventures, sci-fi suspense, and romances, but they also gave directors a subject to put on film. Now in the age of intelligent technology, the publishing industry continues to adapt to the times turning works of fiction into ebooks, and Champagne Books is a part of that new wave.

****

www.susanfrancesny.wordpress.com

About the author:

A graduate of New York University with a BA in Liberal Arts, I have been a freelance writer for several years and have contributed thousands of articles to various e-zines including: Yahoo Voices, Epinions.com, Suite101.com, Jazz Times, Goodreads.com, Authors and Books, Fictiondb.com, LibraryThing.com, TheReadingRoom.com, Newsvine.com, Hybrid Magazine, and Musicdish.com.

THE INVISIBLE MULTIPLIER by Michael Davis

2012-01-24T06:00:00.002-05:00

Until I became published, in my novice mind, the process was simple: get accepted, turn the manuscript over and that’s that’s. Yeah, right. Like the iceberg, there’s a massive hulk under the surface that the reader never sees. Forget the promotional activities, forget dealing with the rewrites to satisfy the submission reviewers, forget the Errata reviews, etc. There’s an invisible multiplier to the quality of a finished novel that few would ever understand, unless they’ve had a great Content Editor (CE). I’m one of those lucky authors. I’m smart enough to recognize the quality of a story when I submit it now, and honest enough to admit the contribution made by my CE. It’s not the theme or sub plots. That’s there. It’s the molding, polishing, refining where the true talent of a CE shines through. I will admit; I’ve always had the same editor, Cindy Davis, primarily because I get down on my knees each time and beg my publisher. But I don’t have to work with a dozen different editors to recognize the contribution (and enjoyment) I experience with Cindy. So what does she do? What she does appears simple on the surface, so simple in my first novel I kept hitting myself saying, “Why didn’t you see that, moron.” Then I realized, as an author, seeing the things a CE sees is not a talent I possess. I take pride in the realism of my stories, yet she is able to bring out the hidden possibility that lies beneath the surface. Here are a few examples.

1. Consistency – As an author creating fiction across 300 pages, sometimes you forget that you gave the heroine a black jeep on page 23 and changed it to a red Elantra on page 125, or the hero was born in Maine, then strangely admits he’s never set foot in New England. Yet the CE enforces that consistency across the story.

2. Perspective – What is a story without internal monologue, it’s boring. My CE can ask a simple question, “Did he really forget his wife that fast?” or “Doesn’t she think it’s suspicious that he just happened to have that in his pocket?” Your first response is, “Well sure, the reader knows that,” but when you think about it, no the reader doesn’t. As the author, the images in your mind tell the whole story, but you forget they’re not inside your head. I remember a particular scene in one on my recent novels where the hero is franticly searching for his wife, concerned that some really bad guys have taken her to get to him. In his search, he discovers a possible source by solving a rather obvious puzzle. Well, my CE asked, “Doesn’t he think it’s strange that after everything that’s happened, he was able to stumble upon this answer?” Well of course he does, dah.” Then I realized, she was right. The thoughts, twists, confusion, reluctance, fear that would be going on in his mind were not there and they were damn important to the story. In fact, it lead to an entire new scene I created to convey the hero consciously allowing himself to be trapped because it was the only way to get to the woman he loved. Afterward, both of us stood back and admitted, “damn that’s good” and it was, but it wouldn’t have been without her probing question.

3. Five senses/environment – A simple question to an author - “What was she smelling, what color was it, was there nothing on the walls, did the animal make a sound, etc.” Yes, indeed, such a straight forward question, yet so profound in the reflection of realism in the story. And again you fill like an idiot for not recognizing the void in the first place. Fact is, when your creating the entwined storyline, you forget those special fine brush strokes that really make the story come to life and made the reader become absorbed in the story.

4. POV – Now, this is the killer for me. It’s my mega button above all others and Cindy knows it. She loves to hammer on that button. Out of respect from her insight, I do everything I can to conform to her strict “No POV switches, Mikey” posture. Except in the bedroom. That’s where we fight and argue. You see, I want to be in both the hero and heroine’s head because I am into the sensual elements (I’m a guy, if I’m going to reflect romance, got to be an intimacy side, cause that’s how us guys demonstrate love in our minds). I want to know what’s going on in both their minds, (after all, we boys and girls are such different creatures).. So that’s were our battles occur, over and over again.

5. Fun factor – In 98% of the cases, I truly enjoy the interaction with my CE. She’s witty, smart, has a neat sense of humor, and can take my loving male jests with a fleer. Except for POV. Then I just sigh, shake my head, and attempt to comply in all but a few cases.

All and all, I really feel we work on a project as a team, and I consider myself lucky to have hit the jackpot on the first roll of the dice. I know the stories came out of my warped mind, but by the time we’re done, it’s our story, and I think she feels that way too, otherwise, how could she read it over and over so many times. I also sense that exposure to sure a talented person has allowed me to expand my horizons as an author. I find myself asking, “Given they just tried to kill him, wouldn’t the hero be seeing dragons behind even turn of the road?” Or, “no Mike, you started in Ryan’s head and he wouldn’t be thinking of himself as the young man.” But I also recognize, I have to be careful. Swell a woman’s head too much, and you’ll pay for it in the end.

So this round of brew is to you, Cindy, girl. And remember, you still own me lunch, although I honestly forgot what the bet was, but I didn’t forget I won.

Big Mike

Michael Davis (Davisstories.com)
Author of the Year, (2008 and 2009)

RITA BAY'S TASTE OF CHAMPAGNE: Proof of Love by Arabella Stokes

2012-01-23T00:00:00.001-05:00

Welcome to RITA BAY'S TASTE OF CHAMPAGNE where each month I will review one of my personal favorites from Champagne and introduce the author who wrote it. My first offering is Proof of Love—a heady vintage, one I knew long before the Regency romance made its way to Champagne. I was privileged to watch it grow scene by scene, chapter by chapter.

Two years ago, Arabella Stokes and I met five other yet-to-be-published writers at an RWA chapter meeting on the Gulf Coast. We found that we had much in common—particularly our ignorance of the publishing industry and a dedication to happily-ever-afters. Although spread across four states and from vastly different backgrounds (Arabella is one of our lawyers), we decided to make our journey toward publication together.

We formed our own critique group, set up an email support system and created the Southern Sizzle Romance Blog. (As an aside, I believe that my historical and cultural perspectives on Heroic Hunks in History on Mondays is far more chic than Arabella’s Wet Wednesdays with photos of ripped, half-naked men who are usually wet.) Anyway, our success surprised us. Six of the Sizzling Sisters have written books that are published or under contract.

Arabella is the Sizzlers’ Regency maven. If not for hygiene issues and limited career choices, she would likely book passage on the first time machine headed for 1800. She uses her knowledge and understanding of the Regency period and its people to craft rich settings for her stories and bring depth and believability to her characters.

In Proof of Love, the Duke of Danesleigh, a dedicated scientist, decides to choose his bride like his horses – using the scientific method. His candidate, Lady Susan Lanier, is suitable, available and likely to be willing. Having lost two fiancés—finding one in the arms of another man, she is unlikely to receive other offers. Neither counts on the sparks that ignite into a raging fire after they marry but their path to happiness is neither easy nor certain. Proof of Love is a delightful read with a fresh approach to Regency romance. In my opinion, Arabella’s debut novel is well worth your time and money.

To buy Proof of Love: http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product/product&path=20_38&product_id=522

To visit Arabella: http://arabellastokes.com/

Rita Bay
"Celebrating Romance Across the Ages"
ritabay.com with Rita Bay’s Blog
southernsizzleromance.wordpress.com
thewritersvineyard.com
"Into the Lyon's Den" Champagne Books, August, 2012

New Year, New Look!

2012-01-01T23:00:00.002-05:00

Pure Spec in Edmonton was awesome, as expected. The only damper on the weekend was the frigid cold temperatures that kept most of us in, when we could easily have enjoyed some of the local eateries and pubs.
Met a fan who had the best costume I've seen in a while, a Battlestar Galactica pilot's uniform.

Coming the new year, we've got some changes coming around the website and social networking sites. Instead of having three to manage and maintain, we've joined them together, so that things will be easier for you, the reader, to navigate and find. Our website will remain at the www.champagnebooks.com location, but you'll see the launch page for all three imprints. Links to the appropriate stores will remain the same and will be easily found on the website, but with only one place to add news and stuff, it'll be simpler to take care of. Our Yahoo reader loop has been rebranded to the CBG Readers (Champagne Book Group), so that we can have some really wild conversations there now. Those Carnal Passions erotic authors can mingle freely with the science fiction dudes and the romance authors can make mischief with whomever they please! Also, our Twitter account will be switched around too. The Carnal Passions account, which is relatively small for the moment, has been shut down with followers encouraged to follow the main Champagne account, which again will be rebranded to CBG.

And now that has all been done, I can actually get to the blog more often!

'Til next time,

Ellen

TK Toppin Interviewed for Master Key

2011-08-01T01:00:00.001-04:00

Julie Eberhart Painter welcomes TK Toppin talking about her July release of The Master Key, sequel to Lancaster Rule. Today we're talking about TK's writing life.

Thank you for agreeing to this interview. I hope I don’t make you uncomfortable by asking, first, what does TK stand for? It took me months to figure out your were not a guy.

TK: Hahaha!!! I think some in the Champagne Books writer’s loop thought the same thing. I can think of one in particular who truly thought I was a dude. I have since corrected him on my gender. T is for my first name, Tomomi. K is my maiden name, Kaharabata. I know…NOT what you were expecting, right? My parents were Japanese.

Julie: What was the first book you ever read?

TK: I’d have to say it was The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. From there, I was hooked on words.

Julie: How did your education contribute to your writing?

TK: Uhm…I’m not sure. I loathed school — still do and probably would prefer a multitude of tortures than to go back to school. I remember in English class, in creative writing — I used to enjoy that — my teacher encouraged me to keep at it. He liked the fact that I wrote contrary to what was expected. For instance, we once had to write about ‘The Bully’ and most chose schoolyard bullies to write about. I chose to write about my neighbourhood’s tomcat that terrorized my own cat to a shredded pulp. I think I got an A for that essay. The rest of my academic experience is a self-induced blur.

Julie: Sounds familiar. How long does it take you to write a completed manuscript? Do you rely on an outline?

TK: Usually I do rely on outlines. I like to keep things in chronological order, so I’ll write out a beginning overview, a middle, and an ending. Also, I’ve come to realize as I get into the writing groove, I can’t progress with a work in progress if I know another story is still unfinished. I can put aside the new WIP and go back to it, but my mind still drifts back to the unfinished one.

For the first book, The Lancaster Rule, I had a bulleted overview of what I would write. Of course, I hardly consulted it since the story itself was fully ingrained in my mind. I merely kept notes on certain things like dates, names, and places so I wouldn’t get those wrong. For that book, it took me three months to complete. The sequel, took roughly the same amount of time, but the third in the series took the longest…close to six months. And then there was the reviewing of it, filling out certain chapters, and edits that took more months.

Julie: Since you live in a warm climate, Barbados, do you write outdoors?

TK: Nope. I love my creature comforts, and not the comforts of creatures. By that I mean peaceful cool (preferably in air-conditioning) as opposed to mosquitoes, sand flies, other flying bugs, bird’s pooping, and slobbering dogs. I’m not so sure I like outside that much.

Julie: Did science fiction find you or you it?

TK: It found me and we’ve lived happily ever after.

Julie: How long have you been writing?

TK: I’ve been writing seriously for the last two and a half years. Before that, it had been half-hearted attempts, (the intent was there, as well as the ideas and plots).

Julie: Do you remember your first rejection letter and what it said? How long before you found a publisher?

TK: Yep…it’s another one of the self-induced blurs. But it was really polite and came straight out of a form rejection template. I believe it was roughly six months later that I finally found a home at Champagne Books.

Julie: What do you like best about Josie, your main character in The Master Key, your sequel to Lancaster Rule?

TK: Hmm. I like her resilience — she’s like a rubber band and snaps back into shape. But as main characters go, so much happens (mostly bad, character-building stuff that makes for good reading) that I’d quickly grow tired of her if she were for real and a friend of mine.

Julie: If you were awake in a pod, what would you take to read? Who are your favorite authors?

TK: I’d take J.D. Robb’s mystery series, I’d take Frank Herbert’s Dune series just in case the world ends up like the desert planet and I need to face some sandworms, I’d take the Harry Potter series, Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl series, Jonathan Stroud Bartimaeus Trilogy, and a few choice Dean Koontz. I’d also take my iPad to read some new favourites, like T.M. Hunter and his Aston West series, K.M. Tolan’s Dancer series, books by SFR writers Pauline Baird Jones and Sara Creasy.

Julie: I can see your books as 3-D movies. Do you think your generation will finally get 3-D television to work as dominant style in the media?

TK: I hope so!!! And thanks for saying my book has movie potential. Some people have made mention that they’d love to see the movie. So would I. And yes, I’m sitting here patiently, waiting for the day 3-D TV goes mainstream.

Julie: Had you not become a writer what would you have been doing, not counting your current job as a graphic artist. In other words your dream job?

TK: A professional daydreamer. Hahaha! But seriously? I really don’t know. I had phases in my life where I’d wanted to be a vet and made all the academic steps to line me up in that direction. That idea fizzled the moment dissection in biology came about…and my aversion to germs. I ended up studying management studies for the hospitality industry, and actually envisioned life running a hotel or restaurant. But I hated the hours. I fell into art pretty much because I knew it and was comfortable with it. Well, to put it bluntly, I understood it without having to think about it.

Julie: Have you or would you do your own book covers?

TK: Soooo many people have asked me that. People who know me as The Artist. I had to keep reminding them that as T.K. Toppin, I am The Writer…and writers have no business designing book covers. Honestly, it’s tempting to design my covers — after all, I know the books I write intimately. Plus I know about designing and how to do it. But that doesn’t mean I’d design a cover that would sell the book. I think I made the right choice by distancing myself from the design aspect of book covers.

Julie: Do you dream of other worlds or are the scenes in your books more like your daydreams?

TK: That’s a good question. A little bit of both, I guess. I’d love to create, one day, a new world in another world or universe. As it stands, I’ve only created a world that is merely an imaginary extension of the current world we live in. My so-called vision of what the future may hold. No aliens, no monsters, no strange new languages. Basically, real as hell and totally believable. But there’s hope for me yet…

Julie: Is there anything you’d like to add, speak now…

Only that I’d like to thank you for this opportunity, and hope I haven’t bored you too much. And I understand you have an upcoming release of a murder mystery called Kill Fee (hmm, maybe I should take that into a pod as well). I wish you every success with that.

Julie: You’ve been a delight. I appreciate your coming to talk with me and sharing your stories with all of us. Leave us with your links and Web sites so that we can keep an eye on your career. If you have a Buy button, you can include it here.

Blog/Website: http://www.thelancasterrule.blogspot.com
Facebook: The Lancaster Rule or Written by T.K. Toppin
Twitter: TKToppin

Buy Link: Champagne Books – http://www.champagnebooks.com
Also available on Kindle

The Master Key buy link: Champagne Books

Now Available in Print! Haunted by Debra Glass

2011-06-23T08:53:00.000-04:00

Wren Darby’s hopes of having a normal life died when she did. Especially since her near death experience has left her with a disfiguring scar and psychic ability. Not exactly most‑popular material. Now Wren has moved to a quaint town in Tennessee. Known for its sprawling antebellum homes, Columbia seems like the perfect place for Wren to recover from the scars she bears both inside and out.

There’s just one problem—her house is haunted by Jeremiah Ransom, the handsome ghost of a young Civil War soldier who lived and died in her new home.

As she grapples with the terrifying new skills that come with being a psychic, Wren realizes she may not be prepared for a strangely beautiful love that just might last forever.

Buy it in PRINT!

Champagne Books | Amazon

Buy the DIGITAL Edition

Amazon | Bookstrand | Champagne Books | ARE

TATTLE AND WRYE APRIL 2011

2011-04-12T20:11:00.002-04:00

FROM THE DESK OF
DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.
AND
ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Greetings,

"Are you ready?" Tattle inquires as she enters the office, preening prettily in her Easter finery.

"For the Easter Champagne Books Hunt?" Wrye grabs his cane and top hat.

"Better than a hunt for eggs."

The dashing duo immediately dive into their Love of Literature Leap."

Immediately after arriving, Tattle fans herself with her bonnet. "Why is it so hot?"

Wrye loosens his ascot. "We're in the deep south, y'all, home to SEX, DEAD DOGS AND ME by Ed Williams.

"Oh my he is a rascal, for shure! So are his book, I laughed so hard, I looked happier than a flea square dancing on a pudgy dog." Takes Wrye's arm and does a twirl for emphasis.

"And this book is a true characterization of his younger years, in the sixties, fictionalized."

"Really?"

"Maybe...with Williams it could all be the truth so help me thirty-minute grits," Wrye says, plucking an colorful egg out of his pocket, peeling it, and then devouring.

"Ummm...what's he doing over there?"

"Checking his tires," Wrye provides and grins.

Tattle delicately pinches her nose. "It appears he had little too much chili."

Large hands fall over Tattle's eyes. "Don't look."

She peers through fingers. "Oh my! He's golfing with his barn door open."

"Yup, lost a bet and had to play a round with much exposed!"

"Oh, I need to read more."

"Try this," Wrye points out the chapter where he cheats on his girlfriend just to watch a special show on the gal's large-screened TV. "He's a trippin' down ole memory lane."

"And he is fast becoming a scholar, compares himself to Einstein." Preferring chocolate eggs, Tattle indulges before adding, "He sought the Brotherhood's guidance on whether or not he should focus on more than just sex, and brilliantly deduced, he should, to quote, 'Sin and learn.'"

"When it comes to humor, this book is all over it like flies on sh**!"

"Wrye!"

"Just sayin'!"

Disclaimer: Our southern accent is not real, but we think our drawl is finer than frog's hair. You can hear it, can't you?

The two appear next to a fence and two of the main characters from the romantic comedy Love Life And Other Disasters by Bernadine Darcy. "Oh my, see those sparks," announces Tattle, stroking a stuffed long-eared bunny, "and it's not from Shawn's hammer hitting nails as she repairs that fence."

"There is something quite alluring about a woman in tight jeans and a tool belt," declares Wrye.

Tattle moves around the characters, just a tad away from Bryan, a cool hottie that has captured the heroine's interest. "You have just paraphrased what Bryan has said about Shawn. Me thinks that he's is a bit more attracted to her than she realizes."

Wrye adjusts his yellow rose boutonnière and says, "Probably why he bailed her out of jail. Tsk, tsk, on our little miss getting herself arrested."

"Shawn is no little miss, my friend, she's has a don't-mess-with-me personality and she can out man any macho maniac this side of a sizzling romance. Besides, getting arrested was worth taking a baseball bat to her ex-fiancé's brand new Mustang."

"Ah, the one who left her at the altar before disappearing for two years."

"And the reason her high school sweetheart, Adam, was forced to arrest her."

"Which brings us back to Bryan...who she thinks treats her too much like a little sister, and considering she already has three assertive older brothers, she doesn't need another one."

"What she needs," holds up a hand as she rephrases. "What she wants, plain and simply is Bryan!"

"The question is will she get him, especially after he overheard her and Adam discussing their special night together?"

"Ooooh, this is certainly a must read."

"Later, m'little chickadee. We're off!" Wrye says in perfect imitation of W. C. Fields.

Can't wait to dig into next month's fabulous books, CLOSURE by Rie McGaha, CHANCE'S GAME by Eve Langlais and LISTEN TO YOUR HEART by Cindy K. Green.

Until next time, keep reading!

HAPPY EASTER!

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.
and Associate Wrye Balderdash
of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by
Angelica Hart and Zi

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY
www.champagnebooks.com

STEEL EMBRACE by Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
August 2011 http://www.carnalpassions.com/

5 Star Review for Haunted by Debra Glass

2011-04-12T08:45:00.001-04:00

"You feel as if you are the person involved in the story and it really makes you empathize with Wren’s problems and her unlikely romance." ~ 5 Books ~ Long and Short Reviews

Haunted

My hopes of having a normal life died when I did. Especially since my near death experience turned me into a clairvoyant with a disfiguring scar. Not exactly most-popular material.

Now, because of me, my whole family has been forced to move to some small town in Tennessee. My parents think a quiet new school and a new set of friends will heal me of the scars I carry both inside and out.

There’s just one problem. I’m being haunted by Jeremiah Ransom, the charming ghost of a Civil War soldier who lived and died in my house. His presence makes me feel perfect. As if there’d never been a wound in the first place.

But I’m afraid that loving him will result in my death all over again.

Buy it now!

Amazon | Bookstrand | Champagne Books | ARE

TOP OF THE MORNIN'

2011-03-17T00:00:00.001-04:00

Z: (Mouth drops open when Angelica arrives in the office dressed in green with a sparkling green hat and a green face. But that isn't what promotes his drool, it's the box of Irish Potatoes.) YUM!
A: This isn't for you, it's for the doggies.
Z: (Disappointment mars his complexion) They can't have all that sugar!
A: It only looks like Irish Potatoes, it's really doggie treats.
Z: Woof...woof...any human treats?
A: Why, of course, m'bud, I have the real ones, too! And cupcakes...and we're having Irish stew for lunch.
Z: You made it?
A: Heck no! You're taking me to the Bit of Ireland Pub for lunch.
Z: So what else is new.
A: Treats for Champagne Books readers, Irish sayings and quotes and blessings, oh my!

May the enemies of Ireland never eat bread nor drink whiskey,
but be afflicted with itching without the benefit of scratching

I drink to your health when I'm with you,
I drink to your health when I'm alone,
I drink to your health so often,
I'm starting to worry about my own

May you never forget what is worth remembering,
Or remember what is best forgotten.

St. Patrick was a gentleman, who thru strategy and stealth
Drove all the snakes from Ireland, Here's a toasting his health
But not too many lest you lose yourself and then
You forget the good St. Patrick and see those snakes again

Here's to our wives and girlfriends:
May they never meet!

May you have no frost on your Spuds,
No worms on your cabbage.
May your goat give plenty of milk.
If you inherit a donkey, may she be in foal.
Don't walk in front of me I may not follow.
Don't walk behind me I may not lead.
Walk beside me And just be my friend.

There are many good reasons for drinking,
One has just entered my head,
If a man doesn't drink when he's living,
How the hell can he drink when he's dead?

May you be in heaven 1/2 hour before the devil knows you're dead.

May you be rich in blessings, poor in misfortune,
Slow to make enemies, quick to make friends.
But rich or poor, slow or quick,
May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward.

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields and,
Until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

These were just a few of the many wonderful sayings and blessings we have found. We hoped you enjoyed them, and that on this St. Patrick's day whether you're Irish or not, may your world be an emerald isle bloosoming with your heart's desires.

***

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at angeliahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY
Champagne Books can be purchased at http://www.champagnebooks.com

THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN-CINDERELLA SERIES
Books can be purchased at angelicahartandzi.com

A Woeful Truth About Publishing

2011-03-14T20:43:00.003-04:00

Let me tell you a story about one of the nasty little things in the publishing world that can threaten to put a publisher into bankruptcy rather quickly.

Once, a long, long time ago (okay more like 8 months ago), a pretty little author contacted her much wiser publisher with a request and a plan.
"Oh please, Madam Publisher, if my book could only go into print, I absolutely know I've got a large order waiting for it at Double Magic Stores, Inc. And they know me really well, so it's a guaranteed sale with no returns. Ever."

Madam Publisher, with her compassionate heart and desire to see her author succeed, worked really hard to get the requested book available to the distributors so that the Double Magic Stores, Inc. could order the precious tome. But all things didn't go as planned, because Double Magic Stores, Inc. decided they'd rather order direct from the publisher. Seems they didn't like the distributor's terms.

Madam Publisher wasn't crazy about the idea, since she wasn't fond of sending her product, unpaid for, to a foreign country (and company that she had never dealt with before). She didn't want to turn the order down, since the author had worked hard on procuring it, so in her infinite wisdom (and on the advice of her accountant), she only sent a third of the order. And waited for payment on that third. And waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

I wish I could say that Double Magic Stores, Inc. paid the bill and everyone lived happily ever after, but that isn't the case. As many independent publishers have discovered over the years, there is something seriously flawed in the way that booksellers do business. Seriously, how many of us can order a product, and then pay whenever we damn well feel like it? Returns started in the depression, to help keep bookstores in business as they wouldn't have to worry about paying out all the money and being stuck with a lot of stock that wouldn't sell. They could simply return what didn't sell and request new books to line their shelves. The depression ended, but this practice never did, but in fact, only got worse.

As of this writing, after a demand for payment letter was sent threatening collection action, we have received half of our monies owed. The remainder was held 'for anticipated returns'. No notification of when the final payment will be made.

Needless to say, this kind of behaviour has made this company think long and hard about its print program. We have no desire to go the way of the dinosaur, slinking away into bankruptcy because of companies such as the one described above, therefore, we have had to abandon the program, still in its infancy stage. Oh sure, we'll continue to offer printed books to our readers, but they'll be available on our website only, and any company wanting larger orders are going to have to pay in advance.

A tough lesson learned, but one in which we will gracefully concede. Leave the print publishing for those with pockets deep enough to withstand numerous unpaid accounts. Instead, I raise a glass to Champagne Books, as we continue onward, pursuing excellence in fiction in an electronic medium.

And then they lived happily ever after.

TATTLE AND WRYE MARCH 2011

2011-03-11T06:10:00.001-05:00

FROM THE DESK OF
DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.
AND
ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Greetings,

Dressed in ballroom regalia, already preparing for the awards event, Tattle announces, “We’re in for a treat. Our Love of Literature Leap is taking us into the books of three of the nominees for Champagne Books Author of the Year.”

Wearing his shamrock green suit and munching on Irish potatoes, Wrye grins, “Sounds tasty. Ready, m'Leprechaun-bud."

And they are off.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” quotes Tattle.

“Ummm, we never were in Kansas, and neither is Jared Bruin, the hero of the fantasy SHADOW FOX by Ashley Barnard. Although he was abandoned in St. Louis the story transcends from this world to another. Oh yeah, I’m likin’ it!” Wrye does a jig, in harmony to an Irish tune.

Tattle plucks cloverleaf, adding, “One can’t help but like Jared, despite that he’s a tortured soul, flawed, and an addict. There is simply something noble about him. He is lost in a world he doesn’t understand, unable to remember his early childhood, and driven to learn swordplay and old world combat skills.” Pretends the clover is a sword and attacks air.

Wrye jumps through chapters, urging Tattle along with him. “Then there is the lovely and mysterious Tarika.”

Tattle notices Wrye’s smitten look. “You’re starrrring.”

“Am not…well maybe…but look at her,” Wrye says, indicating the gorgeous woman. “However, she does have her secrets, many, mannnnny secrets, which in a strange way makes her perfect for Jared. They are kindred souls.”

“She also provides a link to Jared’s past. Maybe that is why his mentor told Jared about the opportunity to be her Master Swordman, well that and to put distance between Jared and his drug supplier.”

“Ah, see this lost journal,” Wrye points with a twisted cane, “it supplies many answers to Jared's past. He is from a different world, one that needs him to rise up and be a hero, but it is also a world that could destroy him.”

“Will he go to that world? Will Tarika follow him? And just what does she have to do with past? Is Tarika all she appears to be?”

That is what the reader will need to find out.

“I like the rain,” Tattle says, and swipes the wetness from her eyes much like Megan, a character who appears in the contemporary novel SHADOW OF GUILT by Michael Davis.

“I like umbrellas,” returns Wrye and opens a striped green and white golf umbrella to cover them both. “I also like weaving our way through Davis’ story. There’s Sean Paterson,” Wyre points out the hero as the duo suddenly find themselves in a café, “a man harboring hate, a need for vengeance, and across from him is Detective Christine Sheppy who’s coping with guilt, a guilt born from the simple need to survive.”

Tattle seeps further into the story. “Their lonely conscious ridden lives become entwined as they try to help an estranged teen and her child, who are lost and targeted.”

Wrye becomes lost in prose, his green carnation wilts as if agreeing with the sadness in Wrye’s tone. “The ache for something strong and loving between them becomes fragile and strained as the haunts of their past refuse to let go. Christine trusted with her heart once and ended up hurt. Dare she trust again? He believed in the magic of forever. Will he find his way back to that belief again?”

Sorrow furrows Tattle’s brow. “Sean knows he wants that sweetness of being with someone for a lifetime, but his hate, his need for vengeance and past shadows make him rash, ready to destroy possibilities.”

“Can either of them escape the endless grief? Can they win out over the depraved acts of malevolent men who prey on the helpless? Will their emerging love be enough to conquer all?”

“Read and find out!”

“Ah, you are in your element, Tattle, m’gal.” With a hand flourish, Wrye indicates the Castle Hamingur, the backdrop for Ciara Gold’s paranormal fantasy THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN.

“Oh yes, there is just something so appealing and romantic about castles, especially mysterious abandoned ones that could be haunted.”

“We’re not talking ghosts here,” Wrye says, “but fairies. Noreen Willshire, an impoverished daughter of an Earl refuses to marry for anything less than love and thereby is forced to be a governess. In this position she soon discovers a diary, an ancient book of fairytales that bridges her world to the world of fairies when she reads from the book to her charges.” Rubs his hands together, “This is getting interesting.”

“Especially so, when Villemore “Vil” a cynical wizard appears before her in his natural and quite hunky form.” Tattle fans herself.

“Tsk, tsk, m’voyeur lass.” Wrye covers her eyes. “Noreen decides it would be best if Vil takes the book back with him to the fairy world. But this can only be accomplished during the Hunter’s Blue Moon. In the meantime, Vil realizes that his world needs Noreen’s light, and that he just might need it, or more aptly expressed, her as well.”

“And she realizes that Vil is seeping into her heart. Yet danger haunts their paths, and barriers arise to keep the destined lovers apart.”

“Her promise to return the diary is soon at hand. She must decide on seeking a new life far from the fairy realm and Vil or to bridge the gap between Vil’s world and her own.”

“What will she do…what will she do…?”

Hope you enjoyed this month’s offerings! Next month, we'll journey to the land of romantic humor. MY LOVE LIFE AND OTHER DISASTERS by Bernadine Darcy and SEX, DEAD DOGS, AND ME by Ed Williams.

Top of the morning to you all!

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.
and Associate Wrye Balderdash
of Blather City, Wannachat

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at angeliahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY
Champagne Books can be purchased at http://www.champagnebooks.com

THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN-CINDERELLA SERIES
Books can be purchased at angelicahartandzi.com

HEARTS AND FLOWERS WINNERS

2011-03-10T11:33:00.004-05:00

Congratulations to the winners from our HEARTS AND FLOWERS celebrations

during the month of February.

GRAND PRIZE WINNER:

MARIA

BOOK WINNERS:

Kylie
Stephanie
Rosemary
Tami
She
Maria

If you haven't received your winning book, please contact us at angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com

Thank you so much for being so supportive and for your participation.

Angelica Hart and Zi (Hosts)
KILLER DOLLS ~ SNAKE DANCE ~ CHASING YESTERDAY
Champagne Books can be purchased at http://www.champagnebooks.com

THE FABLE OF SIN-SIN-CINDERELLA SERIES
Books can be purchased at angelicahartandzi.com

AN EXCITING EXCERPT FROM ~~~ LAUREN GALLAHER'S LIGHT SWITCH See you next month!

2011-02-28T06:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Party Goers,

This might be the end of February's Heart and Flowers party, but not the end of fun. Keep coming back to Champagne Books Blog and enjoy our authors and their offerings of excerpts, book trailers, gifts and more.

JOIN CHAMPAGNE'S BOOK BLOG TODAY AND BE ENTERED INTO A DRAWING FOR 2 PRINT BOOKS, 2 E-BOOKS AND A SURPRISE GIFT!

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING YESTERDAY
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

And, now, back to our scheduled author!

Title: Light Switch
Author: Lauren Gallagher
Website: http://www.loriawitt.com
Contact: thethinker42@gmail.com
GIVING AWAY 1 ELECTRONIC COPY IN YOUR CHOICE OF FORMATS. JUST LEAVE A COMMENT TO BE ENTERED INTO TODAY'S DRAWING.

EXCERPT:

I knew my relationship was over when I wore the lacy purple lingerie for my neighbor, not my boyfriend.

Pulling a pair of jeans and a plain sweatshirt over the garter, panties, and bra, I knew. Truth and guilt sank deeper into the pit of my stomach with every passing minute. Tonight was the night.

I went into the bathroom to fix my hair and put on a little makeup. Why I bothered, God only knew, but at least it was a way to pass the time before my boyfriend arrived. The antiquated clock radio on the bathroom counter said it was nearly seven thirty. Alec would be here any minute. With any luck and a little courage on my part, he’d finally be gone not long after that.

He’d be gone, leaving me with Matt.

Not that I had any intention of touching Matt. I’d entertained a few fantasies of taking him to bed, but I’d been with Alec since before Matt and I met. Whatever problems we had, I wasn’t about to fool around on Alec. No, I wasn’t going to touch Matt tonight. We wouldn’t even be in the same room.

In the two years that we’d been neighbors, Matt and I had never touched beyond the occasional handshake or hug. We’d become fast friends, but everything about our close friendship was strictly platonic.

When light and time cooperated, however, he watched me from his bedroom window, which was across the narrow alley from my own.

He looked at me. Alec didn’t bother anymore.

It had started innocently enough. A window shade carelessly left open. A change of clothes. A well-timed glance.

Eye contact and startled gasps from both sides of the alley had ended the moment as quickly as it had begun. For days, we were shy and coy, passing on the sidewalk without looking at each other, the accidental voyeur and unintended exhibitionist who’d been caught in the act.

Beneath the embarrassment, though, there lurked a part of me that found a delicious thrill in that momentary exposure. Perhaps I’d imagined the look on his face in that fleeting second before we’d both turned away in a panic, but I was sure his eyes had widened and his lips had parted with more than just the startle of seeing a random topless woman. Wishful thinking or not, I let myself believe he’d looked because he liked seeing me like that. It had been too long since someone had done so, and right or wrong, I liked it.

Had he been some stranger, I’d have been creeped out and probably invested in blackout curtains.

He wasn’t a stranger, though. He was Matt, and after a few days, I left the shade open again. It took almost a week for him to take me up on my unspoken invitation. One night, while I got ready for bed, surreptitious glances in the mirror revealed the ghost of a silhouette in his window, a dark profile against a darker background, and I knew he was there. He was there, and I wanted him to be. I wanted him to see.

I didn’t look. I didn’t even acknowledge him. But that night, and a handful of nights afterward, he was there.

Tonight, standing in my bathroom as I got ready to drop a long overdue bomb on Alec, I sighed. My shoulders fell, and when they did, the dark purple strap peeked out from beneath my reflection’s shirt. I tucked it away, meeting my own eyes and averting them when my cheeks turned pink.

If Alec noticed what I’d worn beneath my casual clothes, he’d turn up his nose and call it trashy. He wouldn’t see it, though. Even if I lost my nerve and let him stay like I had so many times in the last year, tonight would be like any other. In the best case scenario, we’d wordlessly undress ourselves in the dark so we could have silent, passionless sex before going to sleep a thousand miles apart.

At least, if that happened, there would be just enough light spilling in from outside for Matt to see.

I sighed and looked myself in the eye again. This had to stop. Though Matt and I never touched, nor did we ever speak about this in our friendly, unassuming conversations, the guilt was getting to me. This window-to-window affair of glances wasn’t right.

Holding my own gaze, I took and released a deep breath. Yes, I was going to do this. Tonight. Swallowing hard, I touched up a phantom smudge in my smoky eye shadow and fixed a strand of hair that was perfectly in place.

From down the hall, the crunch of a key and click of a deadbolt broke the silence. The front door opened.

I took another breath, shut off the bathroom light, and went out to meet Alec.

He was just shrugging his jacket off when I rounded the corner. With a quick, expressionless glance, he acknowledged my presence, then hung his jacket in the hall closet. “Sorry I’m late. Got held up at the office.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just gave me a little more time to get ready.”

The next look he shot me was a quick down-up sweep with his eyes, followed by a lifted eyebrow that said nothing if not “that is what you call ‘ready?’”

I shifted my weight, gritting my teeth. Keep it up, sweetheart. You’re making this easy for me.

He put his hand on my waist and kissed me lightly. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Another down-up glance scrutinized my appearance before he added, “I assume you want to stay in?”

I pursed my lips, resisting the urge to fold my arms across my chest. “Yes, actually.”

“Sounds good.” He smiled. “I think we still have a few DVDs to watch, don’t we?”

“We do.” I hesitated. “But first, I’d like to… talk.”

His eyebrows jumped. “About?”

“Us.”

“Us?” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Well, okay. Let’s talk, then.” He didn’t sound alarmed.

“How about in the living room?” I gestured down the hall and started in that direction without giving him a chance to object. “Do you want something to drink?”

“I think I’m okay, thanks.” He took a seat on the couch with his arm across the back of it, his usual invitation for me to sit beside him. The thought of that arm curling around my shoulders made my skin crawl.

Instead, I sat toward the middle, creating just enough distance to keep him from wrapping his arm around me. Turning to him, I pulled my knee up onto the cushion between us. His eyes darted to my knee, then met mine.

He cleared his throat. “So, um, what’s going on?”

Wringing my hands, I avoided his eyes. “Just, I…” Come on, Kristen, come on. You can do this.

He put his hand on my thigh, dangerously close to the telltale edge of the hidden garter. “Is this about moving in together?”

“Well, no. I mean, not exactly. It’s…” I wanted to scream with frustration. This wasn’t the first time I’d tried to have this conversation with him, and it wasn’t the first time I’d gotten tongue-tied.

Squeezing my leg gently, he said, “Look, if it's too much for you, it’s okay. We don’t have to do it right now.” His tone teetered between empathizing and patronizing, and I couldn’t tell which way it was intended.

Instead of looking at him, I stared at the subtle ridge my garter made beneath my jeans. “Listen, I don’t think we should move in together. At all.”

“You don’t?” At last, a hint of alarm crept into his voice. “But, why not? I mean, after all this time, wouldn’t it make sense?”

“It would, yes.” I swallowed hard and forced myself to meet his eyes. “If we were planning to get married, or—”

He laughed. “Is that what this is about? Well, if you want to start thinking about getting married instead—”

“No, no, it’s not that.”

He cocked his head. “Then, what?”

Wetting my lips, I whispered, “I don’t think we should move in together because I—” Come on, come on, just do it. Get it out there. “I don’t think we should stay together.” Before he even had a chance to react, the weight of the world slipped off my secretly lace-covered shoulders. Finally.

Alec blinked. “You, what?”

“I don’t think this is working.”

“You,” he paused. “You want to end this?” He gestured at me, then at himself.
“Yes,” I whispered.

“Well, I guess I can see now why you never wanted to move in together.”

I couldn’t blame him for the bitterness in his tone. We’d been discussing it for over a year, and I’d been sidestepping the issue because I’d been trying to work up the courage to tell him I wanted out. Without meeting his eyes, I nodded.

Alec abruptly stood. While I was relieved to have some breathing room, I was afraid he was going to storm out. As much as I wanted him to be gone, we needed to settle this here and now, not set ourselves up for a period of cooling down, followed by another conversation.
He didn’t leave, though. Instead, he paced between the coffee table and the television, running his fingertips back and forth across his stubbled jaw. “I don’t get it.” He shook his head. “After four years, you just want to up and quit?”

“It’s not exactly a conclusion I came to overnight.”

“Oh really? So when were you planning to enlighten me?”

I sighed. “That’s what I’m doing now. This isn’t something I went into lightly.”

“So what the hell is the problem?” he asked.

“I just don’t think we’re…” I trailed off, searching for the word. “Compatible.”

“Of course we are. We wouldn’t have lasted this long if we weren’t.”

And we shouldn’t have lasted this long. “Look, Alec, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you, but I’m not happy with things. I’m not happy—”

“With me?”

I sighed again. “Yes. I’m not happy with the way things are with us, and I’m ready to move on.”

“I don’t see how you can be unhappy.”

Of course you don’t. You would have to had to pay attention to pick up on that. “I am.” I struggled to keep my voice gentle and calm. “We want different things out of life. Half the time when we’re talking, we’re fighting.”

“We wouldn’t fight if you didn’t pick fights all the time.”

I took a deep breath. “I don’t pick fights because I enjoy it. If something’s bothering me, I tell you.”

He exhaled hard. “Yeah, and every damned thing bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“No. Not everything. But enough.” I wrung my hands. “I mean, look at our sex life.”

“What? What about it? We have sex more than most couples that have been together this long.”

“Yes, we do,” I said. “But we never try anything new. There’s no variety. It’s just the same thing, over and over and over.”

He set his jaw. “After this long, I think we’ve tried everything, don’t you?”

“No, I absolutely don’t think we have.”
“What else is there?”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to spice things up? Try something unusual? I’ve suggested a few things over the years, but you haven’t wanted to try a damned thing.”

He shrugged. “I’m perfectly happy with things the way they are.”

“To put it bluntly, I’m not.”

Alec blinked. He eyed me, shifting his weight. “So you’re bored with me, then.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m bored with our sex life.”

“And that’s enough to make you want to call things off?”

“There’s plenty more to it than that, but that was my first clue that things weren’t going so great. I want to try new things. You don’t. So I’m bored to the point of being miserable.”

“I can’t believe you’d end a relationship like this because of sex.” Alec shook his head. “Am I supposed to be some kinky porn star to keep you entertained?”

“Not at all.” I fought to keep my temper in check. “But it would be nice if you at least looked at me once in a while in the bedroom.”

“In the dark?”

“You could turn on the light,” I snapped. “And maybe when you’re done with that, try doing the same to me.” It was only when he stopped pacing that I realized I’d said the words out loud. My heart pounded. I hadn’t intended to go there, but there was no taking it back now.

“You’re unbelievable.” He threw his hands up. “If there was something wrong with us in the bedroom, why didn’t you bring it up a long time ago?”

“I’ve tried. Time and again. And quite frankly, I’m tired of it.”

“Oh, you have?” He folded his arms and cocked his head. “When? How?”

“Maybe all the times I’ve told you I’d like to try new things? I haven’t exactly kept a list of dates and times, but I’ve brought it up more than once.” I paused. “You either don’t want to talk about it, think I’m concerned about nothing, or turn up your nose at whatever I suggest.”

“Like what?”

“Well, how about when we went to Cabo last year? I suggested fooling around on the beach, on our balcony, on—”

“I’m not going to fuck you in public.” His lips contorted with disgust. “Jesus, Kristen.”

I rolled my eyes. “And what about the handcuffs we bought two years ago, but have never used?”

“We don’t need to use handcuffs,” he said with a dismissive gesture.

“We don’t need to do a lot of things, but I think it would be fun. That’s the kind of stuff I want to try.”

“So, what? Just having sex isn’t enough for you? Now you have to try all that freaky, kinky shit?”

“Why is it freaky?” I shrugged. “Some of it could be fun.”

“No, no, absolutely not.” He glared at me. “I think you’ve been listening to too many stories from that friend of yours.”

“Who? Scott?”

“The one who’s into all that weird crap, yeah.”

I scowled. “He’s told me a few things, yes, but—”

“See? You’ve just been listening to him.” Alec inclined his head, giving me that patronizing look I’d grown to despise. “Normal people don’t do that shit, Kristen.”

Fury coiled in my gut. “Then maybe I’m not normal.”

“Or maybe you’ve just been around that freak too long. I’ve never liked you hanging around him any—”

“I beg your pardon?” I stood, mirroring his defensive stance. “Now you want to dictate who I spend my time with?”

He gave a flippant shrug. “I just don’t like you hanging around that asshole.”

“Why? Because he’s into things you’re not?”

“Or maybe I just don’t like my girlfriend discussing sex with another man.”

“Oh, I can understand that,” I said through my teeth. “She might get ‘ideas’ in her pretty little head about how to fix a lackluster sex life, and she might even try to apply those ‘ideas’ to the relationship she’s trying to save.”

“Yeah, and—”

“Or, heaven forbid, she might just suddenly realize there’s more to sex than a little quiet missionary style in the fucking dark.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think I’m the problem, then.”

“Neither is Scott. I talk to him because he listens to me. Something you stopped doing a long, long time ago.”

“Fine.” He put his hands up. “You know, between that sick fuck and that friend of yours next door, I figured it was only a matter of time anyway.”

My jaw fell open. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Are you suggesting that—”

“Are you denying it?” he snarled.

“I have never cheated on you.” Guilt twisted in my stomach. It was true, I hadn’t touched another man, but the temptation had been there. One of the first signs this relationship was in trouble was when I caught myself fantasizing not only about the wild things Scott told me, but Scott himself. Then came the voyeuristic tryst with Matt. Though I’d never touched either of them, the guilt was killing me just the same. I’d cheated in mind, if not in body, which was why this needed to end.

“Never?” Alec broke the lengthy silence that had fallen. “Somehow I doubt that.”

My face burned, no doubt making me look even guiltier than I was. “You don’t trust me?”

“Should I?”

I clenched my jaw. His constant suspicion and distrust were among the countless nails we’d driven into this coffin. Thank God we were finally going to bury the fucking thing.

“Look, I may be frustrated,” I said. “But I do love you, Alec. I wouldn’t cheat on you.”

“But you’ll leave me?”

“Yes.” The word came so easily, so unflinchingly. “Yes. I need to.”

“You know what? Fine.” He glared at me again. “I’ll go, and you can have all the crazy, freakish sex you want. Mark my words, though. In a few months, after you’ve had a little fun and realize how sick it all is, you’ll regret this.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Our lackluster sex life was the wedge we’d used to finally cleave our relationship apart, but if it had failed to do so, we had plenty more that would have done the job.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” He shifted his weight. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me take my stuff before you kick me out?”

I nodded down the hall. “Go right ahead.”

With a sharp huff, he stormed past me. I followed him into my bedroom.

Now that he was moving, now that he was doing something besides standing there talking to me, his fury escalated, just as it always did. He jerked open the closet door and went about ripping shirts and a coat off hangers and throwing them onto the bed he’d probably expected to share with me tonight.

“I can’t believe you, Kristen,” he said over his shoulder. “You’re really willing to let all of this go because I won’t be a freak like whatshisname.”

“No. The sex is only part of it.”

He slammed a pair of shoes down and kicked the closet door shut. “Really? So what else is there?”

“Well, this.” I gestured at him. “Every time you get mad, you start throwing shit around, slamming doors, yelling at me—”

“Oh, so now I’m not allowed to get angry?” he shouted, turning on his heel and facing me. “Am I just supposed to sit here like a good little boy and let you tell me I’ve just wasted four years of my fucking life?”

I drew back, folding my arms to keep my hands from shaking. “There’s a happy medium between that and flipping out at—”

“I’m not fucking flipping out at you, Kristen,” he snarled, closing the gap between us. “You can’t expect to say this kind of shit and—”

“And what?” I stepped toward him, and to my great satisfaction, he shrank back slightly. “Am I tied to you for the rest of my life? Am I not allowed to move on if I’m not happy anymore?”

“After all this time, the least you could do is put some effort into fixing it instead of running away.”

I flipped my hands out, palms up. “I’m not going to argue anymore, Alec. I want out, I want you out, so just get your stuff and leave.”

He said nothing, but the rage in his eyes almost made me step back myself. At the very edges of my peripheral vision, he clenched and unclenched his fists. For the first time in four years, I wondered if he might just raise a hand to me, and I could neither draw nor release a breath until he muttered a curse and turned back to gathering his belongings.

On his way out, he stopped at the hall closet to yank his jacket off the hanger and put it over his arm. Then he jerked his key off the ring and tossed it on the table by the door.

“Looks like that’s everything.” He opened the front door. “Unless you had anything else you needed to say?”

I shook my head.

He sneered at me. “Not even good-bye?”

“I think we’ve already said that, don’t you?”

Cursing under his breath, he left, slamming the door behind him. I turned the deadbolt and went back into my bedroom, dropping onto the bed and releasing a long breath. Uncomfortable though it was, that conversation had needed to happen for a long, long time. We’d both made our mistakes over the last few years. We’d both caused our fair share of problems in this relationship. At least now, it was over. Thank God, it was over.

With another long exhalation, I looked at the clock. It was barely eight o’clock. Still plenty of time to go out and grab a drink, vent to a girlfriend, do something other than stay home in this silent apartment. With my newfound freedom came the long overdue ability to go out and take care of some of this sexual frustration. Maybe with someone who knew what he was doing. A one night stand had never been so tempting. I could go out. Or I could turn off the light and go to sleep.

I didn’t go out.

I didn’t turn off the light.

I didn’t go to sleep.

I just took off my shirt and hoped Matt liked purple satin.

LORD BYRON APPEARS IN ROSEMARY GEMMELL'S DANGEROUS DECEIT

2011-02-27T06:00:00.001-05:00

Regency Novel, Dangerous Deceit by Romy Gemmell, is due from Champagne Books in May 2011.

Lord Byron
By Rosemary Gemmell

He was the original ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’ hero, as his one-time lover, Lady Caroline Lamb, named him. And perhaps he was the model for the moody, romantic hero in famous literature. Think of the dark and brooding men from three of the classics: Jane Austen’s Mr Darcy, Charlotte Bronte’s Mr Rochester and Emily Bronte’s Heathcliff.

Born in 1788, George Gordon, the 6th Lord Byron, went on to epitomise the romance of Regency England. His father was profligate gambler Captain John Byron, who deserted his wife and child, but his mother was Scottish heiress Catherine Gordon and Byron spent his early life with her in Aberdeen. He left Scotland when his great-uncle William died and left him the baronial title and estate at Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire.

Byron began his writing life, and reputation for high-spirited behaviour, at Cambridge. After travelling around Europe and Greece for two years, Byron returned, aged twenty four, and his days of fame and notoriety began. The first and second canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage elevated him to the ranks of literary genius. Byron himself remarked, “I awoke one morning and found myself famous.”

Byron was hugely attractive to women, which cause him a great deal of trouble. Sir Walter Scott described him as having “the remarkable contrast of very dark hair and eyebrows with light and expressive eyes.” Young, aristocratic, a romantic wanderer, and a poetic genius, Byron was in great demand.

But his scandalous love affairs, and rumours of incest, soon brought Byron down. The society who had idolised him began to snub him. With rising debts and hounded by bailiffs, Byron left England in 1816, just 28 years old and at the pinnacle of his fame. He recognised it was partly his own fault. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, ends with the words:

“I planted – they have torn me – and I bleed:
I should have known what fruit would spring from
Such a seed.”

Byron’s stature as a poet continued to grow, especially on publication of Don Juan, a commentary on the society that had rejected him. He finally went to Greece, where he formed the ‘Byron Brigade’ to give support to the Greeks’ fight for independence. They hailed him a hero. Lord Byron died at Missolonghi, aged 36.

His burial was refused in Westminster Abbey and he was buried in the family vault in the church at Huchnall Torkard, near Newstead Abbey. Byron had the last word, however, exposing the double standards, politics and social relations of Regency England in Don Juan:

“Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,I sketch your world exactly as it goes.”

*****

http://romygemmell.blogspot.com
www.rosemarygemmell.com

JULIE EBERHART PAINTER SHARES A POETRY BLOG

2011-02-26T06:00:00.003-05:00

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN
e-book MORTAL COIL

Writing a Wrong

By Julie Eberhart Painter

The writer writes and having writ moves on
to other works while those undone can ponder,
miss her touch; the tinkling keys they love so much.

What thinks that writer in the midst of musing,
that search for clever phrases not confusing?
Where will she land that sailing ship of folks and fools,
unwinding there like kittens rolling spools?

Another romance titillates the senses.
Dark tales hold readers in suspense.
A literary gaffe dislodges sleep
induces dreams the reader cannot keep?

It's all within the skills that we unfold,
awaiting choice, expunging trivial from bold.
Our job, if we accept the charge:
Perform the deed the world wants to disparage.

So woe is me, a writer with a verse,
an idea headed out to be accursed.
Exposing muse's heart and mind,
our dreams indifferent and unkind
betray our thoughts when they are left behind.

~*~

Julie Eberhart Painter is the Champagne Books author of Mortal Coil, in which she practices both medicine and law without licenses, and Tangled Web, a story close to her heart.

See Julie’s Web site at ~ http://www.books-jepainter.com/

STILL PARTYING!

2011-02-25T06:00:00.002-05:00

Having a good time? We are certainly enjoying the interaction between Champagne Book authors and their readers. Although the month is nearly gone, we hope you continue to enjoy the blog. Stop by often. You never know when there will be a contest. Like today!

Tell us the name of the heroine in CHASING YESTERDAY and win an e-book download. HINT: Watch the video. Oh, put your answer in comments and don't forget to add your email addy.

Have a great day!

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at angeliahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING YESTERDAY
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

BOOKS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com

CIARA GOLD ~ EXCERPT ~ THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN

2011-02-24T06:00:00.005-05:00

THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN ~ BOOK OF THE YEAR NOMINEE

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN
e-book THE KEEPER OF MOOM HAVEN

Excerpt:

“Just say you’ll wear the dress and join us for the evening. I know you have the courage to handle the gift in the light it was intended. I would hate to have to call you coward along with stubborn.”

“You make a strong argument.” She fingered the dress with longing. “My curious nature urges me to accept even if I do so with reservations.”

His gaze shifted to her hair. He reached out and fingered a loose curl against her cheek. “I like it much better down.

Whoever decided women should wear their hair tucked away in a crown of curls should be drawn and quartered.”

Just the mere brush of his fingers against her skin made her pulse quicken. With effort, she refrained from leaning into his hand.

“A blood thirsty wizard? What else should I know about you?”

He dropped his hand from her hair. “You need know nothing more.”

His sudden brusqueness made no sense. “No. You’re absolutely right. I think it best we remain polite strangers.” She already feared the chemistry she sensed between them. She feared learning about the man even more. A friendship had the opportunity to develop into much stronger emotions. She silently agreed with Vin. She need know nothing more.

He caught her in his strong arms, crushing the fragile lace between them. “Strangers make the best lovers. With strangers there are rarely any regrets.”

She gazed into his dark eyes and saw pain. “Who hurt you, Vin? Who made you into such a hard man?”

“Man?” He chuckled. “You forget. I’m only half a man. The other half is elf. Elfin faeries view the world from a far different perspective than humans.”

“One of cynicism.”

His hold upon her gentled. “I prefer the term practical. I don’t adhere to philosophies that support double standards. In Alfheim Haven, every Being has an equal say at the Main Court. Simply put, I don’t observe the prejudices abundant in the human realm. With Lucian, the situation would be much different there than here. The Beings would protect and nuture children no matter the circumstances surrounding their birth.”

“While I find it hard to understand Lord Haverett’s prejudice toward Lucian, I must abide by social constraints. Without them, we would all become savages.”

He stroked her forearms. “Like me? Do you find me savage?”

“I...”

He lowered his lips and swallowed her words. He kissed her with fierce intensity. The dress rustled between them, a bitter token of his regard for her. She melted into his embrace, savoring the taste of his lips, accepting for the moment his mastery over her heart and body. And while her body yearned for more, her heart cried. He would never see her as more than a conquest. And she could never set aside her morals to give into the heady feelings he evoked. For that, she did consider him savage.

She pushed against his chest. He dropped his hands, but held her prisoner with the touch of his lips. She tore her mouth from his. The dress fell to the floor, a pool of shimmering guilt.

****

Ciara Gold

www.ciaragold.com

Available at Champagne Books or All Romance E-books

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004EPZ2G4

The Keeper of Moon Haven is available at Champagne Books
http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product/product&product_id=364

and at All Romance Ebooks http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-keeperofmoonhaven-489359-143.html

Love In A Cold Month

2011-02-23T16:21:00.003-05:00

I've always thought it strange that Valentine's Day fell in one of our coldest months. February is by no means spring in any of the north central or eastern nothern states. And certainly not in Michigan's Upper Peninsula where the Viking and I live. My first husband tended to give me something practial for Valentine's Day, but that's not why our marriage was dissolved (in CA it's a dissolution if it isn't contested.) The truth is he thought all romances were trash and if I insisted on writing one it was either him or the writing.
My second husband (yes, I'm a an optimist, but at least this time I picked another writer), was definitely not the romantic type in person even if he did write romances, but he sometimes did remember Valentine's Day by taking me out to dinner, unless it fell on a Monday because that was his bowling night. But he died.
I've known the Viking from my past ever since I was six and he was seven and I
"skipped" from first to second grade. He has since told me that he fell in love with me then. But though we became friends, we never really dated. And after graduating in 1943, in the midst of WWII, he went into the Navy Pilot program and I went into the Cadet Nurse program. So I became a nurse and he went to college when he got out of the Navy and became a geologist. I married a doctor and he married as well. But over the years we never quite lost track of each other.
By the time we connected again, I was a widow and he'd been divorced for some time. We both were a tad wary of marriage, but we decided to become Life Partners and have been together since 1994 and will be until we die.
There's no age limit to falling in love and in the Viking, I finally found a man who really enjoys celebrating Valentine's Day. Always a romantic card at my place at the table when I get up that morning. At his place, too, as far as that goes--I'm almost as romantic as he is. Until it was better for our health if he didn't buy any more there was candy, too. Not to mention flowers. I used to tell myself it didn't matter, but now that I celebrate the day, it know it's better to. Only if the feeling is there to go with it, though.
Still, why February? Because we need love to keep warm? I vaguely recall a song titled "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm." I think it was popular before I was in my teens. My brother, twenty years older than I, had a dance band, so I do recall some of the songs from his time.
Or just maybe we need something to brighten the cold month besides two President's birthdays.
I have lots of romantic book covers, but instead of the photo coming up when I upload, just the URL for it does, so no hearts and flowers. I do hope every one of you had as enjoyable a Valentine's Day as we did. Now that I think of it, it's probably the fault of the old Romans--or even the Greeks, that the month of hearts and flowers is February.
Jane

AN INTERVIEW WITH T.K. TOPPIN

2011-02-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN

e-book THE LANCASTER RULE

A NOVEL OF THE YEAR NOMINEE -

Thank you for allowing us to poke and prod...er...ask you a few questions. We're certain the readers are anxious to see the face behind THE LANCASTER RULE TRILOGY.

A and Zi: To begin, what is the funniest incident you ever had that has to do with your writing?

T. K. : So far to date, nothing funny has occurred but I have borrowed some "mild" moments to incorporate into my books. Usually character traits that I think are funny and normal human behaviour.

A and Zi: If you were to spend a year at sea, and one of your characters could come to life and join you, who would he/she be, and why?

T. K. : Well, so long as I'm not barfing my guts out, and they're not too put off by a green-hued woman with puke stains, well, it would have to be the hero in the book. Duhh, who else, right?

A and Zi: Great response! Seasick, eh? Anywho, have you had any pets in your novels? Or - Do you plan on having any pets in your novels? Or - Would you rather be a cat or a dog and why?

T. K. : I've had two pets written into my trilogy. A dog called Fluffy, and a mangy, flea-bitten cat called Hissy.

A and Zi: You just gotta luv those names! Now, tell us, which superhero would you like to be?

T. K. :The Invisible Man...like, come on!! Who would miss (pardon the pun) out on being invisible. Can you imagine the stuff you can get away with? Oh, the possibilities!!

A and Zi: (A tells Zi to stop grinning like the cat who outwitted the bulldog.) What makes you laugh, slapstick or droll humor?

T. K. : Haha! Humour in general makes me laugh, and yes, I've lots of humour in the books. Personally, I like droll humour. Never really been a fan of slapstick.

A and Zi: Finally, and most important of all, what is your favorite pasta and sauce?

T. K. :Mmmm....uh, where to start. Cream sauces, with heaping amounts of cheese. And as for pasta, well, all of them?

A and Zi: Again, thank you for seeing a glimpse into the real T.K. So, anyone ready for lunch? Think we'll have pasta!

THE PARTY CONTINUES

2011-02-21T06:00:00.000-05:00

Good Morning!

This is week four of our festivities, and we still have more to share with many Champagne Book authors and even more GIVE AWAYS.

As on day one, anyone who joins the Champagne Book Blog today will receive a free e-book! If you leave a comment you'll be part of today's drawing for a free e-book. If you let a friend know about our blog and they join the blog, you'll both be entered into the end of the month drawing for two print books, an e-book and a surprise gift.

Now, for our blog, we offer for your reading pleasure a glimpse into our world.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

Some questions for the dueling duo:

Have the two of you being writing together long, and how many books do you have with Champagne? Does chemistry play a big part?

Z: Three questions, gotcha: 1) We have been writing for what seems to be a lifetime together, separately. There have been many titles published since 1996. B) KILLER DOLLS will be our first with Champagne, followed by SNAKE DANCE and CHASING YESTERDAY. This will be at least our eighteenth collaboration. Finally) As a chemistry major in college, I figured out early that the most entertaining of all experiments were the ones that were the most reactive. So, some days I'm the catalyst and others Angelica is.

A: Zi answered the first two, and I never did pass chemistry, so my response is, we can be combustible when we write together, just playing off each other until we believe we found the right formula that will tease emotion out of our readers.

Z: Angelica as a once Philly girl has an edge that bites but never cuts clean. Couple that with my analytical proclivity and we've a formula for sparks.

A: Sparks... sometimes outright infernos. If you'd always do what I said things would be smoother.

Z: Yes they would... but far less entertaining.

A: You got a point.

A: Zi?

Z: Yes.

A: You think she was just asking about how we got together?

Z: Naw, and if she was, it's a secret.

Another question:

Who has inspired you as writers?

A. In truth, Zi has been a great inspiration to me, and a procurer of seeing the truth behind the words, never compromising that truth, even in fantasy worlds there is a logic and theme that has to be recognized and respected. I owe this revelation to him, taming my creative frenzy when it becomes outlandish.

Z: Just read what you wrote... my response is... poppycock... it was not two days ago that you told me I couldn't spell hero if spotted H E R. No one believe her, she is spinning a tale. I work with her. I know her. She's evil in ways you don't understand. Having said that, I feel very fortunate to share writing with her. Thomas Fuller wrote, "When Fortune smiles, embrace her." Thomas must have met Angelica Hart.

A: You're so full of ca-ca.

Z: That's my story and I'm sticking to it. When the corn is ripe, pick it.

Final questions:

Not many authors of the opposite sex could create a world that both could live in for the length of time it takes to write a book. Tell us, how it happened and how do the characters feel about what you came up for them in one of your books?

A: (Blurts) Let's discuss SNAKE DANCE!

Z: Don't I have a say?

A: (Thinks) Mmmm, sure, but let's discuss SNAKE DANCE.

Z: (Does the eye roll, twice) Fine! (Takes a breath and begins) The creative meeting we had brainstorming the fantasy for SNAKE DANCE was an epic adventure in compromising our lack of a willingness to compromise. The world ultimately became a huge extension of Angelica's imagination. The trade-off was that the characters and the conflict reflected mine. Ahhhhh, if it was only that easy. Whereas, the story unfolded naturally and with simplicity, since we both found a remarkable fascination in the iconic tale. But the color, the facade, the tone and texture were occasionally a confounding task. We literally wallpapered our office with page after page after page of ideas and as we constructed the planet Starling we drew from what seemed to be an endless reservoir of cognitive subtext.

A: Did you tell them that we fought... and fought?

Z: Immmpliiiied.

A: There is a point of sexism that has been raised. The most beautiful component of this Angelica Hart and Zi collaboration is that we have a profoundly deep honor and respect for both sexes, and their place in the natural coexistence of relating. Yes, we see the differences, and adore them. We see the formidable instinctual tugs, and enhance them. So, I think I'm comfortable in saying that it's not the negative we feel but the awesome positive nature of a man and woman creating, they believing, truly believing that the world and the love in it have endless possibilities.

Z: One of the most important points of view I maintain is that every female protagonist is complex, strong, has heroine qualities, and can be the every woman. Mind you, this is hard in fantasy but the template is always in place. I will never agree to a mindless female. Furthermore, Angelica and I have agreed that the principle characters must, and I shall repeat, must have a reason to feel love before they do the horizontal snake dance.

A: As for the characters feel: Well, when they're lonely, they hate us. When they're being chased by the bad guys, they hate us. When we poke fun at them, they hate us. But when we arrange in the finale for them to requite the honest pursuit of love in that very special way, they put us on their Christmas card list.

Z: The depth and complexity of both the world and the conflict we placed in that world is the greatest gift we give each other as writers, for from that aforementioned depth, the characters can often and quickly reveal themselves more richly.

A: And occasionally more naughty.

Z: Duh! Why else the complexity.

In closing:

Z: Thank you for reading about us. As one armadillo said to the other while standing on the side of the road, "Be careful, the walk across could get you tired." It is always my pleasure to try to entertain and we hope we entertained you.

A: You actually used an armadillo reference? Have you no shame? We hope you enjoyed our interview. We want to thank anyone who has ever read anything that we wrote. We write for you.

****

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at angeliahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING YESTERDAY
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

BOOKS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com

AN EXCERPT FROM ALLISON KNIGHT'S ROSES FOR MY LADY

2011-02-20T06:00:00.000-05:00

EXCERPT:

February 14, 1841, Northampton, England

Gavin Sinclair, Baron Dunleigh, was bored out of his mind.

Why had he come tonight, he wondered, as he watched a bevy of beautiful women whirl around the ballroom in their colorful gowns? He gazed at the guests milling around the lace-covered pillars festooned with red and white roses. All that was missing from the decorations were the ivy leaves advertising the occasion as a prelude to a proposal of marriage. That was the last thing in which he had an interest!

Gavin groaned. Wedlock. Every man here, himself included, had other things on their mind. Still, from the number of people attending this event, Lady’s Sutton’s Valentine’s Ball would be declared a smashing success. It mattered little if some fair maiden tricked her escort into proposing matrimony.

He glanced toward the front arch embellished with smiling cupids, golden arrows and festive hearts and sipped a glass of inferior champagne. How soon could he take his leave without appearing rude?

He patted the pocket of his jacket. At least tonight, he didn’t have to worry about his younger brother. Kenneth’s message had arrived before Gavin left for the ball. The note assured Gavin that although Kenneth had some unfinished business, he would sail on the Valiant Lady in ten days. It would free Gavin from a necessary trip to their Caribbean property.

About time Kenneth began to take an active part in their business enterprises despite his arguments.

“My Lord,” a voice behind him forced him to turn.

He spun toward the speaker. Lawrence Oxley, a good friend of Kenneth’s, stood before him, a worried look marring his effeminate features, his face flushed. Too much drink, or nerves.

“What is it, Lawrence?”

The young man hesitated. Gavin stifled a groan and waited for him to speak, hoping against hope that Kenneth was not involved in another fracas.

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but...” He glanced at the crowd and murmured, “Someplace not so--so crowded?”

Gavin led him to a small alcove off the main hall.

“Better?” he asked.

The young man nodded and gulped--hard.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t keep this to myself a minute longer. Kenneth will want to kill me, but I do believe you ought to know.”

Gavin scowled. Damn! Kenneth was up to something, something not good. He’d been correct in assuming his younger brother was in trouble, yet again.

“Well, man, what is it you think I should know?”

Once again Lawrence cleared his throat. “He’s getting married. Going to Gretna Green.”

An Elopement! Gavin swore. The fool!

“When?”

“Tonight, my Lord!”

The hot burn of anger raced through Gavin. How dare his younger brother try something like this?

Lawrence cowered before him and Gavin assumed it was because of his expression.

“I see…” His words rolled out of his mouth like bits of live coal.

“When?”

“Midnight,” Lawrence croaked.

Gavin pulled his pocket watch from his vest and glanced at it.

“I could have used more time to stop this affair.”

“Sorry, my Lord. It took some time to find you.”

“I take it that you know who he intends to wed and where.” Gavin tossed the words out.
Damn! Kenneth had been nothing, if not trouble, from the moment Gavin assumed his care immediately after the death of their parents. Their verbal battles were legion.

Lawrence swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his stiff collar, “Where, but not whom. Oh, I’ve seen the girl but I don’t know her name. She had her come out this year. You had to have met her.”

“I was at my Caribbean plantation last summer so I missed the season. Don’t you know anything about her?”

Lawrence seemed to be studying the floor for answers. Again, he cleared his throat.

“I know she was sponsored by Lady Sophia Palmer.”

Gavin swallowed choice words and slapped his hand against his forehead.

“Sophia Palmer. My Gawd, that woman is a menace, an eccentric of the first water. She’s anything but a lady. Have you no other information?”

“The girl’s father is in the military,” Lawrence murmured, as if that information might have some value.

“Anything else? Anything at all?”

Lawrence shook his head and eased out of the alcove. Gavin almost smiled at the boy’s apparent need to escape.

“All right,” Gavin said. “At least tell me where my brother is meeting this person.”

~*~

www.AllisonKnight.com
www.AllisonKnight.blogspot.com
www.facebook/AuthorAllisonKnight.com

CIARA GOLD ~ EXCERPT ~ THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN

2011-02-19T06:00:00.000-05:00

Look for more from Ciara on February 24

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN

e-book THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN

THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN ~ BOOK OF THE YEAR NOMINEE

Excerpt:

Vin turned away from the cluster of faeries. He’d learned many things since becoming the Keeper, one of which was to use a firm hand when dealing with the Beings of Alfheim Haven. As a result, he rarely bowed to another’s will. He glanced down at the translucent quality of his hand and bit off an oath.

The blasted woman continued to read. Her throat must be hoarse by now. Time flowed differently in Alfheim Haven. A minute in the human realm equated to nineteen minutes here, sometimes even more. She must have read that story for almost three hours. If anything, she was tenacious.

He walked slowly. Her voice pulled at him. He resisted. Doesn’t she have anything better to do with her time?

By the time he reached the keep, his skin was completely transparent. He swung his cape over his shoulder and yanked the front door open with more force than he intended. He must rein in his temper and not give into the human emotion.

I won’t go. She can read until she has no voice and still, I won’t go.

“Vin?”

His mother’s gentle voice broke through his thoughts. His eyes met hers. A flitting worry etched her features before it fled from view. “She calls to you again, doesn’t she?”

He rolled his eyes. He should have never told his mother of his visit to the human realm.

“Just because she calls, doesn’t mean I must go to her. I won’t be manipulated.”

His mother turned her head away, but not before he caught her gentle smile. She studied the flowing fabric of her gown with more interest than it deserved. “Vin, when you saw the woman, did you think to ask her name?”

His mouth gaped. He clamped it shut. Awiergan! What had he been thinking? How would he find her when he bridged to the human realm if he didn’t know her name? Mefylleth drew near, and he wouldn’t have much time to locate the girl or the book. “Aye, but she managed to avoid telling me. It’s an oversight I intend to correct. Have no fear, Mother, this situation will resolve itself soon. I give you my word.”

Before he could change his mind, he disappeared from her sight and into the timeless void that would take him to the human realm—and the nameless woman who summoned him.

****

Ciara Gold

www.ciaragold.com

Available at Champagne Books or All Romance E-books

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004EPZ2G4

The Keeper of Moon Haven is available at Champagne Books
http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product/product&product_id=364

and at All Romance Ebooks http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-keeperofmoonhaven-489359-143.html

A BOOK TRAILER FROM HOLLY HUNT

2011-02-18T06:00:00.000-05:00

THE DEVIL'S WIFE
By
HOLLY HUNT

EXCERPT FROM T. K. TOPPIN

2011-02-17T06:00:00.002-05:00

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN

e-book THE LANCASTER RULE

A NOVEL OF THE YEAR NOMINEE

Here is another fresh and original excerpt from the Lancaster Trilogy. Check back on the 23rd for a wee interview with T. K. Toppin.

Excerpt from The Lancaster Rule Trilogy: Excerpt from The Eternal Knot: (From Josie’s POV during a luncheon with Elena)

She greeted me with a wide spread of her arms. At her wrists, several gold bracelets jangled and caught the afternoon light. She’d been lounging on a bench, posing, seemingly enjoying the gardens when I had walked in and stood aloofly motionless. A true stage diva, she played her part perfectly. Upon seeing us, she allowed her face to light up with pleasure and airily walked towards us, certain that we’d see her near-naked body through the sheer dress. Even Loeb, conservative and stoic as ever, proved he was still a man and not a robot, flicked his eyes to keep time with her jiggling boobs.

I would have rolled my eyes if I didn’t have to maintain a pleasant face.

“Madam Lancaster,” she beamed with a wide smile. Someone no doubt had briefed her that she was not allowed to shake my hand, as she stopped short at five feet and brought her hands together by her famous bosom. “A pleasure. Thank you so much for this opportunity. I fear, I made a nuisance of myself yesterday.”

“Ms. Greco,” I nodded and offered the gift that I really felt like flinging at her—but that would be wasteful. “A small token in honour of this afternoon.” Smiling just a fraction and making sure it reached my eyes, I placed the small box on the neatly laid table. A small part of me was impressed with my hard-practiced ‘wife of the President’ manner. I was getting quite good at it.

“Oh, so very kind. My thanks. Please, I insist you call me Elena.” She fluttered about the table, indicated I sit, and summoned her mechanical housekeeper for refreshments.

When the housekeeper arrived, I wasn’t surprised to see a replica of a young Greek god-like man. This time I nearly did roll my eyes. The next thing that happened was a perverse thought that had me wondering exactly what this droid was really used for. It was known to happen, after all, where droids were used to fulfil certain fantasies. I stole a discreet look at its crotch to see if it was so equipped and nearly choked on my own tongue. Engorged now had a completely new meaning. I casually glanced at Elena as she spoke with him, and made a mental picture of her in bed with this droid. I nearly shuddered at the thought.

Elena fussed and fretted with instructions, insisting on champagne and specifying that it had to be ice-cold or she’d be very upset, then sent the droid off with a flick of a finger. Envisioning a long afternoon, I glanced at Loeb, who still looked completely occupied with the floral arrangement. I wished for once, I were someone else.

JULIE EBERHART PAINTER ~ EXCERPT ~ MORTAL COIL

2011-02-16T06:00:00.003-05:00

Look for more from Julie on February 26

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN

e-book MORTAL COIL

Excerpted from Mortal Coil by Julie Eberhart Painter: The first “love scene” between our hero, Bill, and our heroine, Ellen, who have been working together to solve two murders in her work place. She’s a widow with a precocious ten-year-old named Patti.

~ * ~

There was nothing like physical activity to allay anxiety, so Friday afternoon, Ellen took off work early to tackle cleaning the kitchen and laundry room floors. She had only an hour left before Patti would come in and undo her efforts. She didn’t want her daughter skating around on the wet floor. Ellen had changed into old jeans and a loose-at-the-neck blue T-shirt. Her feet were bare.

Public radio was running a fundraiser, so she turned the living room stereo to the country western station—music to clean by. Ellen had opened the garage doors to take advantage of the warm, dry breeze blowing from the west. She danced around the kitchen, pushing the mop in time with the music. About half of the kitchen corners were now free of dirt, a testimony to what Millie would call Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. She’d moved the kitchen table into one corner and stacked the chairs on top. A rap on the screen door alerted her to a visitor.

She unhooked the screen and motioned Bill inside.

“Watch the wet spots.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the loud music.

“Cleaning the floor,” she said, raking the back of an arm over her wet forehead and wiping her hands on her jeans.

“Isn’t there an easier way?” Bill asked. “How about the old Irma Bombeck trick?”

“Any solution in a storm. What is it?”

“I’ll show you. Do you have any old towels?”

“Lots.”

“You need to put old terrycloth towels on your feet and dance around the floor.”

“Well, I’ve got the music. Let’s see if I can get some towels.” She placed the mop back in the wheeled bucket she’d borrowed from maintenance and headed for the garage. All the old towels Patti used to wash the car had been washed and dried and left on top of Tom’s abandoned toolbox. Grabbing a handful, she came back into the kitchen.

“Demonstrate,” she said, handing the bunch to Bill.

He wrung out the mop and set it aside. Soaking and pulling the towels through the wringer, he handed them to her one by one. “Okay. Put a towel under each foot and dance like you were dancing, slide, two, three, four, slide...”

Ellen smiled. “Terrific.”

Just then the announcer went to a commercial. They stood there looking at each other waiting for more music. Ellen dropped two more wet towels and stepped on them. Bill shucked his shoes and socks and dropped his towels. The next tune was a bouncy number that set Ellen’s head bobbing.

“More like this,” he said, sliding and dipping in dance mode. “Ever do the Texas two-step?” Bill called over the twanging guitars.

“No. But I’ve seen the contests on TV.”

“It’s a lot of fun. When I was stationed in San Antonio, we used to go to a bar where they had a dance floor. I learned how to do it while my friends lost their money, and sometimes their drinks, riding the mechanical bull. Keep the towels on your feet and put your hand on my shoulder. Take my left hand.”

Ellen placed her hand on Bill’s shoulder. He encircled her waist. She took his hand; warm, wet fingers entwined.

"Okay. On the count of four.”

He crushed her against his rib cage, his big hand on her back guiding her. They started out. “Kick your heels when you turn. Centrifugal force will hold the towels on.”
They bopped around the large kitchen. Soon Ellen was swinging her hips, pumping her hand and feeling very good about floor cleaning.

The linoleum glowed, wet with the water their weight squeezed from the towels. As they came to the end of the number, Bill slid backwards and spun Ellen twice. Her footing gave way, and she headed for the floor. When she grabbed on tighter to break her fall, Bill lost his balance and came down next to her. The bucket rolled rapidly across the kitchen, hit the opposite wall and tipped. Water spread across the floor, making a dirty wave before it receded toward the lowest corner. The dampness crept up their splayed legs from heel to calf. They looked at each other and laughed.

“I can’t believe it.” Ellen giggled. “You kicked the bucket.” More laughter. And Ellen remembered that this was the first time in a long while that she had used that phrase without feeling guilty.

Bill, out of breath, heaved himself up and grabbed for Ellen’s wet hand. As he tried to pull her, he slid and crashed against her, his feet extended. He put his head on her shoulder and pretended to cry. “It’s your turn to save me.”

They were sitting on the wet floor screeching with hysterics, pushing and wiping their eyes, out of breath from exchanging puns, when Patti walked into the kitchen from the school bus.
“Mother! Who made this mess?”

Through giggles, Ellen tried to explain the new floor-cleaning technique, but she was laughing so hard not much came out.

Patti shook her head. “You two should grow up.” She picked her way between the puddles and headed down to her room, calling over her shoulder, “I hope you don’t think I’m going to clean that up.”

“The only adult in the place,” Bill said.

How did she get so... old? Ellen worried.

Bill smiled. “Let’s try to stand up. I think we’re on our own with the cleaning.” He got to one knee and stood cautiously, pulling Ellen to her feet. The next dance played in the background. “Tennessee Waltz.” Ellen threw the rest of the towels down toward the wet corners. Let the “Georgia rats” (opossums) that occasionally infiltrated the basement take a shower; she was dancing.

They mopped and danced, easing their way across the kitchen on shoes of towels. Having circumnavigated the kitchen, Bill reluctantly bent over, picking up the sopping linens.

“What do I do with these?” He asked holding the rags aloft.

“Toss them in the washer over there.”

He opened the louvered doors and dropped them into the top loader.

“Well thank you, I think. I’ll never look at the kitchen floor the same way again,” Ellen said, shaking her pant legs loose.

“I would hope not.” He grinned.

Another, slower tune, a mournful, country waltz, played from the stereo. Bill held out his arms. Embracing Ellen, he placed his cheek to hers.

His rough face sent prickles of excitement up and around her hairline. As they danced, he pulled her closer. Every beat, his heart throbbed through her ribs, seeking comfort. He nuzzled her cheek, working his way to her lips. She relaxed against him. He was holding her up, scrunching her T-shirt and the flesh of her back in his big warm hands. He pressed her against him, flattening her breasts into his chest. They kissed. He tasted of wintergreen, her favorite flavor. His pineapple aftershave steamed around her in the humid kitchen. She closed her eyes, enraptured by the moment.

“One more kiss?” he whispered. “Then I must get back to the station. I’m way past my lunch break.”

They kissed again, long and tenderly, exploring each other’s lips and mouths. Bill ran his hands down her sides and circled her waist with his fingers. She felt validated—
a woman again—in a way she hadn’t felt since Tom was killed.
~*~

Julie Eberhart Painter is the Champagne Books author of Mortal Coil, in which she practices both medicine and law without licenses, and Tangled Web, a story close to her heart.

See Julie’s Web site at ~ http://www.books-jepainter.com/

MICHAEL W. DAVIS SHARES AN EXCERPT

2011-02-15T06:00:00.000-05:00

Author of the Year 2008, 2009 and nominee for 2010
Book of the Year Nominee for SHADOW OF GUILT

TAINTED HERO

Blurb:

As a decorated officer, Eric Emerson is honor bound to defend the helpless, and trained to survive against a ruthless enemy, yet these skills were useless to protect his family from a faulty legal system. Riddled with guilt, he’s torn between his combat experience and the rules governing society. The conflict shatters his marriage, his job, and his sanity, until she saves him from his demons. Together, they stumble upon the Osiris study, a secretive government report that predicts a dire future unless there are draconian sacrifices. The attempt to unravel the mysterious nature of the study targets them for assassination until, once again, Eric embraces his dark side. The revelation about Osiris demands a horrific choice: ignore what they’ve found or become the seed to mankind’s survival, but at a terrible cost.

Excerpt:

BOOM! The explosion ripped the three-man team off the ground and tossed them into the air. Eric slammed face first in the sand. He pushed up on his knees, pressed the detached flap of flesh back down on his forehead, wiped the blood from his eye, and fought the pain hammering inside his skull. He turned toward his friend, but Mac was gone, only a hole remained where he had been seconds before. He saw Duke lying in the sand ...

The sound of the vehicle pulling into the driveway brought him out of the dream and back to the kitchen in his small house. Eric stood up from the table, walked over to the window above the sink, and stared at the two figures in the black car. The glow from the streetlight was insufficient to see their faces,
but he knew, there in the passenger seat, it was her. The head of the passenger disappeared below the edge of the car window. When the head of the driver leaned back, Eric gripped the sides of his coffee mug. He watched for a moment to confirm his suspicions, and then he closed his eyes and lowered his
head. He fought the impulse to end it all, to rush outside and set things straight.

Perhaps she’s right. Maybe if I had been here, things would have turned out different.

He took a deep breath, started to glance out the window one last time, but instead returned to his seat at the table, and waited.

Eric tapped his knuckles on the table as he sat alone in the dark. His eyes bored into the kitchen door until he heard the key turn in the lock. He listened to the door close and the light footsteps as they echoed through the small two-story house and advanced on his position. When the entry to the kitchen opened, the woman flipped the light switch and was startled.

“Damn, you scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know you were home from your trip. Where’s your car?”
“In the garage.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Eric surveyed his wife’s attire: the three-inch heels, the opal earrings he gave her on their first anniversary, and the strapless black dress. The same outfit she used to wear only when they went out, the one that made him proud she was his and no one else’s.

“It’s a bit late to be coming in, isn’t it? Where have you been?”

Karen paused for moment, tossed her keys on the counter, and responded without looking at her husband. “I was out with friends.”

“Do I know these friends?”

“No.”

“It’s really getting old, to come home to an empty house every night, and find out you’ve been with your…friends.”

“Then stop traveling everywhere for that damn job. Besides, why the hell should you care what I do when you’re gone? I’m aware you’re not alone on those trips. I know you take one of your sluts with you, like that red headed major.”

Eric stood up. He scanned the hard expression on his wife’s beautiful face, the glistening black hair he longed to stroke. He glanced at the tight lips that once smiled whenever he was near, the soft lips he needed to touch, to taste. “No matter how many times you accuse me of infidelity, it doesn’t make it true. I swear I have not been with any other women during our entire marriage. Can you say the same for yourself?”

With an expression barren of emotion, Karen ignored the comment and turned toward the doorway to leave, but not without making one final cutting remark. “I don’t believe you. You haven’t been with me for a long time, so you must be screwing someone else. As always, this conversation has given me
a headache. Don’t wake me when you come to bed, or when you go jogging in the morning.”

Eric remained alone in the kitchen with only the light beneath the doorsill stretching across the floor. While he stared past the door into the next room, he whispered to the only woman in his life, “Where did it go, Karen? You loved me once. Is it so easy to forget what we used to have, together? I still
remember. I’ve tried hard not to let it go, but it becomes more difficult each day.”

Eric listened to the clock on his nightstand, and resisted the need for sleep. He knew it waited in the shadows of his nightmare. After two hours, he lost the battle. While he slept, the vision that hounded his dreams for so long returned: the fawn grazed toward the edge of the woodland, unaware of what lurked
just inside the trees. In an instant, the beast lunged onto his prey. While it consumed her innocence, Eric was helpless. Chained to an oak tree, he was forced to observe while the demon mocked him. He could only watch from the hill as he lost her forever to that ruthless bastard. He ripped at the chains as they cut deep into his skin. He struggled against the bonds until the shackles that had imprisoned him all these years were covered with his blood. He ignored the gnawing pain, pushed against the tree with his feet, until the steel tore deep into his flesh and exposed the bone, but the chains remained, stopped him from saving her. Eric looked away and closed his eyes, but the tears continued to pour down his cheeks. The beast grunted with pleasure as it wrested the life from her small slender body. Eric screamed in agony, but no one was there on the lonely hill to listen. While he watched her die alone, he wept. Eric sat up in his bed. The nightmare left him soaked in sweat. He gazed at his wife lying next to him, and started to reach for her. He needed to feel her soft skin, touch the taut ridge that flowed down her back. He yearned to be absolved of his guilt, or to achieve some semblance of comfort, but he pulled back, afraid of being rejected, again.

He felt alone, as always, all alone. He got up, walked into the spare bedroom, and curled up on the bed. Eric lay motionless, staring out the window at the stars in the night sky, until the tremors from the nightmare disappeared. After thirty minutes he fell asleep again, by himself, in the dark room

http://www.davisstories.com/index.html

WHERE ON EARTH DID VALENTINE'S DAY COME FROM?

2011-02-14T06:00:00.002-05:00

This is week three of our festivities, and we still have more to share with many offerings from Champagne Book authors and even more GIVE AWAYS.

Anyone who joins the Champagne Book Blog today will receive a free e-book! If you leave a comment you'll be part of today's drawing for a free e-book. If you let a friend know about our blog and they join the blog today, you'll both be entered into the end of the month drawing for two print books, an e-book and a surprise gift.

Today, Allison Knight presents the perfect blog for this day of Hearts and Flowers, and she will be giving away a copy of ROSES FOR MY LADY. Just leave a comment and be entered into today's drawing!

WHERE ON EARTH DID VALENTINE'S DAY COME FROM?

There are all kinds of legends about Valentine's Day, why it started, when and how. Some predate the celebration of that day to early pagan times. But, calling it Valentine Day originated from a priest who was martyred during the reign Claudius of Rome. Valentine was a Christian priest, and it is said the emperor Claudius didn't want married men in his army. Valentine defied the emperor and married couple anyway, army or not. After Valentine tried to convert the emperor to Christianity and failed, he was martyred. In 469 AD, February 14th was set aside as the day to honor his death.

So, why is this the day to declare your love or exchange notes announcing your undying devotion? Well it seems the night before he was killed, Valentine wrote to the jailer's daughter, a young girl who had befriended him, and signed his message, "In love, Valentine". But the practice of exchanging love messages on the day itself, really didn't start until the end of the middle ages. The Duke of Orleans, an important French Duke, claims the title of sender of the first Valentine. He was lock up in the Tower of London, after he fought the English - and lost. The Duke thought himself quite a poet, and the story goes, he sent his wife a love poem on February 14th while he was imprisoned.

This is why legends are just that, legends. True, the Duke of Orleans wrote poetry, lots of it. True he married a couple of times but his first wife died three years after the marriage, long before he fought the English. True he was locked up in the Tower of London as well as a lot of other places while France tried to gather the ransom demanded by the English king. However, was he married at the time he was imprisoned and did he indeed send a love note to his wife on February 14th? The actual recorded time line of his life makes you wonder, because there's no recorded marriage at the time he supposedly sent that poem. However, he is credited with sending the first Valentine. You decide.

And since that time Valentines of all sizes and shapes have declared a forever kind of love to one's sweetheart. I couldn't resist using a Valentine which ends up in the wrong hands as a basis for "Roses for my Lady."

Let me wish you all a happy Valentine's Day.

~*~
See another excerpt from Allison's ROSES FOR MY LADY on February 20!

www.AllisonKnight.com
www.AllisonKnight.blogspot.com
www.facebook/AuthorAllisonKnight.com

ENJOY AN EXCERPT FROM TANYA EBY

2011-02-13T06:00:00.003-05:00

Leave a comment and be entered into a contest for a free e-book from Tanya!

PEPPER WELLINGTON AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING SAUSAGE
By
TANYA EBY

Excerpt

ONE

Introduced ~ Amy (formerly known as Sausage) Wellington

Pepper Wellington, according to her daughter, was cursed with being interesting. It was infuriating, really, because her mother seemed to be completely incapable of doing anything boring or normal—which resulted in Pepper naming her one and only daughter something truly horrendous and unforgivable. She named her daughter Sausage. Not only was Sausage donned with a horrible name, but she was also cursed with hair as bright as brushed copper. Both these things became a curse to her, although her mother seemed to only notice the issue with her name.

“Oh, have a sense of humor,” Pepper said time and again to her daughter as she grew up. “Sausage is a terrific name. You’ll never meet another Sausage, I guarantee you that.”

Pepper had been right, which was why, at the tender age of nine, Sausage (in bright red pigtails and a homemade tie-dyed t-shirt dress) had marched in to the local police station and demanded that her name forever be changed to Amy. There were Amy’s everywhere, and very few of them as far as she could tell, were interesting. They did not officially change her name; Sausage had to wait until she was eighteen for that, but she thought she’d made her point.

Now, at the tender age of twenty-nine, Amy had completely transformed herself. Gone were the Goodwill clothes and handmade sweaters. Gone were the hippy communes and artist retreats her mother had dragged her to. Gone was the red hair cascading down her back. It had grown into a nice dulled auburn, and she wore it up in a clip, securing most of its color and sheen from sight.

In the last decade since her escape from her mother’s abundant bosom, Amy had gone to a respectable college and taken all the suggested classes. She majored in Business Administration and wore clothes purchased from Talbots in an array of colors ranging from khaki to grey to black, which she accented with pink. Gradually, the pink took over her wardrobe, not least of all because it was a color her soon-to-be-mother-in-law hated. Amy didn’t really care for pink, but it seemed to her to be so wholly different from her childhood that it was now a color she found inexorably drawn to, the way diabetics were sometimes drawn to sweets. Sausage—or rather, Amy—now worked for a local hotel at the front desk where she managed not to be impressive or promoted…and she had just met the man of her dreams: the very boring, very predictable, Peter.

Peter did not know Amy’s true origins. He could not even guess at her genesis and relation to a woman who read auras and believed (even at the age of sixty-three) that sex should be enjoyed frequently, loudly, and with many different partners. Nor could Peter guess that his wife-to-bes true name was Sausage, so that together--married--they would be Peter and Sausage Johnson…the association with penises here so painful to Amy that she dared not think about it. And she dare not tell her beloved that she was not plain, dull Amy, but had a past much darker, much more interesting than he could ever dream.

Amy’s greatest fear was that he would find her out and decide he could not marry her. And if he could not marry her, then she would not be able to stick to her timeline of married by twenty-nine, pregnant by thirt, and first born by thirty-one. The earth would tilt off its axis! Amy needed, above anything, a life that was predictable. A life, then, without her mother.

Had the choice been left to her, Amy wouldn’t have invited her mother to their wedding at all. She’d even contemplated hiring someone to impersonate her mother so that her secret could be kept safe, but it was not to be.

Peter had seen the pictures kept at the bottom of her dresser drawer when he’d calmly been searching for the box of condoms she kept hidden there.

“Hey, there, Amy,” he said (he often addressed her with her name no matter the situation). “Who’s this lady with the crazy hair?”

She’d had to explain that the woman with the red Afro was her mother, and then quickly disguised the reason for the t-shirt that read “Cunt Is My Favorite Four-Letter Word” as a t-shirt protesting that very word and using irony as a tool.

“My mom,” she’d explained, “is a radical Christian.” He’d nodded once, pushed the photos back under her white cotton panties, and then slowly unrolled the condom over his penis that he then inserted into her with medical precision. Precisely four minutes later, they’d each used the facilities, pulled on their clothes, and gone to Red Lobster for their Friday night fish fry.

Amy thought he’d forgotten her mother entirely until they’d been drawing up the guest list. “Amy, dear,” Peter’s mother Melody said softly. “Why, we haven’t invited any of your family. Please don’t tell me that you’re separated from your family.” Peter’s mother said the word ‘separated’ the way one would say ‘cancer’, with a horrified whisper.

“Separated! Goodness, no!” Amy laughed shrilly. “Why, my mom is so excited to come to the wedding. And my father, rest his soul, died when I was two.”

Peter’s mother smiled a soft understanding smile, and clasped Amy’s hand, never realizing that Amy had told two lies: 1) her mother had no idea there was a wedding as Amy hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a decade and 2) her father was not dead, but was alive and only reliable in his heroin addiction. He was currently living in Prospect Park in New York City. And by saying living in Prospect Park, Amy didn’t mean he had an apartment there. No. He pretty much lived in the park. That was a sad tale and best left in the dark.

Peter rubbed Amy’s shoulders. He always rubbed them a bit too hard and always in the same place, one hand placed on each shoulder--squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “Two months, Amy! Just two more months and I will finally meet your mother and we will be Peter and Amy Johnson.” Squeeze-squeeze.

Amy flinched not only at the squeezing, but the repetition of her name, which still, somehow, all these years later, felt as if it belonged to someone else.

~ * ~

Amy had hoped that in those intervening two months, Peter would forget about the existence of her mother. Sadly, he did not. In fact, he seemed to insert mention of her mother’s existence into every banal conversation they had. So much so that Amy began to look over her shoulder fearful that Pepper had somehow materialized in her living room. For the time, Amy was safe. And then, “Say, weren’t you going to invite your mother?” Peter asked. And, “Where’s the invitation to your mother,” and “Of course, with your mother coming and all we can have a fine family picture.” So after much hemming and hawing (internally only; externally she didn’t make a sound), Amy picked up the phone.

She held the phone in her hand, considered dialing the number, and then placed it gently on the receiver. She picked it up again, studied the earpiece and then noticed there was a bit of grey film over it. Peter had greasy hair. Or perhaps a greasy face. At any rate, grease was involved and it was disturbing. Deeply so.

She rummaged in her purse until she found one of the prepackaged wipes she used to clean everything from her glasses to the computer screen to the mirror to, now, a phone receiver. She scrubbed. Then put the phone back in the cradle. She picked it up again.

“You call your mother, yet, Amy?” Peter called from the living room. He was watching News Hour on PBS and eating popcorn. He always watched News Hour on PBS and ate popcorn; on the weekends, he was at a loss as to what to do until he’d started recording News Hour and then he’d simply watch his favorite segments. Amy found this two-hour fixation unbearable and would try to make herself busy. After fifteen or so minutes, though, Peter would call for her and she’d have to sit next to him and not listen to him crunching away and not forget to keep smiling and not, God help her, fall asleep. Tonight, she’d said she was calling her mother. And she was. Any moment now.

“Just left a message!” she called back. “It must be Bingo night!” She laughed and it was tinny and false-sounding. Peter’s silence in response made her breathe easier: he’d seen nothing amiss. Amy was lying all the time now, it seemed, thanks in no small part to her mother, or as she sometimes still called her: Mummy. “Mummy” was a joke they’d had from when they’d stayed up all night drinking White Russians, pretending to be English (in homage to her boyfriend Graham’s nationality). “Oh, Mummy, could you pass the Earl Gray,” she’d giggled. “Why, yes, cheerio dear daughter, I shall do that expressly.”

Mummy. The thought of it, the remembered conversation, made a little corner of Amy’s heart ache, though she didn’t like to admit it. Don’t focus on that. No. Focus on the truth. The truth was Amy hadn’t spoken to her mom since she was seventeen and still her mother was fucking up her life. Even that, the word ‘fucking’, a word Amy would never, ever employ, she now thought of freely. It was her mother’s fault. It was all Mummy’s fault. Just thinking about her mom brought out her inner Evil. For example: tonight, the lies came effortlessly. Hadn’t Amy said cheerfully: I’ve left a message! It’s Bingo night! My mummy will be so happy to finally meet you! She’d called these things to Peter as if they were true.

Lies humped like rabbits it seemed.

There was another word: humped. She hadn’t even thought of humping in ages. She never thought of humping period! And now her mind was a flurry of humping. Peter did not hump her. What they did was far more clinical. Peter and she performed intercourse with each other…though to be honest, sometimes Amy followed it up with a little solitary manipulation of her own in the bathroom. But all of this was just a digression. She needed to focus. She blamed her mother again. When she thought of her mother, her mind wandered. She worried it was genetic.

Internally Amy said: “Just pick up the phone, Sausage, and call your mother!” And then externally, she’d gasped. She’d referred to herself as that ‘other person’ and if she thought of herself as ‘Sausage’ how long would it be before she slipped and Peter found out the truth? She was not Sausage anymore! She would never, ever be a sausage. She didn’t even touch the stuff anymore. Not even chorizo. And she liked chorizo.

She sighed. She picked up the phone. Her fingers punched in the number. She never even paused to consider that all these years later her mother might have a new phone number…but she was not so lucky.
“Sausage, love, you still breathe like a sick horse.”

That was her mother’s greeting. No, “Hello, how are you, I’m sorry.” No. In fact, Amy hadn’t even said a word so how did her mother know?

And in answer to the question Amy did not voice, her mother responded, “Caller ID, honey, though it says Amy Wellington. I never did figure out why of all the names in the universe you chose one as plain as Amy. Everyone and their brother is named Amy.”

Amy inhaled sharply. Her mom continued. “So, are you pregnant? Or just getting married?”

She felt the word forming in her throat before she was able to croak it out “Married”.

A pause. She heard something familiar, the striking of a match. Her mother, yoga connoisseur and sometime vegetarian, was probably getting high. Well, actually, maybe that was harsh. She’d never actually seen her mother get high, though she suspected it. She could, however, almost smell the incense burning. Her mother said that it realigned her chakras. “Okay, then, pet. My only request is that I want to wear my stilettos and a red dress. If you’re okay with that then I will be there with bells on.”

“No bells,” Amy said. “And only if the stilettos are short.”

Another pause, an exhale, and then her mother said the words that started it all: “It’s a deal.”

~ * ~

Amy was obsessed with weddings. Ever since she was a girl, she’d dress up in white and pretend to walk down the aisle, until her mother caught her and tried to get her to participate in her Wiccan friend’s Mayday celebration. Amy (at twelve) might have danced around the Maypole if her mother hadn’t given her the details of its symbolism: “It’s phallic, Sausage. Do you know what I mean by phallic? Really, you’re dancing around an enormous penis, pointing straight to the heavens. Hallelujah!”

No. No maypoles. Amy preferred to bring her own symbolism to her wedding ceremony. It was the final act to wipe away her past and begin new, as a bride, a wife, and someone not at all connected to Pepper Wellington. She wanted to be someone who was not Sausage Wellington, but Amy Johnson. She would marry Peter and she would be dressed in a perfect white dress that was so flouncy she could be mistaken for a princess. And in her arms she would carry red roses.

They would marry in Leelanau, a small peninsula in northern Michigan--in fact surrounded by Lake Michigan where the waves would create a musical beat to the procession. She would kiss Peter just as the sun set behind them in a burst of oranges and pinks. There would be starlight and dancing, a fire pit on the beach. Laughter. Music. In short, there would be magic. She had every detail worked out and recorded painstakingly in her three ring binder, separated by wedding details: Invitations, Cake, Vows, Clothes, Rings, Music, Food, Beverages, Registry, Gifts, People to Invite. And the final tab--People Not To Invite--which included just two people: Pepper, and Amy’s first love, Graham Lillibridge. Graham was of some kind of mishmash heritage that resulted in a voice that was deep and slightly accented and a personality that could only be termed as thus: Graham Lillibridge was a complete and utter cad.

Amy slept with the book, brought the book to the bathroom with her, had it sit by her when she ate. It went wherever she did and as the Big Day approached every detail was coming true. Except, of course, her mother was now invited. Graham, though, was certainly not invited. He was probably married, or divorced, or had a mistress, and was in jail or recently released. There was no way she’d see him again. So she needn’t worry.

The thought that she needn’t worry led her to worry and to think again of Graham. They were seventeen. They were in love. The kind of love you only feel in your life when you are young and stupid and, Amy supposed, very vulnerable. She tried not to think about his bare chest under her fingertips or the way he said her name or the way he kissed her or how he smelled, somehow, of wild trillium. Really, it was impossible not to think of him and the day when she left him; when she left her mother; when she left her life far, far behind her. It was a sad story. One Amy would not share with anyone except with herself, late at night, when Peter lay snoring next to her.

In her dreams she’d sometimes awaken gasping because Graham was kissing her and she could feel his lips pressing against her. But it was more than his lips. She felt a pressure covering her whole body, as if he lay on top of her. “Am I hurting you?” he’d asked, the one time he was entirely gentle. “Oh, yes,” she’d said. And then: “Hurt me a little bit more.” Even now those words haunted her. Pathetic. Ridiculous. Twisted. And, yes, hot. Very hot.

That was when people still knew her as Sausage. Graham called her “My little, spicy Sausage.” Not original, no, but she liked it. She liked him. Sometimes, even now, she missed him. She ached for him the way she imagined one could miss a ghost limb.

She would not think of him though. She was getting married! She, Amy Wellington, was getting married to dear, predictable, hairy Peter! And wasn’t it just grand? Wasn’t it just romantic?

She ran her finger over Graham’s name and then in one clean swipe, ripped the page entirely from the binder. Of course he wouldn’t be at the wedding. Just, unfortunately, her mother. She needed no other reminder of him. Best to make him disappear completely.

(Even though the page was torn, crumpled and tossed in the garbage, his name still existed in that binder. It whispered on every page, in every white space, in every letter of the alphabet. A ghost limb, indeed.)

http://www.heyblunderwoman.com

ENJOY A MICHAEL W. DAVIS VIDEO

2011-02-12T06:00:00.001-05:00

BLIND CONSENT
by
Michael W. Davis

Why A Series?

2011-02-11T08:49:00.005-05:00

Many readers enjoy resding more than one book with characters they recognize from a previous book by that author. Or they like the setting and want more books from that same area. Or they're interested in a certain subject that each book in the series will feature. These last two provide a good opportunity to have the series written by different authors. I've done every one of them.
Many of my series books written just by me hsve been trilogies. Readers recognize the hero and heroine (sometimes the villain, too) as minor characters from the first book when they read the second and third books. And you're not committed to go on forever, which can become a problem.
I've also written more than one book where the connetion is the setting--for example the Reno area of Nevada.
But the series I'm discussing here is the one written by different authors where the connection is an object--in this case Tarot Cards. I belong to an online group consisting of authors of a "certain age," meaning we're either all old bats or getting there. But we prefer to call ourselves The Grande Dames. We had put together a previous anthology, which sold to a publisher and, since I was the coordinator, I found it a real problem. So this time we decided to do a series. Since one of the authors is an expert about Tarot Cards, we each chose a different card. Mine was the Wheel of Fortune. She agreed to be the consult for the cards meanings, and I offered to find a publisher.
At the point where we were all busily writing our stories, since I was a Chmpagne author, I queried Ellen. She immediately found the perfect name for the series--IN THE CARDS--and asked to see a short synopsis from all of us first. Some of the group were't accustomed to writing synopses, so I wound up vetting some of them--mostly to make sure they showed the role the Tarot card played in the plot. I was the first one to send in my synopsis, which was accepted, and the first to finish my book and so LADY LUCK became the launch book for this series. Yay!
Warning! If it's your idea to create a series with other authors, be prepared to take on more than simply writing your story.
We did create a series with very different story lines. While the subgenre for all is paranormal, some of the stories turned out to be historical rather thsn contemporary, which I think made it a more intereing series for the readers. Not all of the stories are out yet, but do try them--you might be glad you did!

I'm giving away a download of Lady Luck to someone who leaves a comment. Jane

ENJOY VICTORIA RODER'S BOOK TRAILER

2011-02-10T06:00:00.000-05:00

BOLT ACTION
By
VICTORIA RODER

EXCERPT FROM T. K. TOPPIN

2011-02-09T06:00:00.000-05:00

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN

e-book THE LANCASTER RULE

A NOVEL OF THE YEAR NOMINEE

Here are some fresh and original excerpts from the Lancaster Trilogy. Check back on February 17th for another excerpt and on the 23rd for a wee interview with T. K. Toppin.

Excerpt from The Lancaster Rule: (John’s POV on Josie — removed a not-so-PG13 sentence…)

John had a hard time stamping down his anger.

That, that, woman!

She agitated him so. If she weren’t injured as she was, he wanted to grab her and shake her until her teeth fell out. Until those disturbing green eyes fell out like marbles and bounced onto the floor.

Before meeting her, he had never once questioned himself or his actions. But now, he found himself doing stupid things, behaving like a befuddled ass, and acting like a bull-headed elephant in the height of mating season. Especially, in front of her.

And what did she mean, he had no hold over her? That hurt him to the core. He felt foolish and gutted by her words. Did she mean that she wanted him to have a hold on her? Was that an invitation? He shook his head to clear it. Or was that the simple truth? She said she cared for him, or was that just a figure of speaking? And did this also mean that she did like him—before? But not anymore? He was confused. Women spoke in too many riddles! And his head was starting to ache with the beginnings of a blinding headache.

Excerpt from The Master Key: (From the POV of James, a Rogue, on Josie.)
She is just a woman, he reminded himself. Like any other, like so many others. An assignment—a contract. And when the job is complete, he’d move on to the next. So, why then did he feel that he had to warn her? To help her. Was it because of whom she was married to? And why did he feel so disgusted with Ho? Why was his conscience distracting him? Nagging him like a wife.

He found her studying him. She was attractive, not overly. It was more her uncaring manner regarding her beauty that made her more alluring. It triggered a spark within him—one he thought he’d managed, controlled. She distracted him. Her vibrant green eyes were the first thing you saw, then her mouth—soft, full, and delicate. What came out of it was another matter.

“They say you are very dangerous,” he asked conversationally.

“They say a lot of things about me. You’d have to be more specific.”

Whipcord response in the face of danger. He nearly groaned with appreciation. “You saved your husband by stepping before a flying disc. Took a full blast from an explosive and helped bring down Uron Koh.”

“Oh…that,” she shrugged. “All in a days work. Are you getting scared?”

“Is it true you jumped onto his back and rode him like a horse, and then led him straight into a wall?”

Josie rolled her eyes with an uncaring manner. “Somewhat true. I had no reins, so, it was a bit difficult to steer him.” She let out a stupid laugh. “Would you like me to demonstrate on you?”

He sat considering something, ignoring her remark. She would fight to protect those she cared about, the most honourable way to fight, to live. Somewhere along the line, he’d lost his honour. For some reason, she reawakened it. Why? Surely, not because of her husband…

Why should that matter? This is merely a job, an assignment, he reminded himself.

“Be wary of Ho,” he said quietly before he could stop himself. “He cares only for himself. Once he’s done with you, you’ll be discarded. He’ll go back for the girl—not yet, but eventually. He cares a great deal for her, yet he can hurt her without a second thought. He did not say so, but it shows in his manner, how he speaks to her. Do not trust her even though she is young. She has been…influenced. They are both evil.”

Josie’s brows flew up high. James saw her swallow, as if an unpleasant taste seeped into her mouth, bitter like bile.

“I thought you liked the girl?”

“Admiration for her courage is one thing. That does not mean she isn’t evil.”

“What do you mean?” she snapped. “Why are you telling me this?”

Obviously alarmed, she pushed back from the table.

AN EXCERPT FROM ALLISON KNIGHT'S ROSES FOR MY LADY

2011-02-08T06:00:00.001-05:00

EXCERPT:

She raised the lamp and opened the door to the room she shared with Charlotte, setting the lantern on the table beside the bed. Discarded gowns still draped the dresser, bed and chair. Working through the room, she picked up the garments and put them away.

When she finished, she glanced around, pleased with the results. She could never stand confusion.

When a scrap of paper caught her attention, she reached down and snatched it from the floor. She lifted it toward the lantern. It had been folded, sealed and bore no name.

She turned it over and over in her hands. Who sent this and when had it been delivered? Was it meant for Charlotte or for her?

She hesitated. Should she open it, or leave it until Charlotte returned?

Merry tapped the paper against her fingers, stirring a waft of fragrance into the air. Rosewater? She smiled and wondered what to do. Curiosity got the better of her. What if it were something important needing her attention?

There was nothing for it. It needed to be opened. She broke the seal, lifted the flap and pulled a small slice of paper lace from its enclosure, releasing more fragrance.

Oh, how sweet! She sighed with relief, not certain what she‘d expected. This was only a valentine!

An oval picture of red and white roses, encircled with ivy rested against a square of paper lace. Red and white roses? Entwined with ivy? The symbols of marriage! She sighed. How romantic.

She didn’t bother with the sentiment printed over the roses because a smaller note floated under the lace to the floor. Grabbing the piece, she leaned closer to the lamp. As she read the words sprawled over the paper, she tensed and groaned with dismay. It is arranged. Midnight on the fourteenth, in front of St. Matthew’s. I have a special license. K.

“K? Oh, no Charlotte, not Kenneth Sinclair.” The words slipped past her numb lips. But, all during Charlotte’s season, she talked of nothing else but the handsome young man with that awful brother.

A special license. Meet at St. Matthew’s. The fourteenth. Today was the fourteenth.

“No. Oh, no!” she shouted.

Kenneth planned to elope with her sister this very night! That could not be allowed to happen. It would ruin the family name. She couldn’t allow this. She swirled toward the door. Oh, what would her father say when he had left the care of Charlotte in her hands?

She closed her eyes, remembering his last entreaty to her as he rode away from the cottage.

Now, don’t let that sister of yours get into any trouble. You’re older and much more sensible. You take care of her. I’m counting on you.

She shuddered. An elopement! The family would be disgraced. Of course, she should have expected something like this. Gavin Sinclair, Baron Dunleigh, was, according to Charlotte, a monster. He only just returned to England and was already ordering every moment of Kenneth’s life. Vaguely, she remembered Charlotte saying something about Kenneth being ordered to travel to some island at the behest of his brother.

Was this elopement intended to divert the brother’s dictum? Or did her scattered-brained sister believe a marriage to Kenneth would change big brother’s attitude?

Oh, this was terrible. Marriage would only make matters worse, much worse.

Pacing back and forth and chewing on her lower lip, she tried to decide what to do. She hesitated, wondering if Charlotte expected this letter.

But it hadn’t been opened. Charlotte hadn’t gotten this message. The seal was still in place.

Merry almost fell to her knees in thanks. Obviously, Aunt Sophia arrived with this note and somehow the message had been overlooked or ignored in the confusion of their departure.

She could stop this foolishness before any harm could be done. A quick trip to St. Matthew’s, a sound scolding to that young man and Charlotte might never be the wiser.

Thank God Charlotte had already left home and, thank the good Lord her father was out of the country. She had time to straighten out this mess. When Charlotte returned from her weekend with Aunt Sophia, Merry planned to make it clear the days of her acting irresponsibly were over.

Placing the lantern on her bedside table, she slipped on her hose and reached for her boots. Shedding her gown, she stepped into her dark gray riding habit.

It was less than an hour’s ride to St. Matthew’s. After she told Kenneth Sinclair her sister was no longer available, she would return home. And when she talked to him, she intended to give him a good piece of her mind. Imagine asking a girl barely turned eighteen to leave the safety of her home and travel nearly an hour just to meet him! What sheer folly.

~*~
More from Allison on February 14 and 20.

www.AllisonKnight.com
www.AllisonKnight.blogspot.com
www.facebook/AuthorAllisonKnight.com

KEEP THOSE PARTY HATS ON!

2011-02-07T06:00:00.001-05:00

Greetings One and All,

We are into our second week of partying with Champagne authors. We hope you are having a fabulous time. Make certain you visit us each day, for you never know when we'll announce a GIVE AWAY. Like today! Leave a comment and you'll be entered into a drawing for an e-copy of CHASING YESTERDAY.

AFTER THE TEARS
a short story by:
Angelica Hart and Zi

~~*~~

She stood there for a long while, listening to the wind, the occasional eruptions of drizzle and eventually walked to the edge of the grave. She bent her head. “Bye Dad. I love you. I am already missing you.” Before she could move her head back, a tear rolled from her cheek and splunked upon the coffin surface punctuating the dirt cross. Everyone else had left, but she wasn't yet ready, she needed time with just Dad, just her and the man who had been her rock all of her life.

After awhile, she retreated about forty feet away but was still in view of the grave. She watched the caretakers lower his coffin, and then cover it with damp earth. She imagined him being welcomed home. Some of the soil splattered against the engraved name of Emily Watkins, Cyndy's mother. She had been passed before Cyndy could remember her. It had been just her and Dad.

Cyndy Watkins started at the graves and cried. Alone.

Would she always be so? Nearing thirty and being attractive, she had her share of dates, but she never clicked with anyone, never found that special love. Her dad threatened quite often to set her up with a blind date. He had a lady friend, who had a son, a real nice man with green eyes and a gentle manner. His friend had met Cyndy once, thought her perfect for her boy. Cyndy didn't remember the meeting, and would always manage to avoid any parentally arranged dates. Funny she thought of that now. Then again, while in the final stages of cancer, he had so worried that that she wasn't settled, as he put it. "Oh Dad," she whispered, and felt her chest tighten with the throbbing ache of emptiness.

Once the final shovel-full of earth was moved and raked smooth, the sun as if cued, began to push itself through the clouds slowly turning the dull pall of the mid-morn rain into a beautiful spring afternoon, almost magical, signifying a new beginning.

Cyndy continued to sob gently, sucking in shallow, painful breaths, allowing hurt to express itself.

Like the slow, intrusion of the sun a few moments before, a man’s voice encroached upon her grief. At first it was just a low murmur, then as if the wind had deliberately turned direction, it picked up the voice and brought it to her like a gift. She turned, surveyed the landscape but did not see anyone though she still heard it. The voice. Where? It danced upon the air. Playfully. Though obviously male, she could not discern what he was saying, just that he sounded happy with the buoyancy of an entertainer. Drawn, like a child to a puppet show, she moved toward the theatrical tones and intonations.

Back to her, he knelt there, right on a grave. She took a quick step sideways and hid behind a tall monolithic granite monument. Watching. Listening. A man, clad in a green slicker with the hood up rose, his face still hidden from view. He sat upon a green and white blanket that had been arranged neatly. He didn’t notice her. The blanket was perfectly square to the stone he faced. A brown wicker basket squatted to his left. Open. Food occupied two plates before him while adjacent the plates, she spotted two bottles of water. “A picnic?” she muttered, shaking her head, brows knitting.

An occasional laugh interrupted his loud speech. A gesture or two marked many of his sentences. Again, playful.

She thought, how inappropriate and insensitive. This was a cemetery, for goodness sake! What right did he have to be so disgraceful? So disrespectful? She moved closer with all intentions of saying something in a scolding Sunday school teacher way. She was just in the right mood to scold someone, even though a small voice told her she shouldn't. The closer she walked the more she began to hear even though the breeze kept distorting the intonations.

He sat Indian-legged with a leather-bound briefcase setting in his lap. He read from the case. Laughing. Teasing. Gesturing. Talking to the headstone as if it were a friend and loved one. Showing moments of seriousness. Stopping for emphasis. Sipping some water. Eating a grape. Looking down at his portfolio, studying a minute then talking again. Turning the pages slowly. Entertaining the stone.

His actions brought her pause. They were so wonderfully personal. Private. She felt the pull of embarrassment because they were so private.

She crouched behind another stone, listened to his stories, becoming engrossed when he talked about a baseball game he saw and the foul ball that bounced two seats away. A genuine heart-felt humanity emerged when he talked about a calico cat that got into his home and hid under his bed for two days, tormenting his dog. He finally caught her and found her a home, and he wished he had known her better. The ‘her’ she first thought was the cat. Then she realized it was the person buried. More tears emerged when she heard his voice crack under the abrupt intensity of emotion. “I truly miss you. I wish we had had more time. When it was just getting good, you were taken. I have been blessed to have you, but hurt that you are gone.”

New tears streamed down Cyndy's cheeks.

He rose. Collected his picnic. Kissed two of his fingers, touched the stone and said, “See you next year. Don’t go anywhere. Okay!”

Cyndy smiled at his humor remarking beneath her breath, “What a gentle, caring man.”

He walked away without ever looking in Cyndy’s direction. She waited until he was gone then curious, believing that it had to be his wife, approached the headstone. She read it and saw that the date of death was the same as today, but many years earlier. She calculated date of birth and death. It was his mother. A flash of bonding with the soul and spirit of the unknown man formed, a bond, born in the loss of a parent on the same date. Their date. This man she had been about to scold became a distant, even though unknown, friend. May 12th connected them. Forever.

Her tears stopped. Cyndy somehow didn’t feel quite as alone.

A year passed, she had forgotten about the man, but not about visiting her parents' graves. Unlike the day of the funeral, it was a glorious day, truly spring with the promise of summer. She knelt before the tombstones and began a long discourse about her work, her life, her lack of romance.

Suddenly a man's voice interrupted. "Care for some water?" He held out a water bottle. "My name's Charles."

She looked up into kind green eyes and remembered the voice, the tender modulated tones from the year before.

At that moment something clicked, something solid and right. "Thank you," she said, and instantly knew in a strange warm wash of certainty that she'd never be alone again.

In the heavens, Charles' mother and Cyndy's father grinned at each other. They finally managed the blind date their stubborn children had once refused.

****

We'd love to hear from anyone interested in what we do. Anyone who writes us at angeliahartandzi@yahoo.com and leaves an s-mail address, we will send you a gift and add you to any future mailings.

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING YESTERDAY
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

BOOKS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com

MICHAEL W. DAVIS SHARES AN EXCERPT

2011-02-06T06:00:00.001-05:00

Author of the Year 2008, 2009 and nominee for 2010
Book of the Year Nominee for SHADOW OF GUILT

BLIND CONSENT

Blurb:

The town of Tanglewood Falls offers breath-taking views, yet the serendipity is misleading. The impoverished people and their forgotten community have been unwittingly exploited. Their act of trust and blind consent altered their existence and the secret has remained buried, until Ryan returns to explore his heritage. For twenty years, he’s been haunted by confusing images, recurring dreams rooted in his past. He’s driven to understand their meaning, to obtain answers to his lost memories. Ryan’s search for truth collides with the folklore of the simple people and the belief that their beautiful Annie is blessed. Together, they unravel the mystery, but at a price. They become targets of those responsible for what happened to the town. As the truth is exposed, Ryan must grapple with his own reality; the fact that his past, his nightmares, and Annie’s secret, everything is entangled in the desperate act of one lonely man.

Excerpt:

Ryan stared at the horizon and watched the stars vanish into the ocean. His eyes shifted to the dancing flashes of moonlight glittering across the water. From a bench positioned next to the boardwalk, he listened to the pounding in his head as the waves crashed against the beach. He glanced at the climbing tide and observed the sand castles from past visitors erode away.

He caught the moon’s reflection off the sign ten yards to his left, Dup’s Hamburgers and Fries above the closed concession stand. He watched as the clump of ketchup squirted onto his arm from the gorgeous blonde standing by his side. She apologized and admitted her mistake, but Ryan always suspected the accident was by design. She was like no woman he had ever seen, touched, or smelled. In a heartbeat, he knew she was the one. He had never experienced such peace, such happiness, as when they were together. The strongest memories, those that still flooded his senses, were when they made love, completely blinded by their attraction for each other. Everything was still there: the taste, her scent, and the pleasure.

He slammed his hands against his ears and pressed hard to drive out her voice, her laugh. He pushed against his eyes until the pressure caused flashes of light. He wiped his face with his sleeve, scanned the black sky, and tried again to grasp the reason. He rubbed the skin on his knuckles until the flesh turned
red.

I was the one that set things straight. Is this your answer? You can’t be that cruel. Is this some form of divine justice?

His quest for an answer was returned by silence, except for the sound of the waves against the shoreline. The rhythmic noise hammered his eardrums. The terrible images of what he had experienced tonight flashed like a beacon inside his brain.

He searched the horizon for an answer, for relief, but there was nothing. In rebellion for his loss, his agony, Ryan replied to the silence in the only way he knew how. He gazed into the speckled night sky and with a harsh crackling tone, he yelled at no one. “If this is your idea of justice, then the hell with you!”

After an eternity, the faint hue of gray at the edge of the stars signaled the approaching sun. He watched the white surf form a backdrop for the spectrum of colors bathing the debris line on the beach. He smelled the brackish odor of foam mixed with seaweed and water soaked driftwood cast onto the shore.
The first rays of morning light announced the arrival of a fresh beginning. The ballet of nature’s constant struggle with itself began as the gulls circled above the shoreline searching for morsels to fill their empty gullets. A fiddler crab raced toward the surging tide and braved the onslaught of diving
predators. The crab and two gulls played a harsh game darting back and forth along the waterline. One bent on escape, the others fighting against hunger. After several missed attempts, one of the gulls swooped down and captured the fleeing prey. The winner tried to race off with its bounty, only to have the second bird execute a midair dogfight. After several attempts, the thief ripped the prey free and chased the crab as it plummeted into the temporary safety of the water. The fiddler floated at the surface to tease the hovering tormentors at his momentary victory, while the gulls squawked and squalled blaming each other for their loss. The brief splash and swirl of a fin marked the price of the crab’s mockery. The dolphin flipped her snout at the losers’ overhead and tossed down her morning meal.

Ryan examined the cruel reality of nature’s riddle played out in the surf. The undeniable truth that some must perish so that others can survive. The commotion somehow pushed back the grief and blocked out the memory long enough to catch motion between the series of tuff covered mounds of sand.

A family slowly drudged through the loose grains of silica, hands bulging with baskets, blankets and toys to support their outing. Once they broke beyond the edge of the dunes, the sight of waves rolling against the shore caused the two children to drop everything. They yelled and screamed as each raced for
the prize; the opportunity to be first wet.

The small toddler in the rear tried to pursue her siblings but stumbled twice against the soft sand. The clambering of young voices ripped Ryan back into
his world. The sights and sounds of the children provided an abrupt awakening to his loss and his forgotten responsibility. “Emma.”

http://www.davisstories.com/index.html

JULIE EBERHART PAINTER'S POETRY

2011-02-05T06:00:00.005-05:00

Julie Eberhart Painter is the Champagne Books author of Mortal Coil, in which she practices both medicine and law without licenses, and Tangled Web, a story close to her heart.

See Julie’s Web site at ~ http://www.books-jepainter.com/

Look for more from Julie on February 16 and 26

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN

e-book MORTAL COIL

Poetry through Osmosis

By Julie Eberhart Painter

The ductless vessel sends its rich, re-nourished fare
to those receptive hearts,
past mind, past reason; no thought need attend
that transcendental episode that never ends.

Peerless Love

By Julie Eberhart Painter

Exempt from mortal boundaries, love empowers
imparting heart to heart this charge:
Hold loosely in a gentle palm,
beloved and solemn as a psalm.

Julie Eberhart Painter

Goodbye

By Julie Eberhart Painter

You came to me on wounded wings of gray
when summer seared our mutual bond of clay.
Your jet took light, then white climbed unafraid,
gained height to pinnacles I'd not attained.

Go write your sagas and your epic histories.
Employ the learned, ingenious arts held deep in mystery.
Observe the world though re birthed eyes,
and climb beyond my distant skies,
beyond my reach and knowledge long forgot.

You need me not, as you are now aware.
I leave you softly as a zephyr's sigh,
and come again in spring's Jedi.
For I am here, will always be,
and each year will return most tenderly.

Haiku for a Sick Friend

By Julie Eberhart Painter

Cherishing with
Band-Aids of
love:
cantaloupe
papaya
decaf
soup

Reunited

By Julie Eberhart Painter

A slow Aha-ah@ laughed from your chest.
A satisfied sound made after climbing three flights,
knowing at last I’m on the right floor,
the right place.

I can’t believe it.

You called. I want to live!

Childhood blends.
Years disintegrate. Memory sharpens.

You are me; I you.
You are life, my youth.

When I’m with you, I love myself.
All my envelopes are open.

I will bind up my love when the end nears.
For now, I want to live.

CIARA GOLD ~ EXCERPT ~ THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN

2011-02-04T06:00:00.004-05:00

Look for more from Ciara on February 19 and 24

Leave a comment on any of her days and be entered into a drawing to WIN

e-book THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN

THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN ~ BOOK OF THE YEAR NOMINEE

(Ciara will be giving away a copy of THE KEEPER OF THE MOON - so leave her a comment to be placed in the end of the month drawing. Don't forget to add your e-mail addy.)

Blurb:

On the southern fringes of the Mendip Hills sits the Castle Hamingjur, an abandoned structure most fear haunted. Yet, on the rare occasions when the Hunter’s Blue Moon occurs, the Keeper occupies this mysterious castle where he guards the bridge to Alfheim Haven.

Noreen Willshire discovers more than fairytales hidden between the pages of Beletania’s diary. She opens the ancient book and finds a pathway to a Faery Realm where all manner of mythical creatures reside. In her naïveté, she summons the Keeper before his scheduled time in the human realm. In that brief moment, the mysterious wizard touches her soul with more than magick. She promises to return the diary during Mefylleth, a time when the barriers between the two realms melt away, but danger stalks her path. Torn between her desire to make a new life for herself in America and her growing love for the Keeper, she must bridge the gap between magick and time to follow her heart.

Excerpt:
“Oh. But why... ?”

“Why did she seek you out?” Vin let go of the reins, and the horse went down on all fours. She laid her head in Noreen’s lap. Noreen reared back, startled by the unicorn’s forward behavior. Vin stared down at them both. The stovepipe hat made him appear taller, larger than life.

“Unicorns are drawn to virgins.”

Warmth flooded her skin. He never ceased to surprise her with his blunt words. “A gentleman would never talk of such things to a lady whom he has just met.”

“And there you make your first mistake. I come from a different realm where etiquette and cultural differences abound. Sex is as natural as breathing. Love, however, is a rare and bonding element. Never confuse the two.”

She ignored the turn of the conversation and redirected it. “Will she let me stand? I feel at a disadvantage while I look up at you.”

He tugged on Kirin’s reins. The unicorn tore its gaze from hers. After some coaxing, Vin managed to pull her away from Noreen’s lap. Straw poked at her shins. Noreen braced her hands upon the wooden slats on either side of the stall and pulled herself up. Vin had his hands full trying to restrain the unicorn or else he probably would have lent her a hand. She felt grateful his mind was occupied elsewhere. With all the talk of virgins and sex, she didn’t feel up to having his hands upon her person.

Once she stood, he let go of the reins, and Kirin rested her muzzle upon Noreen’s shoulder. She smiled. The unicorn acted as stubborn as some humans she knew. She stroked Kirin’s nose, enjoying the velvety texture of her hide.

“You could command anything of her at this moment, and she would grant your wish if it were in her power to do so.”

Her gaze snapped to his. The soft glow of a lantern illuminated his harsh features. As tall and handsome as he was, he would turn many a head. She swallowed hard. He stood proud and confident; a master of illusion to make her think him so handsome. “Could I command her to reverse time?”

“You could, but it would gain you nothing.” He edged nearer. “It was your destiny to find the diary.”

She licked her lips and pressed her back against the railing. “She doesn’t look like the unicorns I’ve seen in books.”

“The golden horn that marks her as unicorn disappears while she serves me in the human realm. Unfortunately, she still maintains her cloven feet and a body style not quite that of a horse.” He took another step. “Kirin is most generous of heart.”

“Don’t come any closer, Vin.”

“You don’t appreciate being backed into a corner? Nor do I.”

“When have I backed you into a corner?”

“You don’t know, do you?” He took another step forward.

She shook her head. His gaze held her captive. Her heart accelerated, and her palms became moist.

He pulled a rose from his lapel and tucked it behind her ear. “You make me feel things I have no wish to feel.”

Her back pressed against the rough wood. She was truly trapped. Screaming would serve no purpose. Nor did she want to scream. Something hypnotic kept her pinned in place.

He removed his hat and bent his head. The scent of rose and hay hung heavy in the air. Warm breath teased her neck. Did he mean to kiss her?

He growled. “This is not what I want.”

“You want Beletania’s diary. I’ll—I’ll fetch it, if you but give me a moment.”

He braced his hands on either side of her head. “The book be damned. No—I think it’s too late for that. I want more than the book.”

“Please.” What did she beg for? Release or his firm lips upon her own?

He dropped his hat to the ground and moved with a quickness that startled her. Before she realized his intent, his hand cupped her cheek. His touch was enough to awaken all sorts of forbidden feelings. She leaned into his palm, hoping he would kiss her and hoping he would not.

****

Ciara Gold

www.ciaragold.com

Available at Champagne Books or All Romance E-books

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004EPZ2G4

The Keeper of Moon Haven is available at Champagne Books
http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index.php?route=product/product&product_id=364

and at All Romance Ebooks http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-keeperofmoonhaven-489359-143.html

TANYA EBY'S NEW RELEASE

2011-02-03T06:00:00.000-05:00

Leave a comment and be entered into a contest for a free e-book from Tanya!

This month Champagne Books will release my second title for them and my first mystery. It’s called Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage. It’s a ridiculous title; I know. I love fun titles and the word ‘sausage’ just makes me laugh. It’s possible I may actually be a teenage boy, at least internally.

So one morning I sat down to write, knowing I wanted to write a mystery, and the title appeared to me. It didn’t appear to me literally, like floating in front of me or anything—that would be cause for calling my therapist. No. It just sort of came to me while I stared at the blank page and I knew that was the title of my next book. It made me laugh, and it also made me want to know what the book was about.

I spent the next five months or so figuring out what the book was about as I wrote it. Characters popped out on the page and started saying and doing ridiculous things. And then there was a string of murders! And there was a reason, after all, for the ridiculous title, a reason that I think has a little bit of heart.

Most of my writing works this way. It starts out ridiculous and/or absurd, but then, there is a point to it. Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage is a little racy (with language) and filled with quirky characters. If there wasn’t a mad killer on the loose, then these are people I’d love to have over for a dinner party. There would be so much tension and awkwardness it would be just delightful. Sadly, I can’t invite them over, because they’re just characters.

I can, however, visit them in another book…which I think I might just do. I’m just waiting for the next title to make itself appear. Maybe this one will involve curry. I’d really like to write something that centered around a curry dish if only because then I could do extensive ‘research’ at an Indian restaurant. Something to look forward to I guess.

Until then, check out the new book. It’s a fast and funny read. I promise you.

http://www.heyblunderwoman.com

ABOUT

Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage
by Tanya Eby

Amy Wellington is about to get married and she couldn’t be more miserable. Sure, she loves Peter Johnson (even though his name does bring up certain, um, associations in her mind), but the problem is her mother, Pepper. Amy hasn’t spoken to her in over a decade and for good reason: her mother is cursed with being interesting. Take for instance, Amy’s real name: Sausage. She blames her mother entirely.

The wedding will take place at the beautiful Leelanau Lodge, a secluded spot in northern Michigan. When Peter convinces Amy to invite her mother, Amy knows there’s going to be trouble. But how could she know the trouble will involve the very sexy Graham (her first love), a series of murders, and excellent lentil soup?

In “Pepper Wellington and the Case of the Missing Sausage” there’s murder and sex, but not at the same time. There is also a string of questions. Will Amy finally live her life authentically? Will she choose a grey life with Peter, or a colorful one with Graham? How many people will end up dead? And most importantly…what kind of mother would name her daughter Sausage?

****

Don't miss Tanya Eby's excerpt on February 13!

TATTLE AND WRYE CELEBRATE CHAMPAGNE BOOK AUTHORS

2011-02-02T09:00:00.000-05:00

FROM THE DESK OF
DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.
AND
ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Greetings,

Dressed in an old-fashioned violet patterned dress, a huge picture hat, lacey gloves and a parasol, Tattle tosses out her arms and quotes with a sigh, "Love is smoke made with the fume of sighs."

"William Shakespeare," Wrye declares, "And how appropriate for this month of poets, hearts, and romantic stories."

"'Tis true, 'tis true," Tattle proffers her arm. "Hence, this is indeed the perfect time to embark on a Love of Literature leap into Champagne Books' romances."

Wrye stares at Tattle, mouth slightly agape in bewilderment. "You feeling alright, m'friend. Your speech is a bit..." Before he could finish, they vanish.

The duo fall into the pages of a contemporary romance FAKIN' IT by Dr. Kris Condi, Ph.D. Tattle looks about and frowns, "The heroine is so unhappy. It's simply not right to be this unhappy, spring is in the air, life should abound with possibilities."

Again Wrye offers Tattle a baffled look. "It's still winter. Snow. Cold. Nothing's blossoming except perhaps Spartan Fluey who has finally taken steps to disentangle herself from her husband, Goddard. Nearly thirty years in a loveless marriage, no wonder she is despondent. Even she can't figure out why she had stayed."

"Aye," Tattle says with another soft sigh. "Now, she only wants to find true love, something she never had, despite all those years she had invested trying to feel for something sincere for a chauvinistic, narcissistic husband."

Aye? Wrye mouths, and then, "Ah, but cupid's arrow could strike when she signs up for an escort service and meets...." A brow wiggle combines with a bellow, "Da da da daaaaaa, Benjamin Brennart, the man who might just ignite romance."

"A dream of a hunk who has his own torment. He lost his restaurant in Hurricane Katrina and still harbors love for his ex-wife." Tattle sniffles. "Oh such woe."

Wrye touches Tattle's forehead as if expecting to find a temp high enough to bring on delirium, finding her cool, he distances himself by running amuck through the pages, settling finally and declaring, "Something is flourishing! Passion and admiration and possibly lovvvvvvvvve, oh my! But...."

"But what?"

"Read and find out," he teased. "No time to dilly dally. Our next romance awaits."

As they enter the world of LUCKY IN LOVE by Stacey Coverstone, a western romantic suspense, Wrye dons a Stetson and chaps. Tattle proudly displays cowboy boots and changes her speech pattern from ole world to country drawl, "I do declare, Wrye, Jordan Mackenzie, who is so pretty she could make a hound dog smile, has her hands full with having inherited the Lucky Seven ranch from her aunt."

Mounting a horse he has discovered on the ranch, Wrye observes, "The good news is she decided to move from Colorado to New Mexico to start a new life on the ranch. The bad news is she's hurting from a horrific romantic breakup."

"Bless her pea-pickin' lil' heart. The poor thang discovers the ranch is a shambles and a nasty ole land developer is eager to take it off her hands." She pauses, grins and adds, "But then there is Wyatt Brannigan, hotter-than-the-hinges-on-the-gates-of-hell new neighbor and Cole Roberts, the oh-my-hunka-of-burnin'-love local contractor that shows he's more than interested."

"Is she?"

A mischievous smile lights Tattle's face. "That there gal is attracted to both!" The smile fades, "Only, she's still a-hurtin' bad over the breakup with her boyfriend."

"Meanwhile, the demented land developer will do any heinous thing to get Jordan to sell, even threaten her life."

"That man ain't got the dencency to die!" Tattle declares. "If I were a reader, I'd certainly want to find out if Jordan survives long enough to decide which cowboy will win her heart."

DANGEROUS DESIRE by Romona Hilliger completes Tattle and Wrye's journey, and they quickly find themselves intruding on a spat between the lovely married Amy Anderson and her seven years younger art teacher who has a girlfriend.

"I smell trrrrouble!" announces Tattle, her speech finally returning to normal as she scans the book's pages. "Her marriage is over except for in name, but her conscience is certainly pushing her away from this naughty attraction to a younger man.

"Jamie, the heart-tugger in question, doesn't think it's so naughty. He seems star-struck, and he is quite hurt by her rejection ."

"Amy hurts just as much." Tattle flips through several pages. "She believes what she is doing is wrong, but she also can't resist. Mmmm, such delicious pull-n-tug. Her hesitating, then giving into coffee dates...him pursuing...her refusing...him chasing...her remembering her dissolving marriage and that love often equates to pain...he being so different...her falling..."

Wrye puts up a halting hand. "I get it. I get it. She feels she should have learned her lesson about love, but as we can see...," he points to several paragraphs, "she's having a tough time keeping barriers in place."

"As is Jamie. He lost his family and his first love. He feels affection for another, but nothing resembling passion." Tattle places a finger on her heart and makes a sizzling sound. "Amy, though, done-gone and brought the heat back to his heart. He wants to push her away but can't seem to find the will."

They watch Amy and Jamie struggle, each tossing out hurtful words as their spirits dissolve in despair. Tattle says softly, "Will they ever be able to find a path to each other?"

"Perhaps not," Wrye returns, "but this is the month of romantic possibilities. So, read and be part of the character's passionate journey."

Hope you enjoyed Cupid's offerings! Next month, we'll sojourn into the worlds of a few of Champagne Books' nominees for Novel of the Year. THE KEEPER OF MOON HAVEN by Ciara Gold, SHADOW OF GUILT by Michael Davis, and SHADOW FOX by Ashley Barnard.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.
and Associate Wrye Balderdash
of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by
Angelica Hart and Zi

GETTING THE PARTY STARTED

2011-02-01T06:00:00.001-05:00

Howdy Rowdy!

We are Angelica Hart and Zi a writing team of contemporary, fantasy, thrillers and fanciful romance and we're here to kick off the Champagne Books Blog's month long Valentine party! Many Champagne Book authors will be joining us, sharing excerpts, stories, poems, blogs, articles, and e-book GIVE AWAYS.

To begin, anyone who joins the Champagne Book Blog today or tomorrow will receive a free e-book! If you leave a comment you'll be part of today's drawing for a free e-book. If you let a friend know about our blog and they join the blog, you'll both be entered into the end of the month drawing for two print books, an e-book and a surprise gift.

For today's offering, we'd like to leave you some poetry and prose straight from Zi's literary vault.

Z: Hey, I how did you find them? I had them in an innocuous file and under password protection.
A: (wiggles brows) Nor lock or key is safe from me. 'Tis time to share the ponderings of your lair. Besides, you see, my poetry is stinky!
Z: I wouldn't say that.... (Re-reads her words and grimaces.) Then again...
A: Hush, let everyone enjoy Day One of Hearts, Roses and Candy month. (Looks around) By the way, where's the chocolate?

A note from Zi to you:

M'dear,

Step upon my wings of imagination…join me…for I am about to sojourn to a place of magic wonderment. This is my place. Where I still feel like a child. Broccoli tastes like jelly beans. Every dog talks. Books smell like peaches. And the Sunshine never burns but enriches.

My thoughts are with you. I hope this finds you well.

Consider a first date, titled, “The Lady Gets Wings”. Every angel should have their wings. We walking hand-in-hand eventually spontaneously skipping to town square. The streets are dustless cobblestone. Never a car allowed upon them. People scurry from shop to shop. Spinning as they greet others. Gentlemen bow and ladies curtsy.

“How do you do!”

“And you!”

Then spin a good bye and off they go to the next greeting to be spun.

Music fills our air yet, neither of us know its origin. Music comes from the energy of being. Happy. Music is because we are. The baker devines fluffy sounds. The florist glows a melody of lilting joy. Music becomes the extension of our souls…and poetry our own private dance of possibilities.

Respectfully yours in muse,

Zi

POSSIBILITIES

You are my possibility
My friend to be
My muse
My paramour
My future
You are my possibility
And I am profoundly
Pleased.

A Hug

Strength is an amazing thing
Power is an absolute aphrodisiac
Humanity finds it a sign of strength
Hugging is not weakness
Asserting one's strength; good
But asserting one's strength
As well as their heart
Awesome... simply awesome

SMITTEN

I am smitten, I fear.
How did that happen?
You are the muse that tweaks my prose,
the romantic who touches my spirit.
It is not possible to be smitten by a reader,
to fall into the abyss of what they desire,
in tales, in narratives, in scenes of love.
To not even know the color of a woman's eyes,
yet long to conquer the nectar of her soul.
To fuel her desire and capture her romantic heart.
I am smitten with you.
Will you be smitten by my words?

*Please leave your email addy in your comments to be entered into the drawings, or write to us at angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com

Angelica Hart and Zi
KILLER DOLLS
SNAKE DANCE
CHASING YESTERDAY
angelicahartandzi@yahoo.com
angelicahartandzi.com

BOOKS can be purchased at
Champagne Books
http://www.champagnebooks.com

TATTLE AND WRYE CELEBRATE CHAMPAGNE BOOK AUTHORS

2011-01-18T11:10:00.002-05:00

FROM THE DESK OF
DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.
AND
ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Greetings,

"I have only one New Year's resolution," states Tattle as she boxes up her tiara for the next New Year's Eve gala.

"And that is?" asks Wrye, placing his top hat in storage.

"To read more work from the Champagne Books authors, what else!"

"Ahh, then I say, let's get you started by seeing what's up with some of our favorite authors."

With a grin and a wink, Wrye leads the way into a Love of Literature Leap.

"This book certainly lives up to its title," states Wrye as he offers a bug-eyed look. "Olivia, the heroine, is oooh-la-la hot...hot...hot."

"And so is this contemporary romance, HOT COMMODITY by Linda Kage," agrees Tattle. "I really like how Olivia finally stands up to her mother, Vivian, and takes charge of her world."

Finding some left over hors d'oeuvres in his pocket, Wrye speaks between munching. "Only, it doesn't quite work out the way she expects."

Tattle skips through pages, her gown from the previous evening rustling as she moves. "Should we tell?"

"Oh do!"

"It appears while at a business convention in Las Vegas, Vivian had ordered Olivia to seduce Cameron Banks into marrying her. And, she's having none of it."

Wrye plucks a sparkling water directly out of the bar scene, and drinks thirstily. "So, she rebels, picking up the first hunka-hunka that she is certain mommy dearest will despise."

"Chutes and ladders she certainly chose a sizzling hottie," qualifies Tattle. "And he is also a little bit tipsy when she gives him the come-hither."

"But it's his quirky personality that gets her into his arms, and before you know it the two of them are more than an item."

"Take that mama Cruella!"

"Actually," Wrye explains, dapping his mouth with a handkerchief. "Remember things didn't work out as Oliva planned. The man that knocked her socks off, and, well, actually, her panties, too was none other than Cameron Banks!"

"No!"

"Yes."

"Ut oh!"

"Exactly. This is when the fun really begins."

"Gotta read this!"

"Later!"

Next, the duo find themselves in the romantic suspense LIAR, LIAR by J. L. McCale.

Wrye pops his Sherlock Holmes hat from a pocket and dons it as he gives his best impression of a gumshoe. "There is something afoot, and I'm not talking about sneakers, despite that we're sneaking around."

Ignoring Wrye, Tattle says, "Did you hear that? Whispers. Scrapings. Creaking."

"I hear nothiiiing, nothiiiiing," declares Wrye with a Sergeant Schultz accent, but then his voice becomes soft, serious. "Wait! Whatever it is, it has awakened Mia! It's the same sounds she had heard the night her husband had fallen to his death."

Tattle sighs elaborately. "Poor dear, she has stayed away from the mansion until now, the very place where her husband, Bill, had been murdered."

"Well, it doesn't help that the police don't believe he had been murdered."

"But now she is back, determined to find out the truth, why he had died."

"And, now, it is starting again. The sound of a door closing. A child's voice." Wrye pauses, head bent in the semblance of listening. "The same sounds she began to hear before he had died."

"Her husband had chided that she was insane."

"Was she?" Tattle asks, eyes bright and wide.

"She sometimes fears that. She tells herself that a house makes noises. It's just settling, but she doesn't really believe it. Yet, everything seems to be transpiring yet again."

"Then there is evidence of an intruder, and again a child whispers for her to run."

"She is all alone in her attempts to find the truth except for one detective who has a personal interest, and it's not just in her." Wrye says, wiggling his brows for emphasis.

"Wrye...?"

"Yes...."

"I think there is someone creeping up the stairs."

"I think it's time for us to say adios amigo!"

Hope you enjoyed! For the month of candy, flowers and hearts, we'll be visiting with the characters from FAKIN' IT by Dr. Kris Condi, Ph.D., LUCKY IN LOVE by Stacey Coverstone, and DANGEROUS DESIRE by Romona Hilliger.

Happy New Year!

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.
and Associate Wrye Balderdash
of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by
Angelica Hart and Zi

Branding, we're not talking cows here

2011-01-03T13:18:00.001-05:00

Branding? What is it? I wanted to know more about the term and its use since it apparently applies to us and our writing, not just large corporations.
Definition: Voice? Plot? Values? Reliability: that I will wind up the details of my twists and turns in the plot.

Ah-ha. Branding is me. My integrity combined with my interests and values create my brand, because who I am contributes to and is incorporated into what I write, whether it’s a travel essay, a blog or flash fiction.

But how does my brand apply to my three Champagne novels?

In the contemporary Mortal Coil, a widow with a ten-year old daughter tries to save her nursing home residents from the Ponytail Perp. The cop assigned to the case and she become allies friends, lovers, and more. Brand: sweet romance, family values, sense of responsibility and altruism. Trust the author to wrap up the details.

In Tangled Web, an innocent woman is seduced by what we would now call a player, but in 1935, was a user, a selfish rogue or a philanderer who takes no responsibility for their child. She rebuilds her life and moves from his influence to become a nationally known… Brand: Romance, grit, suspense and eventually sweet romance and the reliability that the author will not only wrap up the details but will not commit any anachronisms.

Coming in 2011: Kill Fee is so named because it involves an environmentally sensitive article that strays into a murder plot and cover-up. Editors want it pulled, thus requiring that they pay the author a kill fee—in more ways than one. No one is innocent. The all too possible story reflects back on the writer and her entire life. By her side is her attorney, with no agenda but to be her helpmate. Sweet romance, loyalty, family values, humor and whimsy wrapped up neatly and logically.

All my writing has commonalties. People have told me, "I found myself agreeing with your article before I saw your name at the end." Or, "I thought that might be yours."

Ellen Smith, our Champagne Books publisher pointed out to me that although the term Branding has been around for several years, newer writers are becoming more aware of it. This is why your Web site must reflect your brand, not just your latest or your favorite book. As Ellen said, "That way, when someone says (your name) they know exactly who they are talking about.
"Branding is especially important when building an author’s platform. It’s what brings your readers to you," she stated.

This makes perfect sense when you consider how we wait to experience the next book by Nora Roberts, John Grisham, Clive Cussler, Dean Koonz or Stephen King, to mention only a few. They are reliable brands in their own genres.

Build your reliable brand and display it on your Web site. You don’t own it; you are it.
　
Julie Eberhart Painter is the Champagne Books author of Mortal Coil, in which she practices both medicine and law without licenses, and Tangled Web, a story close to her heart. See Julie’s Web site at
www.books-jepainter.com The World, the Flesh and the Devil, American Castles and Tahitian Destiny are available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Her nonfiction e-book, From the Inside Out, a volunteer looks at staying motivated, is considered a best seller on the Net. Watch for Kill Fee, Coming in October 2011.

Christmas Is 'A Comin'!

2010-11-29T14:18:00.000-05:00

FROM THE DESK OF
DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.
AND
ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Greetings,

Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells
Reading all the way!
Oh what fun it is to read
A Champagne Book today!

Tattle and Wrye sing away, and while belting out the last note, they launch into a Love of Literature leap.

"I hear a baby." Tattle declares, brushing away melting snow from her black velvet lapels.

"But of course," Wrye says, "We're in VERONICA H. HART'S humorous thriller THE PRINCE OF KEEGAN BAY, and the baby is the prince."

"In a retirement community?"

"And so the fun begins!"

Tattle leans over and coos at the baby as Grandma Jessica feeds the wee infant, voice inundated with oooh’s and awww’s. "So sweet and quiet."

"Adorable, I agree, but babies can cause more of a diaper-stench-spit-up-crazy-raucous than Santa without Rudolph on a foggy night. Just think of the possibilities when a group of seniors, headed by Doll Reynolds, attempt to protect the prince from the Kushawan Alliance of Royal Princes who want to see the child dead."

Tattle shivers. "How horrrrrible! Why?"

"Because they're creeps to the nth and don't wish to share their wealth with yet another prince."

Reading ahead Tattle squints through half glasses once worn by Mrs. Claus. "Ahhhhh, because of tradition they don't name the baby until they are six months old, and only then do they become an official part of the family with all the entitlements. If they kill," chokes a bit on the word, "the baby after that, they and their descendents will be cursed." Stuffing her hands into her fur muff, Tattle mutters nasty things about the Kushawan princes.

"So right, m'Santa-ish elf," Wrye agrees. "So, Doll rounds up the seniors to protect the baby while the infant's mother, Moira Robbins, risks everything by becoming a decoy."

"Comedy and thrills are afoot!" Tattle does a soft shoe tap for emphasis. "And if that is all not enough, Jessica must keep the baby hidden from Carol, the park's manager, or they'll all be out on their collective bottoms."

"Mayhem, indeed! A must read for sure!"

"But not now, we're off!"

"Watch out for the..." Tattle observes Wrye as he skids directly into a Scotch Pine tree blazing with Christmas lights. "Oh, I see you found it."

He dusts pine needles off his green and white fur trimmed jacket, twitches his nose as if magic is about to happen and declares, "It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, and here we are right in the middle of ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS by CINDY K. GREEN, a romantic contemporary Christmas story."

"Yes, yes, and there is Kathryn Graham, a writer at Redburn Weekly who has been assigned, along with the exuberant and jovial Nick Pringle, to work a story about the toy drive for the local orphanage.

"I remember now, Nick's enthusiasm for Christmas annoys Kathryn, ho ho ho ho, while Kathryn's hatred for the beloved holiday baffles Nick."

"I see connnflicccct," she says.

"And I see Nick beginning a campaign to win Kathryn over. Will he? Should he? Ho ho ho. I'm not talking just about her attitude toward the noel event. And in the Christmas alphabet there is no L."

Tattle considers, adding, "Nick has been falling in love with the woman since they first met. Is this naughty or nice? Nick decides to become Kathryn's Secret Santa, how sweet, having gifts delivered daily, and lo and behold, Kathryn's attitude begins to slowly change. Success?" She pauses and then, "Onnnly, she seems to be falling for the Secret Santa, Cyrano de Bergerac moment, and distancing herself from Nick, irony slaps, leaving Nick jealous of himself.... Connnfuuusing."

"Ut oh, said the gardener, trouble is a Hoe-Hoe-Hoe-ing about."

Tattles evades the pun. "Even a shared kiss between her and Nick, lovey dovey, doesn't seem to turn her away from the ever so perfect Secret Santa. Dang! I'm rootin' for Nick. Now, he believes he'll never be anything more than a friend, incoming and even at that, a distant friend. Tissue alert! Meanwhile, da da da daaaaa, Nina not Pina or Santa Maria Phillips seems ever so interested in Nick. Cat fight? And Nick considers that it might be time to accept reality. Heartbreak! Yet can he? Will Kathryn's heart ever open to Christmas? And will she find out the truth about her own feelings toward Nick too late?"

Smacks Wrye's hand as he attempts to read ahead. "Tsk...tsk...we'll read later, m'Saint Nick."

The duo land softly in the midst of NOELLA'S GIFT by DONICA COVEY and the mystical wonder of a romantic contemporary Christmas story. "It is so cozy here," announces Tattle as she takes in the homey warmth of Holly Harper's home. But where are Holly Harper's Christmas decorations?"

"Hates Christmas," informs Wrye, yet, ever the optimist, rummages about for Christmas candy. "However, once she finds a raggedly dressed Noella on her doorstep, a lost little six-year-old girl, her feelings slowly begin to change. Readers will be on a collision course for planet Warm Your Cockles."

"Oh, who is that yummy man?" Tattle does that hip waddle that suggests more naughty than nice.

"A police detective, Jaxon Cole. Look out, Tattle, mood grenade. He found out that Noella's parents had died, but neither he nor Holly seem to get anything more out of the child, only a growing sense of sadness. Yes, I'm crying, and yes, I am PC."

"Holly decides to keep the girl at least through the holidays, good for her, while they try to figure things out. In the meantime, a freak snowstorm traps the three of them in Holly's home. And that's when, ironically, the thawing begins. He he ho ho ha ha. The bitter detective and the woeful Holly see things through the child's eyes, yet as Jaxon grows close to Holly, she suddenly turns as frosty as the weather."

"Will this hot hunk and frigid female co-exist without getting wet? Will they ever find the Christmas spirit? Hope so. I like them! Will they ever know the love Noella seems so determined to spark within each of them for the other? YIT (Yenta in training). And will Noella ever receive the gift of her heart?" Tattle dabbles at her eyes. This is sooo...sooo...."

Wrye pats her shoulder. "There...there...hot chocolate time, I feel your angelica heart."

"Another leap, for certain," Tattle announces suddenly, "Since it is the season for giving we are jumping into two more Christmas stories, both shorts."

Tattle and Wrye land in KIMBER CHIN'S short contemporary romance, BUMPED. "Joy is in the air," Wrye says.

"And in the book!" Tattle rubs furred gloved hands together. "That is our heroine's name, Joy. This giving businesswoman tends to put others before herself and in this season of gifts, she is true to who she is."

Wrye nods, his Santa hat bobs. "She gives up her seat to a single mother who urgently needs to be home for Christmas."

"And in the spirit of the season, a Christmas miracle is hers...but..."

"But," finishes Wrye, "Will she be able to accept it?"

"Only Santa, his elves and those who'll read the story will know."

Sniffling from the cold, Tattle snuggles up to the book's pages. "Ooooh, we're in JANE TOOMBS' contemporary short Christmas romance, ONLY ONE OF ITS KINDS, how exciting!"

"And it seems you're not the only one who is excited. Annalee is downright wound up." Wrye helps himself to a mug of eggnog, plucked right out of the pages.

"I think the word is furious, and wouldn't you be? Her husband not only refuses to adopt a child, which is her heart's craving, but he's leaving the country to fly a friend to Central America over Christmas!"

"Scoundrel!" Wrye agrees but seems more interested in munching on Christmas cookies.

"Not really, Arno has a good heart, it just needs a bit of tenderizing. He believes bringing her back some unique gold jewelry will earn him forgiveness for messing up Christmas."

"But during this wonderful season, none can foresee the events that will result in an unexpected and a truly one of a kind gift." Wrye brushes crumbs off his green coat.

"What is it!"

"Read, m'red nose bud."

Under the office tree, the two merrily exchange their Christmas gifts of Champagne Books, of course.

In the new year, we look forward to leaping into HOT COMMODITY by LINDA KAGE and LIAR, LIAR by J. L. MCCALE.

Wishing all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a very special and joyful New Year.

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.
and Associate Wrye Balderdash
of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by
Angelica Hart and Zi

2010-10-01T10:30:00.000-04:00

FROM THE DESK OF
DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ.
AND
ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Greetings,

"Trick or Treat?" asked Tattle, adorned in her Halloween finery, a witch's hat, a fairy's dress, angel wings, and a godmother's wand.

Eclectic being his forte, Wrye gives her a once over of approval. He strikes a pose to show off his costume, 1800's vampire Goth and a Phillies baseball cap. "Treat, of course." He adds several Champagne Books to her gathering basket.

A nod of appreciation and a thank you later, they take a Love of Literature Leap into Champagne Books e-books that celebrate the muse of October.

Landing upon a soft mattress on either side of Wren Darby they hear her say in a summoning tone, Jeremiah Ransom. "Who's Jeremiah? And where are we?" Tattle whispers even though she knows both her and Wrye are invisible to the characters.

"We're in Haunted by Debra Glass, a Young Adult paranormal romance. And Jeremiah is a ghost, a young solider from the civil war."

"Spooooky!" announces Tattle as she scans the book's pages. Her expression turns compassionate and she waves her wand as if that could change the sorrow welling up from the printed words. "Ah, poor Wren, she was in a car accident that destroyed her world, left her scarred, in her soul, spirit, and body."

"Her injuries also had another side-effect," supplies Wrye, giving his red-lined cape a twirl as he pulls a Bela Lugosi pose and wiggles brows. "Da da da daaaaaa, she becomes psychic."

Tattle ignores Wrye's drama. "Soon after, her family moves to a quaint town in Tennessee and a sprawling antebellum home where Wren hopes she can figure out her new ability and simply heal."

Wrye flings out an arm as if he were a host on a game show, introducing a new contestant. "Instead, she meets Jeremiah, the ghost who lived and died in her new home."

"Oooh, look at the chemistry between our young Wren and the courtly ghost...err...soldier." Tattle sighs and flutters lashes, "Young love, couldn't you just die."

"Actually, he did. I, personally, prefer to live rather than haunt," Wrye ends with an Elvis impersonation. "Thank you, thank you very much."

Tattle pretends to hold a microphone and speaks conspiratorially as if to a crowd. "Will Wren ever figure out how to handle her new psychic ability? How will she ever come to grips with loving a ghost? And just what is keeping Jeremiah from crossing over? Stay tuned for further updates."

"For those updates, read HAUNTED!" ends Wrye.

The duo appear in Zirconya: The Sage of Aluh'Nehn by Diana Ilinca, a Young Adult, modern urban fantasy/contemporary fantasy. Wrye frowns as he flips through the chapters, "Ut oh, trrrroobbble!"

"Do tell!" Tattle encourages, for she adores plots riddled with adversity.

And Wrye does while pretending to sit with his arm draped over the back of an invisible chair, mime style. "This lovely young girl, Caelum, who is just trying to get through life as a teenager, and we all know how difficult and theatrical that can be, has discovered she is an elf."

"How wonderfully delightful," Tattle says, applauding Caelum.

"Not so, my fine-feathered friend, she doesn't believe it. Although she had been forced from Zirconya, a magical realm into our spell resistant land, she remembers nothing. When, Maze, her guardian comes from her home world to bring her back upon her seventeenth birthday, his attempts to convince her of her true identity and her true home, fall upon a very defiant young lady. For she is equally convinced that despite being hunky and mystical, he is also annoying and most probably is the main nut in an almond chocolate bar."

Tattle produces a pair of granny spectacles as she scrutinizes prose. "Oh my, oh dear, the dimensional structure between Zirconya and Earth is being compromised, and scientist’s the world over are noticing. Maze must convince her to return home before everyone is aware of this other dimension, and before both worlds are destroyed."

With a large nod, a teacher's pointer, produced from the cape folds, appears and Wrye uses it to indicate a particular line. "Have you noticed the nightmarish creature?"

Tattle jumps behind Wyre while he banishes his pointer like a sword, but of course the creature ignores him. "Just what is a young teen to do?"

"She must remember her life on Zirconya if both worlds are to survive."

"Will she?"

"Readers know what to do to find that out."

"Salem, witches, and Adrian's Angel by Angela Ashton, oh my," announces Wrye as they appear in the historical spine-chilling town.

Tattle falls into the paranormal romance, absorbs the intrigue, the scary, the uncanny, the frightening, and the intensity of love. "Goodness gracious and snakes on fire, Adrian Birichino is hot to the point of sizzle." She composes herself, takes a few breaths, and adds, "The dear man cannot overcome the loss of his childhood sweetheart, even though he left Salem to forget. After a string of flings, ending with Renee, a pretentious woman who believes Riley and her are destined for each other, he still pines for his first love, and no one, not even Renee, can compete."

"Eerie is the word that comes to mind," Wrye says as he takes his cape and places it upon Tattle's shivering shoulders. "Years ago, while standing at a street crossing with his best friends Jon Shelby and Riley Gail, Riley disappears. One moment she is with them, and the next, while the boys chatted, she leaned against a tree and was suddenly gone. Kaput!"

Tattle peeks ahead a few pages. "Adrian and Jon lived their lives being haunted by the incident, so much so that Jon finally committed suicide."

"This brings Adrian back to Salem," Wrye says, joining Tattle in her reading pursuit. "Where he begins to see visions of an incandescent angel, who hints at familiarity."

"He believes," Tattle trails out the last word, pauses, deliberately drawing out the anticipation, "his imagination has over-indulged. Yet, at the same time, he wonders how something unreal can leave tangible evidence."

"Meanwhile, Riley Gail, who had been propelled into the heart of the Salem witch-hunt must convince him that she is real, or she will be forever lost as one of Salem's accused."

Tattle runs two fingers across her lips as if zipping it locked, and then mutters, "That is all I'm going to say!"

Hope you enjoyed our Love of Literature Leap into the haunts of Champagne Books. Next month we look forward to peeking into books we are thankful to read, My Love Life And Other Disasters by Bernadine Darcy; Ask Aunt Emma by Carol Costa and Mark of the B*E*A*S*T* by Rebecca Goings.

Happy Halloween!

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq.
and Associate Wrye Balderdash
of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by
Angelica Hart and Zi

Champagne Books
angelicahartandzi.com

Venus Inferno

2010-07-19T23:24:00.003-04:00

Click cover for an Excerpt from Chapter One

Venus Inferno comes out very shortly and I'm very excited by it. It represents a couple of firsts for me and one second.

It is my very first - but probably not my last - novella. I rather enjoyed this shorter format, although at times it was difficult to restrain myself from dropping an element into the story that would come up later. There wasn't going to be a later so if I wanted to say something, I had to say it now. I also didn't get the chance to interweave very much social commentary into the story, which I missed more than the chance to expand on the storyline.

It is also the very first story I wrote in the first person, which was very usual. I'm used to the third person and being able to provide different vantage points to allow the reader insight into what is happening. It is also odd using the personal pronoun 'I' all the time. One can't help but to identify with the main character. Admittedly this is an occupational hazard for writers but even more so in this case.

Venus Inferno represents my second published work with Champagne books. Hopefully there will be many more but having a second story accepted and published make it seem all the more real.

One of the things that I really enjoyed about Venus Inferno was that all of the main technology there is real.

Ion drives are real. They are slow compared to chemical rockets but they do exist.

Tellurium is real. It really is one of the nine rarest minerals on earth and it really does fall as snow on Venus.

Thermoelectric Materials are also real. And tellurium - in the form of bismuth telluride and lead telluride - really is a working element of thermoelectric devices.

Who knows? Maybe one day in the future they will be as commonplace as they are in Venus Inferno.

Let's hope so.

Cheers

David

Posted by David Boultbee

Why Blunder Woman? Good Question.

2010-07-03T06:46:00.001-04:00

“Blunder Woman” comes out on the 5^th of July and, of course, I’m really happy about that. I thought then in honor of the release date, I’d offer some vague information that may not even be interesting.

A note, then, about the title and the things that happen in the novel. First: Where did Blunder Woman come from? I’m honestly not sure. I think the idea came when I was drinking bad coffee out of my Wonder Woman coffee cup. It’s old-school Wonder Woman where she’s all busty in her outfit, reaching out to fight crime. In the morning, especially, I look more puffy than busty, and the only thing I want to reach out to is a donut. I thought “Man, I’m more of a blunder than a wonder.” Shazam. I did some research and while “Blunder Woman” is certainly out there, no one had written a character around the term. That seemed shocking to me. Chloe Knaggs seemed to start to form then. Hmmm. That sounds like she was born or something. She really is more of a clone. Except she’s younger than I am.

So then. Is this a true story or did I research it? I will admit to you that I have been in training as a Blunder Woman my entire life. I’m incredibly awkward. I run into things; I wear a new shirt and forget to take the L sticker off my boob; when I try to ask someone out I inevitably burp. I put makeup on and at the end of the day I realize I only put mascara on one eye so I look startled…or like that dude in Clockwork Orange.

Of course, the story itself is fiction, but there’s truth there too. I was in love with a guy who I thought was The One even though I never even kissed him. And he had a derby party which I went to. I have a crazy mom and a friend who keeps me in line, although if my mom practices tantric sex it’s her secret business. I refuse to discuss that with her. Like Chloe, I obsess, I worry, and I live a spirited life. In that way, Chloe Knaggs and I could be sisters. She learns from her mistakes, though. Not to say that I don’t…I’m just really slow to learn.

Even though “Blunder Woman” the novel is finished, Blunder Woman the writer keeps going. Sometimes Chloe still whispers to me. She’s hinting she’d like another book. There’s the Soup Man too, asking for stuff, and Megan grumbling about something. These are okay voices to hear. My therapist assures me most writers do. We’ll see what happens.

Until then…hope you enjoy the book.

Blunder on,

Tanya

Win A Free E-Book!

2010-06-06T18:47:00.003-04:00

I'll do anything, even bribe you with the chance to win a free e-book, to come and participate in my Author Spotlight on the Goodreads reading group Romance Readers Reading Challenges. The spotlight and contest run from June 7th -11th.

Everyone who asks me a question in the spotlight, even ones that make me squirm and blush, will be entered into a draw to win one of my e-books. Admit it, you'd like to try and win my newest release, Take A Chance where a modern day librarian must save a wizard from a dastardly curse.

I know the choice will be hard, kind of like my heroes lol.

Don’t be shy. Pop by, say hello and give yourself a chance to win.
I hope to see you there
Eve Langlais

COMPLIMENTARY FLAVORS by Jim Woods

2010-06-05T00:01:00.002-04:00

COMPLIMENTARY FLAVORS

Some foods just naturally and traditionally go together—wine and cheese; cookies and milk; scotch and soda; peanut butter and jelly; coffee and mayonnaise. Whoa! Coffee and what?

Mayonnaise. It’s the perfect accompaniment to coffee. You can have coffee and a piece of pie, a slice of cake, a doughnut, a cinnamon roll, but nothing goes better with coffee than a sandwich and nothing goes better with a sandwich than a cup of coffee. A sandwich of anything—bologna, cheese, b-l-t, tuna, egg salad, chicken salad, roast beef, fried egg—put any of them on bread slathered with mayonnaise and you have an unbeatable taste treat.

Ah, but you might say, it’s the bread, not the mayonnaise. But not so, No matter what the bread—English muffin, sourdough, whole wheat, classic white, hamburger bun or a cold biscuit—they’re all from wheat flour of some description, just as are the sweet treats. You certainly could not say that the flavor that compliments coffee is wheat flour. Ever tasted plain old flour? No taste. And those pies and sweet rolls, except for the colorful sugary addition they’re pretty much the same baker’s flour with the difference in the pastry flavoring itself. Sure those go with coffee, but they couple equally well with milk, iced tea or diet cola.

If the magic is not in the sandwich filling or even the sandwich bread, then the one remaining ingredient of all those sandwiches that go so well with coffee is the mayonnaise. But maybe all is not lost with cake and coffee. The true test might be to substitute mayonnaise for the butter cream filling and frosting. Naw. Maybe it is the sandwich bread that makes the difference after all. I’ll have a cup of black coffee, no sugar, and a sandwich. Maybe pastrami on marble rye—with mustard.

Jim Woods

Tattle & Wrye - June 2010

2010-06-04T14:19:00.000-04:00

FROM THE DESK OF

DONA PENZA TATTLE, ESQ. AND ASSOCIATE WRYE BALDERDASH

Wrye is startled by the flying wedding bouquet aimed at him as Tattle, dressed in bridesmaid Pepto-Bismol pink, says, "Catch. June, perfect day for a wedding...perfect month to celebrate Champagne Books romances."

Nabbing the flowers from the air as if it's a football, he sneezes as if allergic to daisies. "The wedding is today? But we have a Love of Literature Leap schedule."

"Don't forget the rings, m'best man," she advices before adding. "Always time for a good leap."

"So true," he agrees. After fetching a timer, he takes Tattle's arm and off they go into a new and sizzling romance.

"Oh, how lovely," Tattle says, indicating the country backdrop for the contemporary romance STONE HOUSE FARM by Rhobin L. Courtright. "What a shame that Amanda Blanchard might lose it all, the last of her inheritance, especially since she wants to raise her daughter, Kari, on the centennial family farm."

Wrye, who had landed a little too close to horse dung, takes a hopping step backward. "She is hoping she won't have to sell her father's prize Morgan horses to forestall the tax man. Having a good job helps, but it's not enough."

"Enter stage hunka-hunka, Wade Preston, her high school sweetheart and land developer. He wants her land, threatens foreclosure. She's determined to keep what is hers, and is willing to part with the foal of her pregnant mare to ensure the taxes will be paid. Sparks fly and although both would deny it openly, those embers are all about passions denied."

Tattle does a Mae West impersonation, eyeballs rolling, hips woo-wooing and hair fluffing. "Me thinks all they need is a little alone time."

"Me thinks they are going to get that and mucho more!" Wrye proclaims as he dives into a new chapter.

"Think Wade shot! Snow storm knocking out electricity and phone! Think dire trouble."

Tattle joins her literary bud and scans pages. "Oh no! The storm has isolated them. Will she save Wade's life? Will the shooter be back? Is her daughter safe?”

"Ding...ding...ding.... Time's up. Leap!" They do!

Next stop on the romance celebration finds the duet in a contemporary suspense, THE SOLDIER'S GIRL by Romona Hilliger.

Tattle accidently on purposes loses her bridesmaid's hat, a throwback to wide brims and southern belles that has no business in this story set in Northern Australia. She nods taking in the plot, "Lookie...lookie, three school friends’ lives collide in a triangle of desperation, guilt, love, manipulation, and maybe...hopefully... hanky-panky?"

Wrye does a tsk-tsk with his finger and places the picture hat back on top of Tattle's Dolly Parton like hair-do. "Naughty lady," he scolds.

"Oooh, how does one resist that smoldering, sexy eye-candy, Bryce, a man who gave up a world of love and substance to work with underprivileged indigenous children. Talk about a hero."

Wrye practices the bunny-hop and dances his way through words. "A hero without love, so sad, for he had even given up the woman of his heart, Kate." He offers a salute, heels clicking. "True sacrifice."

"Then there is Frank, the war hero, he wants Kate, he can't have Kate, so he schemes for Kate. With his mind twisted by war and his heart aching, he does whatever it takes to make her his own. Conflict...conflict... conflict!"

"And just who does Kate want?"

"Bryce...but, ah, Frank can be persistent. It is all enough to snap those bonds formed as children." Tattle looks beseechingly at Wrye. "I must know what happens."

"Too late! Time for another romantic literary date."

"We're not in Kansas 2010 anymore," announces Wrye as they find themselves in the historical romance, FLOWER OF PASSION by Rose Lerma.

"Indeed we are not," confirms Tattle, and then begins to giggle. "Oh my, this book looks like fun." She points to Aster Hampton, looking gorgeous and confident but only for a few sentences. She collides right into Adam McCallister and seemingly a predestined date with a mud puddle.

"Poor dear, this isn't the way Aster wanted her debut home to be. She had every intention of allowing her new poise to overcome her nickname, Aster Disaster. Then this lout had to walk into her path."

"For a lout, he's a hottie even covered in mud. Yummy!" Tattle winces as Aster pops him in the eye with her fist. "Hmmm, he's taken that well. Hmmm, hmmm, he is actually intrigued. Goody for him."

"He is also a man on a mission to find a wife, one that he's attracted to, one that he is compatible with, and one he doesn't love."

"What! No love, is the man insane?"

"Thinks love turns a man gutless," says Wrye as he checks his pocket, to make certain he has not lost the wedding rings, and then flips through the pages. "Ah, this is truly a fun book that yanks at sentimentality, inflames senses, brings out the flaws and endearments of not just love but of family."

Noting Wrye has the look of someone getting ready to settle down for a good read, she drags him back into a leap, singing, "Getting you to the church on time."

Hope you enjoyed. Next month we'll enjoy fireworks and CHASING...CHASING...CHASING by our good friends Angelica Hart and Zi, DRAGON'S ANGEL by Donica Covey and THE LAST LEGACY by Jenna Leigh.

Have fun in the sun!

Dona Penza Rutabaga Tattle, Esq. and Associate Wrye Balderdash of Blather City, Wannachat

Created and written by Angelica Hart and Zi

KILLER DOLLS

SNAKE DANCE

CHASING...CHASING...CHASING July 2010 Champagne Books angelicahartandzi.com
Tattle and Wrye can also be found at www.myspace.com/champagnebooks

Adoption: It's never Over

2010-06-02T11:30:00.001-04:00

Adoption

It’s never over
How our issues become our characters’ problems
By Julie Eberhart Painter
In every one of my books, adoption is an issue. It’s part of my life; it is my life, and the many sides: being given away, giving away, and watching our grandchild being given away are woven into our family’s history, and thus, secret baby style, into my romance and mystery novels.
As an adoptee, it has fueled my imagination. Who am I and who were they? It’s fired my passion to examine my written characters’ motives. Such life experiences make for inflammatory prose. The adoption issue creeps into my work like murder into crime novels and love into romances.
The most recently published example is Mortal Coil, now in paperback from Champagne books, May 2009. In Mortal Coil, the main character, Ellen, a nursing home administrator, has a compassionate heart. She and her first husband adopted a child, but didn’t tell the child that she was adopted. This loving omission becomes a problem for Ellen when her husband is killed in a car crash.
Secrets ignite violence. Murders in Ellen’s nursing home strike a match under an unlikely pair who would never have met without the afore-mentioned deceptions and murders.
In June 2010, Champagne releases Tangled Web. A seduction scene drives the plot that leads the reader from 1935 to 1951. It’s my projection for my birth mother, Catherine’s, life as I hope she lived it.
Illegitimacy and adoption were tremendous moral issues during the 30s through the 60s, a time of change in our country’s mores. With war on the horizon and women reaching beyond their domestic roles to find careers and help support their families, Catherine becomes stronger. She learns that the powerful do not always win.
In my unpublished memoir, I describe adoption as being Naked in Their Gene Pool, or in the case of our lost grandchild The Lost legacy. With adoptions, it’s never over. Many adoptees feel like abandoned puppies, searching every car on the road to see if their family has changed its mind and come back for them.
I once told a perfect stranger, "I’m Julie Eberhart Painter; I’m adopted; I come with a disclaimer."
Disarmed by my subconscious honesty, she answered, "I’m Jane and I can’t have children." We both had an issue-issue.
I was only nine months old when I was taken from a succession of foster homes and placed with my adoptive family—permanently. My first word was "home," not Mommy or Daddy. At four-years of age, I remember hiding when people came to the house. I ran from cars passing on the dirt road out front. In 1998, I petitioned the court to get my "story." The non-identifying information stated that at three months of age I was friendly, alert and able to stand up for myself—not fearful.
No, it’s never over. A 95-year old resident in the nursing home where I worked asked me, her volunteer: "Do you think I’ll finally meet my mother?"
Life and fiction are one when you’re adopted. It’s never over.

A Fairy Tale HEA

2010-06-01T17:51:00.003-04:00

As a little girl, I craved fairy tales. There was something about the heroine being saved by the man of her dreams and living happily ever after that always left me with a warm, mushy feeling. Older now, definitely not wiser lol, I still love that glow I get from a HEA. So when I decided to sit down and write my first novel, I tried to incorporate the elements I wanted to see in a modern day fairy tale. and personally, I think the outcome was magical. I hope you do to.

Take A Chance is now available to all you fantasy romance lovers out there who want to see a modern girl with curves and glasses find her prince, or in this case, wizard charming.

Here's the blurb:

Samantha's searching for a hero, but finds a wizard in need of rescuing instead.

Samantha, a shy librarian, longs to find her one true love, but in today’s modern world, finding a dashing hero seems to be an impossible to task. So Chance decides to step in and what follows is pure adventure as Samantha finds herself magically teleported to a tropical island where she meets a hunky wizard in need of rescuing.

Sinclair, is a wizard of the high council, cursed to live alone on a tropical island with little hope of rescue, that is 'til a luscious librarian is dropped onto his beach. Having been betrayed by love once, he’s leery of trusting again but as he and Samantha overcome the magical obstacles set in their way, they discover that true love awaits them if they only Take A Chance

You can read an excerpt on my site EveLanglais.com or if you want to purchase this entertaining novel you can do so by Clicking Here

I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Wishing you your very own HEA
Eve Langlais

Review: Pesto Packin' Mama by Nan D. Arnold

2010-05-31T00:01:00.000-04:00

I picked up "Pesto Packin' Mama" the other day and couldn't put it
down! I was on the edge of my seat (okay, the couch) when the loan
sharks were really putting the heat on Maggie.

"Maggie Duncan is 50-something but still doesn't have everything quite
figured out. Her business, Pots & Pearls, is barely bringing in enough
money to cover her expenses, her apartment is being sold out from
under her, and her boyfriend, Bruce Herring, is hiding some major
secrets, specifically the one that involves him raising his infant
brother, Jorge. Then again Maggie has secrets of her own, and she's
not quite willing to share those quite yet.

Enter Brenda, Maggie's best friend, who has an idea that they could
market and sell Maggie's fabulous marinara sauce, but who ultimately
tangles with the wrong people while trying to get their product
available for distribution. Add Mrs. Herring, Bruce's pushy mother,
and Thomas, Maggie's new widower neighbor and you have a recipe for
disaster. Maggie must conquer her demons if she wants a
happily-ever-after and a potential walk down the aisle with the man of
her dreams.

I couldn't put "Pesto Packin' Mama", the sequel to "Hitting the High
Notes" down! I loved that even though Maggie was technically "over the
hill" she didn't have everything all figured out. So often we women
think that we should have things all figured out by a specific age
deadline, but realistically how often do things just magically fall
into place when we want them to? Maggie muddles her way through the
obstacles that she finds in her way, and ultimately she's determined
to make the best of things, no matter what.

The characters were well-developed, and even though I found Maggie's
best friend, Brenda, to be rather grating and pushy at times,
especially when she was determined to get her way, her personality
seemed to compliment Maggie's often indecisive character. Even Mrs.
Herring, Bruce's pushy mother won me over. Despite her intrusive and
sometimes harsh behaviour, you could tell that she had her son's best
interests at heart and that at her core she remained a good, although
at times misguided, person.

Pesto Packin' Mama is a reminder that you can be pushing 50 and still
have great sex, intriguing romance, good friends, memorable times, new
business ventures, and ultimately, fun. After all, 50 is the new 40!
Nan D. Arnold has written fun contemporary fiction for what she calls
"boomer babes" and she certainly delivers on this front. Expect to
pick this one up and be unable to put it down until long after bedtime
has come and gone, because you just have to know what happens next."

Reviewed by: Jonita :)
--
http://book-chic.blogspot.com
www.twitter.com/jonitabookchick

Trailer: Bolt Action by Victoria Roder

2010-05-12T00:01:00.002-04:00

Time, Money, and Talent

2010-05-11T16:49:00.002-04:00

Time, Money, and Talent

In the current economic turmoil, do you cringe every time the phone rings? It feels as if, nine phone calls out of ten, the voice on the other end of the receiver is soliciting for a donation. Do you feel as if you’re pulled in a million different directions between school activities, family obligations, and church? I want to share the story of a group of people that rose to the challenge and gave of their time, money, and talent for my family.
The devastating blow came fast when my father-in-law, Darrel was diagnosed with stage four cancer. In his typical fashion, he was concerned about his unfinished work, which was a garage roof in desperate need of repair. Unable to work on it himself, and my husband still recovering from the semi-accident, my father-in-law mentioned he didn’t want Linda to have to worry about the roof, and his friend Erland contacted their church and expressed the need for assistance with the roof. After all my in-laws, Darrel and Linda are both diligent workers and have generous spirits. They are the first ones to volunteer to help serve soup suppers, funeral meals, and work on clean up days at the church. My mother-in-law has played the organ at church for forty-four years.
We hoped three or four men would show up to help my husband and I, brother and sister-in-law, and our boys, but we were astonished on that Saturday morning as vehicle after vehicle arrived. The eager workers brought tools for the task at hand, food and drink, and even purchased some of the supplies. I wondered if we’d have to tie my father-in-law in the chair to keep him off the roof, because under healthy conditions he would have been the first one to climb to the top of any ladder to help someone else.
I can’t imagine how many nights, and weekend’s it would have taken our small family to complete the tear-off and re-shingling of the garage roof, but many hands make light work. It took twenty-four people, men, women, kids, pastors, and a neighbor passing by, twelve hours to complete the job. The generous crew could have been at ballgames, lounging in their easy chairs, or tending to their own lists of endless daily chores, but instead they volunteered their precious time.
Through the eye of my camera the day of my in-laws roof repair was a sight to behold. Choir members that work in an office kneeled on top of the tar paper, perhaps praying not to fall off the roof. Board members handed shingles up ladders, and the pastors where on clean up duty. The heat from the sun and the tar paper caused sweat to bead on the backs and brows of the men and women alike as they performed the physical labor of tearing off tar paper and shingles, picking up splintered wood and old shingles, hoisting shingles, hammering, stapling, and climbing up and down ladders.
Other then their modern clothing the scene reminded me of a time when neighbors worked together. A simpler time, when life didn’t seem so over-scheduled, and if your barn burnt down your neighbors came to your aid and rebuild it. That’s exactly what happened. As the group toiled away, our friends and even a neighbor saw the activity and came over to lend a hand. The sun set and darkness attempted to squelch our plans, but we labored on with the help of spot lights. With all the charitable help the task was finished in one day.
The men and women that arrived to shingle the roof aren’t a specific group, or a committee. They are just individuals that are associated through church, friends, and neighbors that have generous hearts. Each man and woman gave of their time, money, and talents to re-shingle my in-laws garage. The roof is more than shelter for their vehicles. It symbolizes generosity and a flashback to a gentler time when people came first. Perhaps these difficult times will bring out the best in all of us and remind us to love our neighbor as ourselves.
About the author: Victoria Roder resides in central Wisconsin with her husband Ron, although they have three grown sons all making their way in the world they now have a house full of misfit pets. She enjoys camping, hiking, 3D bow shooting, snowshoeing, and motorcycle riding. Bolt Action an Action Thriller will be released in April, 2010 by Champagne Books. Please view her website to learn more and read an excerpt. www.victoriaroder.com

Fictional Heart Strings by Michael Davis

2010-04-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

Fictional Heart strings

I was having a cup a coffee the other day when a female friend ventured by, tapped me on the shoulder, and continued to the counter to get her own mug of brew. For simplicity, let’s call her Joy. On her return passage by my table, Joy seat down across from me, and began to chat. I love it when my local friends and acquaintances offer idle chit chat. Joy is a sweet but mysterious young lady. She coveys a unique reflection about life and all its complexities. Behind those green eyes resides a spark and compassion that is missing in many of today’s lost souls. Finally she came to a topic we often discuss, my books. You see, she loves to read my stories. I’m not sure whether it’s because she really likes them or because I’m the only author she knows.

Anyway, she began to ask about a character in a particular story (TAINTED HERO) and discuss how touched she was at what happened to this particular person. Then she caught me off guard with the question, “Isn’t it hard to do that?” I smiled with pride, “A little.” Joy continued. “I thought so. I’m not sure I could do that. I thing I’d be crying over the keyboard.” Then I realized the insight of this young women’s inquiry. She wasn’t asking about the creativity process; she was probing into the nature of people to empathize with the plight of others, even if they were some fictional character that was conjured from their own mind. And she was right. I remembered back to when I struggled with that particular scene. I was moved, not to tears, but my throat actually tightened and I wanted to reach through the screen and help the character, and especially to strangle the villain. I was so moved, I actually changed the outcome. In my original outline the female character died, but I was so struck by her and all she had gone through, I couldn’t deal with losing her. She still suffered, but she survived.

Then I realized I had experienced this same heartstring relationship with fictional characters in all my stories. I guess they became so real I empathized with their plight. I know it sounds weird to be moved by a scene evolving out of your own head, but I really do. Some stories more then others, but always to some degree. Maybe that’s why I enjoy that first breath of the story when I initially create the scenes, and see it happening for the first time. I remember in one story (Shadow of Guilt) I was moved to such a degree, I literally had to stop and go outside to split some wood and relieve my anguish. The character was suffering so deeply, her path in life so sad, I couldn’t stand it.

I know that’s strange, especially for a big guy, and I’m not a wussy, but don’t most of us choke up when we see another human suffering. In this case I hated the outcome of the story, but I couldn’t change it. It was what the novel was all about. Without her history, what this poor girl experienced, you had no Shadow of Guilt.
I’m curious if other authors encounter this same heartstring response when their fictional characters undergo pain and sorrow. Or maybe it’s just me. Perhaps I need to get some testosterone injections to reaffirm my guyhood. My wife always did say I was too emotional (g).

The Comfort Zone by Michael Davis

2010-04-20T00:01:00.001-04:00

The comfort zone

For must humans, there’s a place they go to relax, exchange some good words, or just because they feel comfortable there. For example, there’s a little hardware store near my house were all the local males come, like moths to a light. When I was six, it was Charlie’s Shack. My aunts and cousins would take me there to get a moon pie and an RC cola, and a can of snuff for my grandmother. I think most people have a comfort zone that makes them feel welcome and cozy inside.

The other day, I had an epiphany that all my romantic suspense novels possess one common property – they have a comfort zone where the characters return. For example, in FORGOTTEN CHILDREN, it’s a Bar and Grill named Tally’s. The hero and heroine spend a lot of time socializing there, especially on Goobers night every Thursday. In BLIND CONSENT, the hero focused on May’s Emporium, an old country store where the heroine worked. In TAINTED HERO, the hero spent a lot of time in ice cream parlors because he loved to watch the women in his life enjoy sweets. In VEIL OF DECEPTION, it was Ruth’s Place; a convenience store out in the middle of nowhere. In this case, it was an actual place where all the local’s hang out for coffee and a cathead biscuit.

I didn’t notice this pattern in my stories until a reader asked me, “Is there any common theme in the way you create scenes.” Then I realized there is; it’s the use of a comfort zone for the characters. Is that wrong? I don’t think so. As I mentioned earlier, most people have some comfort zone or zones in their lives where they go to get away. Come to think about it, those are the scenes I like writing the most. Maybe it’s just a “me” thing. Perhaps because I relate to gathering holes in my world, it’s just my comfort zone. I’ll have to see if the trend continues in my future stories.

Till next time, be safe.

Big Mike

The Invisible Multiplier by Michael Davis

2010-04-15T16:02:00.001-04:00

The Invisible multiplier

1. Consistency – As an author creating fiction across 300 pages, sometimes you forget that you gave the heroine a black jeep on page 23 and changed it to a red Elantra on page 125, or the hero was born in Maine, then strangely admits he’s never set foot in New England. Yet the CE enforces that consistency across the story.

2. Perspective – What is a story without internal monologue, it’s boring. My CE can ask a simple question, “Did he really forget his wife that fast?” or “Doesn’t she think it’s suspicious that he just happened to have that in his pocket?” Your first response is, “Well sure, the reader knows that,” but when you think about it, no the reader doesn’t. As the author, the images in your mind tell the whole story, but you forget they’re not inside your head. I remember a particular scene in one on my recent novels where the hero is franticly searching for his wife, concerned that some really bad guys have taken her to get to him. In his search, he discovers a possible source by solving a rather obvious puzzle. Well, my CE asked, “Doesn’t he think it’s strange that after everything that’s happened, he was able to stumble upon this answer?” Well of course he does, dah.” Then I realized, she was right. The thoughts, twists, confusion, reluctance, fear that would be going on in his mind were not there and they were damn important to the story. In fact, it lead to an entire new scene I created to convey the hero consciously allowing himself to be trapped because it was the only way to get to the woman he loved. Afterward, both of us stood back and admitted, “damn that’s good” and it was, but it wouldn’t have been without her probing question.

3. Five senses/environment – A simple question to an author - “What was she smelling, what color was it, was there nothing on the walls, did the animal make a sound, etc.” Yes, indeed, such a straight forward question, yet so profound in the reflection of realism in the story. And again you fill like an idiot for not recognizing the void in the first place. Fact is, when your creating the entwined storyline, you forget those special fine brush strokes that really make the story come to life and made the reader become absorbed in the story.

4. POV – Now, this is the killer for me. It’s my mega button above all others and Cindy knows it. She loves to hammer on that button. Out of respect from her insight, I do everything I can to conform to her strict “No POV switches, Mikey” posture. Except in the bedroom. That’s where we fight and argue. You see, I want to be in both the hero and heroine’s head because I am into the sensual elements (I’m a guy, if I’m going to reflect romance, got to be an intimacy side, cause that’s how us guys demonstrate love in our minds). I want to know what’s going on in both their minds, (after all, we boys and girls are such different creatures).. So that’s were our battles occur, over and over again.

5. Fun factor – In 98% of the cases, I truly enjoy the interaction with my CE. She’s witty, smart, has a neat sense of humor, and can take my loving male jests with a fleer. Except for POV. Then I just sigh, shake my head, and attempt to comply in all but a few cases.

All and all, I really feel we work on a project as a team, and I consider myself lucky to have hit the jackpot on the first roll of the dice. I know the stories came out of my warped mind, but by the time we’re done, it’s our story, and I think she feels that way too, otherwise, how could she read it over and over so many times. I also sense that exposure to sure a talented person has allowed me to expand my horizons as an author. I find myself asking, “Given they just tried to kill him, wouldn’t the hero be seeing dragons behind even turn of the road?” Or, “no Mike, you started in Ryan’s head and he wouldn’t be thinking of himself as the young man.” But I also recognize, I have to be careful. Swell a woman’s head too much, and you’ll pay for it in the end.

So this round of brew is to you, Cindy, girl. And remember, you still own me lunch, although I honestly forgot what the bet was, but I didn’t forget I won.