Excerpt - The Gender Divide by David Boultbee

“Hmm,” Olivia murmured, “I wonder why they don’t want any interruptions.”

“Yeah, I wonder,” Ryan chuckled and then his eyes widened as Olivia toyed with the knot of her sweatshirt nervously. He took a deep breath and somehow his nervousness made hers fade away. Emboldened by his reaction, she stood up and untied her sweatshirt and, before she lost her nerve, she pulled her T-shirt over her head. His eyes drank her in as she shimmied out of her jeans and stood in just her bra and panties. Somehow the further she went, the easier it was and she did a little wiggle for his benefit. She could see the evidence of his reaction clearly now and she reached behind her and unfastened her bra. She coyly held the loose cups to her breasts, teasing him, before she tossed it to the ground beside her jeans. She slipped out of her panties and stood before him naked. She smiled at the look on his face and then pirouetted gracefully, letting the sun warm her skin, feeling freer than she had in years.

“I thought that maybe we could work up an appetite, given that we’ve got all this food to eat,” she said suggestively and he grinned appreciatively. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he said as he stood up and removed his own clothes. Olivia had seen him with his shirt off before, but that paled in comparison to how glorious he looked nude. His body was firm and muscled, and his tanned skin looked perfect. He looked like a Greek Adonis or Michelangelo’s David, and she felt the perfection of this moment deep inside her. They came together slowly and kissed each other gently, exploring one another’s bodies with their hands. After a while, they sank down onto the blanket and continued their journey of discovery.

~ * ~

Olivia took a bite from the bruschetta and grimaced as a piece of cold tomato dropped onto her naked breast. Before she could wipe it away with her napkin, Ryan leaned over and gently licked it off.

“You’re awfully handy to have around,” she laughed and then moaned softly as his mouth moved down across her breast to her nipple.

“Stop that,” she groaned, “or we’ll never get anything to eat.”

“Speak for yourself,” he teased. But, to her relief and disappointment, he sat back up. They were both still naked and Olivia had never felt more satisfied or free in her entire life. Though it wasn’t the way she had pictured the afternoon, it felt so right. Even the food was perfect. Ryan hadn’t removed most of the appetizers from their thermal containers. Although the containers had been sitting out in the sun for over two hours, they were still the right temperature, as evidenced by the cold bruschetta. Olivia couldn’t say the same for either her or Ryan. A light sheen of perspiration covered both of them and Olivia eyed the stream thoughtfully.

“Is that swimmable?” she asked, and Ryan looked over at it.

“Technically, yes. However it’s fed from runoff from the surrounding mountains so it’s ice-cold.” She looked at him speculatively and he shook his head. “No way, José.”

“Aw, come on, don’t be such a wimp. And don’t tell me you’re not just as hot as I am.”

“Well, actually I think that you’re hotter, if you’ll pardon the pun,” but he levered himself to his feet and then came over and picked her up.

“Hey,” she squealed, “what are you doing?”

“You did say that you were hot.” He jumped into the stream with her still in his arms.

Excerpt - A Stranger in His Bed by Nancy Henderson

Angus watched Cat stare into the fireplace. Flames crackled, danced shadows and light across her features as she sat there.
Her cheeks were flushed from heat, and he had no doubt how soft they would be at the touch. Also because he’d just said something that would embarrass her. As days passed with her here, he was enjoying the newfound power he had over making her blush, that he could affect her, more and more. Although he did feel guilty at times for taunting her.
A strong north wind howled outside, sending a whisper of snow under the crack between the door and the threshold. Angus stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched her. She didn’t say anything.
He was an ass. She’d told him she was leaving. He’d offered to come with her, and when she refused, he’d gotten angry again.
Before Cat had come into his life, he could seldom remember a time when he lost his temper. Now, with her here, everything had turned upside down. His existence had no organization, no structure, no predictability. It simply was…not just an existence anymore.
How in hell could he just let her walk out of his life? But why in hell would she even want to stay?
She slowly removed her heeled boots and stockings as if she hadn’t a care that he was standing within inches of her. He watched her curl her bare feet under her skirts.
She had no idea the effect it had on him.
“Why don’t you have a sweetheart?” She set her boots beside her.
He grunted. Irritation doused him like water from the stream in December.
“Any woman would be happy to have you.”
“It wouldn’t be a real relationship.”
“I don’t understand.”
He shouldn’t have said anything. He’d only muttered it under his breath, more to himself than anyone.
He sighed. “Sex. I’m talking about sex.”
The expression on her face told him she was still in the dark. But how could she be? All she had to do was look at him to know the answer.
He shook his head. “No woman in her right mind would want to have sex with me. Not unless I paid her.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Are you incapable?”
“Wh—Of course I’m capable!”
“Then what is the problem?” She paused, bit her lip as if contemplating something. “I mean…positioning may present a challenge.”
His jaw dropped. There was no embarrassment he’d seen so often on her face when he’d hackled her. She just sat there staring at him as if she were genuinely waiting for an answer.
He ran his hand through his hair. Christ, she was waiting for an answer.

Excerpt - Kaitlin's Silver Lining by Ciara Gold

BLURB:

Kaitlin Kanatzer receives threatening letters that promise dire consequences if she doesn’t stop her suffragist activities. Bent on solving problems on her own without interference, she blocks every attempt Bryce makes to help her. Can she abandon her convictions and open her heart to love?

Bryce Stanton is at his wits end in dealing with his new responsibility. When he becomes guardian to an eleven-year-old hoyden, he seeks the girl’s aunt Kaitlin for help, never realizing the danger he must confront. Through many trials, he discovers more than a desirable woman; he discovers his equal.

Excerpt:

Retrieving a broom from the kitchen, she tackled the task of cleaning. Absorbed in the chore, the front door banging open startled her. She whirled around, broom raised high. A tall, lanky figure swept off his hat and dusted the flakes of snow from his trench coat. Bryce Stanton had returned.

“You’d better have a good excuse for breaking my window and running off like that.” She raised the broom higher.

“Holster your six-shooter, lady.”

She gave him a puzzled frown.

“The broom.” He nodded at her weapon.

She lowered the broom, but kept it in hand. He hadn’t done anything yet to earn her trust. “I’d like an explanation now.”

He shrugged out of his coat, keeping a suspicious eye on the broom. His caution pleased her. She wanted him to know just what kind of woman he dealt with. As president of the newly formed Mountain Ridge Chapter of Colorado Suffrage Association, Kaitlin could not afford a weak front before this man. She had to set an example for all womankind. And – she had no desire to repeat the same mistakes she’d once made with James Latham.

Before hanging up the coat, Bryce dug around in the pocket. Slowly, he pulled out a rock. Digging deeper, he withdrew a scrap of paper.

“Here’s your explanation.” He handed her the rock.

“A rock?”

“Yep. It sailed through your window with this attached.” He unfolded the wadded up paper and held it for her perusal. She reached for it, but caught his hand instead. The sudden contact made her uncomfortable. As Bethany had reminded her time and again, she was a homely version of Adam’s rib. She snatched at the paper with more force than she’d intended. Her odd looks hadn’t bothered James. Except, she’d discovered too late he’d only been attracted to her land.

The paper crinkled. You’ve ignored previous warnings. Maybe this one will carry more weight. Leave Denver or Else.

She lowered her hand, the note still gripped between tense fingers. There had been many such warnings this past year, but none had ever resulted in violence.

“Well?” Bryce clearly expected a response.

She crumpled the note, crammed it in her skirt pocket, and began sweeping at the shards of glass. “A prank. It was just a senseless prank.”

“Senseless pranks don’t throw rocks through windows with threatening words attached.” His voice held a note of irritation.

She kept the broom in motion, fearing he would read the lie in her eyes. She needed many things, but she didn’t need the intrusion of this stranger into her business.

Without warning, his hand shot out and grabbed the broom. Her head snapped up, incredulous he would dare such a high-handed maneuver.

“What gives you the right to manhandle me like that, Mr. Stanton?”

“You.” His gaze held accusation. Gone was the polite cowboy who’d knocked on her door. Before her stood a hard man, a man determined to unravel the mystery. “That note? That wasn’t your first, was it? You’ve had other threats, haven’t you?”

“Now, see here . . .”

He let go of the broom. Urgent strides carried him past her and toward the parlor. She rushed after him. He located the stack of unopened mail. Realizing what he intended, she dropped the broom and grabbed his arm. Muscles rippled beneath her ineffective hold.

First Chapter - Gemstone by Jim Woods

GEMSTONE

A Novel of South Africa

by Jim Woods

PROLOGUE

The Liverpool-registered freighter Frances Newton was outfitted with eight passenger cabins on the second deck, one level safely removed from the sometimes-perilous cargo handling operations topside. Never in the ship’s thirty-two year years of service had it sailed with all cabins occupied. When the ship was commissioned the owners had visions of adventurous travelers willing to pay lucrative fees for leisurely passage to distant, obscure, exotic and sometimes surprise-scheduled destinations. They miscalculated; the bare-and-spare Newton just could not compete with the cruise liners that offered dance floors, intimate cocktail lounges and midnight buffets.

Passenger amenities on board the Newton were limited to eating at officer’s mess, a library of well-used paperback books, several decks of equally well-thumbed playing cards, a checker board, a chess set and ample opportunities for carnal encounters with the mostly-Irish boiler tenders and British deckhands. Captain Perkins had observed over the past seventeen years--he was only the second skipper of the Newton since it first was launched--that the worst offenders of the latter were married women traveling with their husbands, older women traveling with like companions, and young men traveling alone. The occasional younger single women, or married women who booked single-cabin passage, seemed to gravitate to officers. The American, Jim Stone, was neither passenger nor crew nor officer of the Frances Newton, yet he was all three.

Chapter 1

“This is the Captain. All hands stand-to for docking. Attention, all passengers and crew. We have stopped just outside of Table Bay. The South African customs inspector and the Cape Town harbor pilot will come on board shortly; their boat is coming alongside just now. All crew not assigned to deck operations, and all passengers, make ready for customs inspection. Luggage, trunks and other personal gear intended to be put ashore must be tagged by customs. Passengers disembarking at Port Elizabeth and the Port of Durban will have their bags checked by customs here at Cape Town, our initial port of entry to South Africa. Passengers disembarking in Cape Town will place their luggage on the main deck, starboard; Port Elizabeth passengers and those disembarking in Durban, will place theirs on the main deck, portside. This will allow passengers disembarking here to have their customs inspections first so that they may leave the ship as quickly as possible. Passports and customs declaration forms must be ready for the inspector. Thank you for your cooperation. We will get underway shortly after the pilot is aboard and should tie up starboard-side-to at Duncan Dock, Berth B, in less than an hour.”

The squawk box in the forward cabin passageway blared out the instructions resonantly, Jim Stone noted with satisfaction. The shipboard loudspeaker network was one of the electronic systems he had overhauled on the voyage from Long Beach. Forty-seven days, the old bucket, the Frances Newton, had been at sea, counting a few hours ashore at Acapulco to take on Mexican fuel oil that was cheaper than that available in Long Beach; a two-day layover at Callao near Lima; one day at Valpariso; then around Cape Horn and nearly two days at Stanley on East Falkland Island; then the almost five thousand-mile stretch of open sea to Cape Town.

With mixed emotions, Jim Stone gathered up his possessions, a Navy-issue olive-green duffel bag that held his clothes and personal effects, the bag cinched closed via a doubled-wire loop protruding from the canvas-bag opening at one edge and over which three grommets equally spaced around the opening of the bag were threaded, the wire loop then secured with the clip at the end of the shoulder strap; a newly sewn bleached-white canvas, draw-string-top duffel that contained his bedroll; and a scuffed leather rifle case that protected the Springfield.

Jim Stone was pleased that the voyage was over and at the same time saddened to accept that it had ended. He recalled how he had been relieved and exhilarated when the tedious sixty-six days at sea aboard U.S.S. Harry E. Hubbard finally ended in port; on that leg of the destroyer cruise there had been no stops at all. At three hundred-and-ten feet long, the Newton didn’t compare in length to the Hubbard, and with a beam of sixty-two feet, none of the destroyer’s sleekness. Worse, though, was that the Newton did not glide through the water. Even when the weather was rough, when the Hubbard’s foredeck and the fantail were alternately awash with raging seas, it still made good headway; the freighter Newton simply wallowed. On the voyage from Long Beach, the Newton squatted low in the water with her weather deck crammed with the huge crates of iron slag from Ohio, and in the holds, a fleet of previously-owned automobiles, and the printing press that when re-assembled would fill a sizable warehouse. The monstrous press had been outgrown by a newspaper in Omaha and was consigned to a publisher in Lima where it would print papers for another two or three decades even though the Omaha publisher considered it worn out.

“The Old Bucket” as the Newton unofficially was referred to by captain and crew alike, rode sluggishly. After the printing press was off-loaded in Peru and the automobiles in Chile, the Newton would have ridden higher in the water and a lot less comfortably. The crates of slag, though, were removed from the deck to the hold in order to better ballast the hull. For reasons known only to the Captain, probably as the crew members sagely argued, to avoid Chilean passage fees at Punta Arenas, he eschewed the calm transition from the Pacific to the Atlantic via the Straits of Magellan, and rounded storm-ravaged Cape Horn where the high waves tossed the ship about like it was empty. The situation was pretty dicey for passengers and crew at one time, not to mention The Old Bucket itself, when several of the husky crates of slag broke loose and skittered across the hold, pounding the ship’s sidewalls. Finally the errant crates were secured at the cost of several severe injuries among the crew, but luckily no deaths, and were off-loaded in the Falklands where their contents would be mixed with the concrete of the breakwater under construction. To replace that ballast for the trans-Atlantic excursion, the holds fore and aft were crammed with pallets of bagged penguin guano, claimed to be the most concentrated fertilizer in the world. It would add much-needed enrichment to the desert-encroached and nutrient-depleted farm soils of Botswana, South Africa and Zimbabwe, but from that point on in the voyage, the Newton was re-christened “The Old Bucket of Birdshit.”

The Newton carried shipments that the larger carriers didn’t find profitable because of the frequent time-consuming stopovers required for their delivery, and couldn’t carry economically because the consignments at any one port often were small. Ports-of-call on the Newton’s route generally were too shallow for the large freighters and the dock facilities usually too poorly equipped. Thus, the Newton filled an important niche in the shipping trade and always was welcomed at the ports where it and the other shuttle freighters put in with their commerce-bolstering, and often life-sustaining payloads. The Frances Newton was a flagship of the international rusty merchant navy, not at all like the sleek, always painted and polished, U.S.S. Harry E. Hubbard of the real Navy, so assessed former First Class Petty Officer James Stone, late of that by-God real fighting ship.

Jim Stone later would regret having denigrated the Newton as something other than heroic, and regretted even more that, by association, he had lumped the Old Bucket’s crew with the same undeserved representation. Around the wardroom and the decks of the Newton, Jim was treated, bit-by-bit, to the ship’s history. It had been commissioned in England several years following The Great War before world wars required numbers to differentiate one from another. It was launched in a period of post-war innocence and prosperity that preceded the calamitous worldwide financial ruin of the late 1920s but was transferred to a South African-based shipper in a payoff of debt associated with that Depression. The new owners were Britons whose family had immigrated to South Africa a hundred years past. The British captain of the Newton chose to stay on as skipper under the new flag. For almost a decade, the Newton plied the shipping routes around sub-Saharan Africa with only an occasional voyage to England. With the advent of England’s declaration of war with Germany in 1939, the Newton was ordered home, but first its holds were crammed with Rhodesian chromium vitally needed for war preparations.

The mission was completed routinely and the ship was pressed into service around the Bristol Isles rather than run the risk of German interception on the long voyage back to South Africa. The Newton took part in the rescue at Dunkirk in 1940, and on its second trip back to England during that adventure, its decks and cabin spaces packed with more than three hundred British soldiers, a Messerschmitt singled it out for attack. A large number of the evacuees on deck were killed and wounded on the plane’s first pass, but the telling moment was when everyone on the bridge, including the captain, was killed in a fiery barrage of shellfire when the plane doubled back for another strafing attack. The second officer, now Captain Perkins, was below decks attending to his human cargo when the attack occurred, but made his way topside through the wreckage and assumed command of the injured vessel, returning it safely home. He was rewarded with his captaincy following the incident, and remained in that position until now when the aging Frances Newton had fallen on hard times.

The other ship in Jim Stone’s life and career, the U.S.S. Harry E. Hubbard, had docked at U.S. Naval Station, Long Beach, after a six-month cruise that started from the Philippines, and included the stretch of sixty-six days at sea, then stopovers at Okinawa, Darwin and Queenstown in Australia, Western Samoa, Hawaii and finally home. The destroyer was scheduled for major and lengthy refitting in dry dock and most of the crew had been reassigned. Jim Stone’s enlistment was up in twenty-one days so he was assigned to a transit barracks along with other short-timers, for processing out. Because he was a senior petty officer he had no daily work assignments, and once the morning muster was over, he was on liberty until the following morning’s roll call. He returned to the base for his evening meal and to sleep, and seldom went off base in the evenings when seemingly all the rest of the Long Beach-based sailors were competing for the waterfront district’s bar stools and bar girls. On his thirteenth day in the city, in a coffee shop, he met up with his destiny.

~ * ~

“I beg your pardon, but I noticed your insignia. Your specialty is electronics, is that correct?”

“Yes, my rate is Electronics Technician First Class. From your accent, I’d guess you’re Brit. I don’t recognize your bars though, so I assume you’re not Navy. Can I do something for you?”

“I hope so. My name is Brill, Nathan Brill, and I’m South African, actually. I’m Second Officer on a British freighter though, the Frances Newton.”

“Sorry, I don’t recognize your ship either. Should I?”

“No reason for you to. It’s a grubby little tub. I’m the navigation officer. Know anything about loran?”

“As a matter of fact I do. I was the loran specialist at Ship Repair on Guam for a year and a half. What kind of trouble do you have with yours? What brand of equipment?”

“The make is Alliance . . . Swedish. Does that make a difference?”

“Not a lot. The receivers all work pretty much the same. What are the symptoms?”

“It died.”

“That should make it easy. It almost has to be a power-supply tube.”

“That’s what I thought too, but when I replaced the high-voltage rectifier that tested bad, it blew right out again. Besides, it was sick before it died.”

“Don’t you have a radio-tech aboard?”

“Ag, he went ashore four days ago and we haven’t heard from him since. Cap’n figures he jumped ship. We notified the port authorities but the bleddy oke is Canadian. We figure he has just headed home, didn’t want to go to South Africa. He has his passport and it’s easy enough for a Canadian to cross the border.”

“If you’d like, I’ll take a look. Do you have spares?”

“We’re equipped . . . just nobody who knows how to use them. When could you come aboard?”

“As soon as I finish this beer and cheeseburger. I really don’t mind lending a hand, but the Naval Ship Repair Facility here works on commercial boats too. You could get qualified help just for the asking.”

“And for the paying. Captain Perkins claims to have no funds or authority from the home office for unnecessary repairs, and with our radar, they don’t see the need for loran. We’re running up anchorage charges by the day that has the home office fretting already.”

“What’s your departure schedule?”

“We should have left two days ago but some of the cargo we have contracted for is on its way by rail, and it obviously has run into trouble. Could you come take a look at my loran? I have a car.”

~ * ~

“We are indebted to you Mister Stone. Second Officer Brill tells me you are quite talented. You have impressed him with your skills. He is very dependent on the loran. Edward,” his command directed to a Negro messman, “another cup of tea for Mister Stone.”

“Thank you Captain Perkins. I was glad to be able to help. Will you be signing-on another radio technician before you leave Long Beach?”

“Not likely. That’s a Third Officer’s berth. It would be difficult if not impossible to find a qualified man in the short time we have left here . . . knock wood that we will be departing shortly. I did check with the registry, but there is no radio technician just sitting around the hall waiting for a berth, or at least one who would accept a berth on The Old Bucket. We’ll sail short-handed and bring our complement up to standard once we are back in Southampton. Or perhaps I’ll find one in Cape Town who wishes to return to England.”

“What about me for that job . . . until you reach South Africa?”

“Are you thinking of deserting the U.S. Navy, Mister Stone? And do you have maritime papers? You can’t just sign on as a crew member these days without papers, especially to fill an officer’s billet . . . not like it was when I first went to sea.”

“I’m not thinking of deserting sir, but I’m scheduled to be discharged in eight days . . . and basically I have no place to go, and nobody who particularly cares where I wind up. South Africa sounds like a good spot for me to look over.”

“What about a passport?

“That would be a problem. I don’t have one; never needed one before, but there is an immigration office in Los Angeles. I could try. . . .”

“There’s still the problem of officer’s papers that you would need. No one sails without papers.”

“I won’t spend the time and energy trying to get a passport on short schedule if you can’t get me on board as crew. What do you say?”

“Mister Stone,” Captain Perkins asserted after a lengthy and contemplative silence, “you get your passport and I’ll get you on board as a passenger. I’ll trade you passage to Cape Town for your skills in electronics repair, and I promise you, you’ll earn your keep. There’re a lot of tired electrical systems on this tired old bucket.”

“What about your sailing date?”

“We have missed it already and our manifest is still not complete. I’ll give you your eight days. Get yourself a passport and I’ll find a berth for you. You may require a visa to enter South Africa as well. Let me pull a string or two in that regard. I’ll call in a favor.”

~ * ~

Jim Stone cajoled the sympathetic manager in the passport office to give his application priority, and his passport had come through in ten days, four days after he had become a civilian once again, his four-year enlistment having been shortened by two days in a burst of efficiency by the Navy personnel office. With his final regular pay and the mustering-out bonus, he felt rich with four hundred and twenty dollars-and-change in his pockets. He was relieved that the Springfield was still in the gun shop. He coveted it from the first time he had examined it, but with not enough money at the time, and no immediate need for the rifle, and no place to keep it even if he had the money and the need--barracks personnel couldn’t keep private firearms on base--he had been certain that someone else, better heeled, would have snatched the prize from him.

The rifle was a Springfield National Match on a 1922 M1 pistol-grip stock with a molded buttplate. The wood was still adorned with sling swivels and even the bayonet lug ahead of the long forearm. The bolt and trigger had been worked over and were butter-smooth, but the most intriguing niceties were the hinged floorplate and the Lyman peepsight. Because the stock had not been reshaped and slimmed as was the usual modification when sporterizing a Springfield, the rifle weighed just a shade under nine pounds. The new leather sling that he had to buy separately increased the weight to a bit more than nine, a heavy rifle by any standards. Jim did not agree that since a rifle was carried more than it was shot, that the weight should be drastically lessened to ease the burden. Rather, he knew that the main purpose of the rifle, shooting, would be better served with its steadier-holding, heavier weight. He completed his hundred-dollar purchase with forty rounds of full-jacketed military .30 caliber ammunition, passing up the more expensive commercial .30-06 cartridges. He declined the shop-owner’s offer that he could exchange the rifle for another if it didn’t prove as functional and accurate as it was touted. When Jim told him that he was taking the rifle to Africa, the gunsmith threw in a worn-leather, zippered rifle case at no cost.

Upon Jim’s discharge, Captain Perkins allowed him to move on board the Newton, brushing aside Jim’s thanks with the observation that another passenger-diner would make no difference in their cruise budget that was already destroyed by the wait for the long overdue cargo. “And besides, if you come aboard now and look over the equipment I will expect you to fix, you’ll have time to procure needed parts that we might not have in stores. Consider yourself under contract as of this moment. As a matter of fact, should anyone query you about what you are doing on board, let’s make it official that you are indeed a private contractor. That way, I will not have to answer to the maritime union about hiring a seaman without papers, and my officers will not have reason to report that I carried more passengers than I collected passage monies for.”

During the voyage, Jim corrected troubles in the Newton’s electronic and electrical equipment, even finding time to tinker with and restore operation to the wardroom movie projector that had not worked for almost a year. He was approached by crew members with private radios and record players, some of which he was able to restore to operation, and had repaired an electric curling iron for a lady passenger, Jim being tipped in cash for his work by the lady’s husband and in repeated services by the lady herself.

Hardly any appliance on the ship escaped his ministrations including one of the two main generators that he overhauled completely, and the radar that was Captain Perkins’ pride. Jim had found a new cathode-ray tube in stores that apparently hadn’t showed up on inventory in years, and replaced the screen in the radar repeater on the bridge. When Captain Perkins ascended to the bridge to take the helm, he first checked the radar as was his custom, and was surprised and delighted at the brightness of the display and the absence of the burned spots in the phosphor. When Jim tutored him that the scope intensity need not be turned up to maximum in order to view the display, and explained that the tube should last for years under his guidelines, the appreciative Captain Perkins offered to sponsor Jim’s enrollment in the Royal Maritime Academy, and was hurt when the offer was refused.

Jim made use of the machine shop, although the engineering officer in charge of the workspace was the only person on board who refused to have his equipment tended by anyone other than himself, and indeed Jim had found all the tools to be in well-maintained order. Jim disassembled the rifle bolt, soaked the pieces in solvent and lubricated them, and then he and the engineering officer joined in test firing the re-assembled rifle off the fantail. Jim was a bit disturbed that the two of them together had expended eight of his precious cartridges. At the officer’s suggestion, Jim used the high-speed grinder in the shop to precisely blunt the nose of each of his remaining cartridges, barely exposing and flattening the lead bullet covered by the copper jacket to ensure expansion upon its entry to the target animal.

~ * ~

Jim Stone checked over his belongings once again, not anxious to leave the ship and crew that in these few weeks had become home and family. He had boasted to Captain Perkins that he had no place to go nor anyone to care. Now, he admitted to himself that he had spoken the bitter truth. For the past five years he had been running away from anyone who might have cared where he wound up; running away from home where he felt he did not belong, running toward a life anywhere he could belong.

. . . TK

Top 10 Countdown #5 Remember, Tomorrow Never Comes

#5 Remember Tomorrow Never Comes

OK, here's the deal, tomorrow will never come. That sounds like a very philosophical statement coming from me and I'm not normally a philosophical writer, but hear me out. To prove my point check out my waistline. I know, what does that have to do with writing!? EVERYTHING! I keep telling myself that I will diet, and I will exercise, but I'll do it tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow because I'm too tired, or that roast beast (beef) looks too good to only have one helping. I can't diet today because that Almond Joy cake Momma made for dessert can't possibly be left for her to eat! She's a diabetic for crying out loud. I'm saving her from herself. I must save her and I must do it twice TODAY! So TOMORROW I will diet. But for some strange reason it is always today. Today is the only day that we have to think about, so let's make the most of it.

You need to make yourself write sometimes. At first it will come easily. You are going to be so stoked by a great story. You are going to do nothing but write, write, write. They ideas are going to flow from your fingers. The sparks will fly, and your significant other will be standing nearby with a fire extinguisher to make sure that no fires are started. Then your darling child comes up to you and says, "I'm hungry!" or my personal favorite, "I'm bored!" So you get up quickly and run to the kitchen to make a quick PB&J and then you are headed back to write. You then see the mail on the table that has to be put away. Dang is that the credit card bill that was due last week? Why didn't that get paid? Now you are making a mad dash for the check book to pay it before too many late fees get added. Hold up, the check book's not balanced? It's always balanced, do you have enough to pay the bill? By this time, you have forgotten that you were writing in the first place.

It's especially hard on a nice sunny day. But you need to set a goal, even if it's small.

* My goal for today is 400 words, in other words, you can set a word count goal!


So if you decide that you are going to write that 400 words act like the Nike commercial and Just Do It! Sit down and write 400 words. It needs to be something. It doesn't have to be the most wonderful thing you have ever written and if you are stuck on the story that you are writing, start on something else. Don't force the words to come that will only frustrate you and drive a very painful and potentially LONG writers block into your near future. (I hate writers block! In the infamous words of my children, "It sooooo sucks!")

* My goal is 5 pages, I'm sure you get where this is going, a page goal right!?


It's time to be selfish. Have your spouse watch the kids. Go somewhere quiet, or semi-quiet if you live in my house and close the door. Put several full laundry baskets in front of the door and sit down to write. You have to take the time to do this.If you don't take the time to be selfish with your writing, no one else is going to do this for you. If you don't take care of this child, (Yes, your writing is your baby too! Don't believe me? Wait till your first not so good review when you want to beat the heck out of some reviewer for having an opinion. And do remember folks, it's just an opinion. OK?) no one is going to do it for you. So you need to get off your duff and take time for it. You can not blame anyone but yourself if you don't get it done.


* My goal is to write for 30 minutes and last but not least...a timed goal!


I know you've heard it before but use a timer. The advice is sound, tried and true guys. If you don't have an egg timer, a timer on your microwave, your stove, your phone, or an alarm clock, I do have solutions. I absolutely love this site: http://www.nakedalarmclock.com/ because you can set it and have it go off whenever your goal time is complete. Besides, the name is fun. (I bet over half of you have already clicked on the link thinking you would find something naked on there, HA fooled you.) Make sure if you set a timer for yourself, that you are not punishing yourself. Try not to make this a time out like you would give your child. So, don't do it for 3 straight hours in a row. When I tutored college Accounting, I always told students never to study for more than an hour at a time, take a 10-15 minute break and then go back to studying. That way your brain doesn't go into overload. If you force your brain to work non-stop for 3-4 hours then you may end up resenting the time that you are sitting there, and won't enjoy what you are doing. Another fun thing that I can tell you about is http://lab.drwicked.com/writeordie.html. You can go to that site and put in your word goal, a time limit, and if you would prefer the program it to go easy on you, be strict or just be plain evil. It's a little difficult to explain, so you may want to go there and play with it just for fun! If nothing else, it kicks you in the butt and gets your mind working and breaks the monotony of a brain fart or writers block.

Make sure to come back next week when we talk about organizational skills! It's a great thing baby!

Interview with Angela Ashton

Tami - Well hello Angela, thanks for taking time away from your writing to come and chat with us at the Champagne Books blog!

Angela - My pleasure, thanks for the invite!

Tami - Any time Angela! I hear that you're a bit of a dreamer, and that some of your stories come out of those dreams. Tell me a little bit about that.

Angela - Many of my stories stem from my dreams and once I start a story, I dream up scenes and often jump up to grab my notebook and pen so I don't forget a thing. I'm no poet, but I've even written a couple of poems in my sleep; you know, in that magical realm between wake and sleep where you hear all sorts of things. One such poem was the night my uncle passed from renal failure and it was read and distributed at his funeral. I remembered every word!

Tami - That must have been very vivid for you to have remembered every word. I sometimes can remember things when I wake up but they fade so quickly. I have a lot of ideas between that wake and sleep realm. How do you suggest that we keep hold of that and not loose what we 'catch' there?

Angela - Keep a pen and paper beside the bed and write it down BEFORE your feet hit the floor. It really does help. And I agree, things fade with each passing second as 'reality' takes over...

Tami - Unfortunately reality does take over far too quickly. What a great idea to have the notepad handy. I'm going to have to remember to put something beside the bed. I'll have to make sure not to wake up my darling boyfriend. Now, I hear that you are a movie buff too! I was reading on your web page and said to myself, "Self, this is a chick that I could like! She likes Phantom and Highlander! Whoo hoo!" Does your eclectic taste in movies help you with your writing in any way?

Angela - Oh yes! I love anything Highlander/ Scottish and a great mystery...and hot guys are a given, lol! All of my heros are tall dark and handsome and Scottish Historicals are my all time fav's. I love everything about POTO; esp. when Gerry Butler is playing Eric--double yum!

Tami - I have a thing for hot vampire men with their pale skin, and their sharp teeth coming for my exposed neck.....whew...excuse me. I especially enjoyed Alex O'Loughlin as Mick St.John. He's a double yum for me. Who's your favorite TV or movie Yum?

Angela - Love those fangle-toothed hotties myself! I adore Victor Webster, aka 'Coop' from the last season of Charmed, and Adrain Paul, of course. *BG* Speaking of vamps, I'm working on a series of books about demons in the form of the 7 deadly sins...will have vampire elements to the story line; very exciting stuff.

Tami - OMG, you are going to have to email me when those are ready to go! I HAVE to read! (Great, more stuff to go on my TBR pile. What's another 7 to my 20,000?) OK, I've waited long enough. You have to tell me about the pirates. I have a thing about handsome alpha males. Corsair Cove is now in print and I would love for you to tell me a little bit about Jacque!

Angela - Oh my, Tami, I'm so glad you asked! I, too, am a huge pirate fan! And Jacque is by far the stubbornest hero I've penned to date. Typical cap'n, he doesn't like to hand over command to anyone, let alone someone trying to tell his story. Did I mention he was stubborn?!? I was dead set against him kidnapping King Luis, but, if you've read the story, you'll see who won that debate. Now, he wants a sequel, lol. And actually, he can be quite demanding at times. I had great fun telling Esa and Jacque's story, so who knows, I just may take him up on that.

Tami - I hate to admit it, but I haven't had a chance to read Jaques' story. **ducks** Would you mind giving me a little peek? Maybe an excerpt? And I happen to love stubborn men. (But I only love them in my stories....cause in real life I would have to train them right and make them behave!)

Angela - I LOVE them too! Here you go:

She lingered just a moment before sitting down again, careful to keep her eyes to the floor in fear of falling beneath the spell of those sultry dark eyes again. Breathe, that still voice commanded.
"Mr. LaFleur. Is that your real name?" Of course she knew it wasn’t, but she had to begin her interrogation somewhere. Hard as she tried, she made the mistake of glancing at his face. The hairs on her arms stood on end with the intimate charge that ignited the air. He felt it too; she could see it in those cinnamon speckled eyes that bewitched her curiosity.
And, although she tried to tell herself it was because of his uncivilized conduct upon their first encounter, it suddenly occurred to her why she’d been unable to get this magnificent, deranged loon out of her mind all day.
"Aye lass, ‘tis. Jacque Cherif LaFleur. Born December seventeenth, seventeen-hundred and twenty-six, in Paris, France to Jamus and Madeline LaFleur, the eldest of three brothers and four sisters."
"Seventeen hundred and twenty six, eh?" She scoffed. "Impossible. That would make you over two hundred years--"
"Two-hundred and seventy-eight, to be exact. Don’t look at me as though I’m addled, no one is more baffled than I as to by what means I arrived in this century, or for what reason." He paused, adding, "That’s where you come in."
"Me? W-What can I do?"
"The last thing I recall before seeing ye bonny face on the beach this morn was falling into the sea from aboard the Sainte-Anne. I can imagine ‘tis as difficult for you to comprehend as ‘tis for me. Nevertheless, ‘tis true. I‘ve no cause to lie."
The man was mad! 100% pure Fruit of the Loom! There was no doubting he actually believed what he was telling her, otherwise he couldn’t be so eerily convincing.
"And the ruby?" she asked, forcing her gaze beyond his earth shattering good looks and probing a sinister expression for muted answers. "Is it yours?"
Jacque eased back and cocked a guarded brow, the chair squeaked under the shifting weight. "An advance from King Louis, payment until I completed my existing commission. His Majesty enjoyed gambling almost as much as tupping the bonny wenches." His rakish smile warmed her flesh and warned her he’d been cut from a similar mold. "He owed most of his riches to the debt he’d acquired and needed my services to save face."
This guy was damn good! Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, she asked, "If the king was in such a crisis, why didn’t he use the ruby to pay off his unsettled debt?"
A slow, deliberate grin curled those sinful lips. It was hard not to think of the expert way he’d kissed her, molded himself to her body. Eyes sparkling, his voice reminded her of lazy thunder as it rolled from those skilled lips. "Ah, my delicate pet, the due prize was worth far more than the meager ruby."
Her mouth fell open. Meager ruby? He had to be the world’s best liar. She glanced sideways toward the exit. Should she get up and leave? It would be the safest choice and by far the smartest decision she’d made in weeks.
But her cat-like curiosity kept her seated. What had she really learned about the ruby? About him? Nothing.
Clearing her throat she asked, "How would you know that?"
He stared at her through a conspiratorial leer, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to trust her. The irony almost made her laugh out loud.
"The real treasure was stolen three years prior and buried in a discreet location for future profit. A chest of treasure though a fair booty in its own right, and the only treasure me crew knew existed, was buried on the same island."
Then, as if he could read her next question just as it entered her mind, the renegade leaned forward and added in a throaty whisper that made her skin tingle, "I know because I am the one who buried it."
Her eyes grew to the size of quarters. His believing was having a domino effect on her, so lost was she in his intriguing tale. "Alright." She paused to get her bearings. Whether it was his storytelling expertise or his unwavering sex appeal, she was having trouble staying focused. "L-Let’s look at the facts for just a moment. If this were all true, if you really were the Jacque LaFleur, you would have had to travel through time to be here now, and that just isn’t possible! You are living in a dream, snap out of it and tell the truth. It’s the only way to free yourself."
"Avast, Cherie! I obtained the treasure during me pirate endeavors when I led my crew in an attack on a Spanish Galleon heading toward India. One of the merchants aboard the rebel ship had stolen the precious treasure from the king himself not long beforehand. When I happened upon it, I tucked it in my britches and my crew was never the wiser, never knew of its existence in fact, as the other booty we acquired was vast indeed. Once we anchored in Guadeloupe, I was able to slip away and bury the exquisite gem while the rest of the crew buried their trunks of riches. We were to go back and split the goods a few months later, but due to unforeseen events, that didn’t happen.
"Sita’s stone could have made me so wealthy that my grandchildren’s grandchildren could have lived comfortably and not had to work a day in their entire lives! When I turned from the perilous life pirating, Louis granted me a full pardon, so long as I accepted the Letters of Marque to pursue his pilfering for him."
A chill ran through her and for a fleeting moment, she imagined that voice sending a crew of burly men to do the Captain’s vile bidding. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off.
"I was left with no alternative but to disclose the truth of the treasures whereabouts once I discovered my father was unable to pay his own acquired debts to the bloodthirsty landlubber. In return for the information and the stolen treasure, my father was to be relieved of his debt."
Esa didn’t miss the flicker of pain behind his eyes at the mention of his father. He certainly didn’t seem like a man that would abandon his family in their time of need. Humph, what more proof did she need? The man was a fraud. Jacque LaFleur didn’t give a fig about his father’s welfare, else he wouldn’t have killed the poor defenseless man!
The pain transformed almost instantly into smugness as he met and held her shrewd gaze. "As for time-travel, well, were I not sitting in this broom closet with the most beautiful wench I’ve ever had the privilege to lay these cursed eyes upon, I’d have to agree with ye. As it stands, I fear I’m left no choice but to take the opposing side of the debate."
"The history books do not mention a secret treasure."
"Granted, were it so, it wouldn’t be much of a secret now, would it?" Jacque winked at her. She resisted the urge to dab her mouth and see if she were drooling.
His grin disappeared. Leaning forward again, he took on a more serious tone. "Ye don’t have to believe what I’m tellin’ ye, poppet. If my calculations are correct, I believe I can prove what I say is true."
Esa flinched. It was a trick. How could anyone prove such an extraordinary tale? To spin it was one thing, but to claim to be able to prove such an outlandish fable? Ridiculous!
Okay, she’d bite at the bait. Donning a mask of uneasy puzzlement, she asked, "Really? You can prove you’ve discovered the secret to time travel? How so?"
"Ye say ye father owns a shipping business?" Had she told him that? Oh yes, that had been the beginning of his rampage on the beach. When she nodded, he continued, "What say I give you the ruby as payment for one of ye vessels--"
"What?" The guy was a madman. Lock him up with a one of a kind key, and then melt it down to a piece of costume jewelry!
Jacque sighed heavily. "Look Cherie, I’ve no other means buy which to compensate ye, except perhaps…" His gaze wandered down her crossed legs but thankfully he steered off that line of thinking when she glared at him in disapproval. "I have but the clothes on my back, and the ruby. I don’t suppose the Letters would be of any worth to ye. On any account, if Louis’s treasure is still where I left it, I’m almost certain your felonious history book will sing a different song.
It didn’t matter how convincing the deranged stranger was, it had to be a trick. Time-travel did not exist! There was no way he could prove the wondrous lies that tumbled so freely, so poetically from his crafty tongue. But even as she sat thinking of every rational reason why she shouldn’t trust the dangerous man, the only thing she allowed herself to concentrate on was the mysterious ruby. It must be worth a fortune. Did he steal it? Perhaps if she could get her hands on it, make some calls, she could discover where it came from. And if she took the stone as collateral for the loan of a vessel, it wouldn’t be as though he was stealing from her or anything.
Correction, he would be stealing from the new proprietor of her father’s industry. A low growl formed in her belly.
She hadn’t yet received the money her father left her in place of the beloved business. It could be weeks before she saw a nickel. Her hands formed sweaty fists, so tightly clenched that her nails dug into her flesh.
Damn Rafeull! The thought of the stranger made her skin crawl. The unleashed resentment surging through her caused her to do something she otherwise might have restrained from. "Alright. I’ll make a deal with you, Mr. LaFleur."
Thick dark brows arched with interest as the ruggedly handsome privateer awaited her proposal. "We can take the ruby to a jeweler, a respectable one so as not to try and cheat you. You can pawn it in order to buy the clothing and provisions needed for your trip. If what you say is true, you can buy back the stone once you’ve returned with your treasure, if you wish."
Jacque was looking at her as though she’d gone completely mad. His eyes twinkled with amusement. Flashing a superior grin, he purred, "Mademoiselle, I’d be a fool not to accept ye--"
Esa raised a hand, halting him mid-sentence and held his gaze. With a determined stance and superior grin of her own, she stated, "There is one condition, LaFleur. I will accompany you on your journey."
He blinked as though surprised, just before throwing his head back and unleashing a deep, guttural laugh that caused his entire body to vibrate and her pulse to quicken.
God help her, but even the man’s rugged laugh held the ability to buckle her knees.
"Ah, surely ye jest, Cherie? ‘Tis bad luck for a woman to board a vessel! Any fool knows that. Besides, the only women bold enough to venture aboard a pirate leave their pouty little ‘nay’s’ at the peer."
"You forget, this isn’t the 18th Century, nor is it a pirate ship." She returned his wicked grin. "Welcome to the new millennium, LaFleur. Here, we women travel by ship, plane and any other means available to men. Some even own and operate their own boats!" Why was she letting him get to her? Of course he knew woman weren’t the meek, helpless creatures they once were.
Regaining her composure, she added, "Nevertheless, it’s your decision. Either I tag along, or I leave now and you can find your own mode of transportation. Which shall it be?" She sprang to her feet and met his ruthless stare.
A crooked smile spread the width of his perilously dark face. "Ah Cherie, ye strike a hard bargain, indeed. Under the circumstances what’s my alternative? Avast, I’ll agree to ye terms. I’m certain it shall prove to be quite an interesting voyage to be shipmates with such a fiery wench." Once again mischievous, smoldering eyes roamed at their leisure the length of her body, sending a surge of heat straight to the V of her thighs.
Good grief, had she made a deal with the devil himself?
Careful Esa," her father’s voice echoed in her head. "Sharks don’t just live in the water." Those words sent waves of anger and resentment through her entire body. It was as if she were a rebellious teenager. No shark bite could sting worse than yours Pops, she mused.
At any rate, she and the would-be pirate hadn’t sealed their deal with an old fashioned handshake. Therefore, it wasn’t official yet. She could back out at anytime.
And go back to her brooding ho-hum life of indecision, confusion and heartache. At least the pirate prince’s shadowy escapade would allow her to sail the sea, something she loved as much as life itself. And who didn’t want to hunt for buried treasure?
Of course she would insist that her own crew man the boat. Would it be the last time she would sail in a company yacht? Heart shattering all over again, Esa choked back a tear. Her decision was made.
Seeing the predatory gleam in the wolf’s eye, she almost changed her mind. She’d need more than her skeletal crew of captain and cooks to endure this journey. In fact, it might be in her best interest to procure a chaperone or two to supply companionship on her endeavor with this man that called himself so compellingly Jacque LaFleur.
"Interesting indeed, as I plan to invite a few friends along." She flashed that superior smile once more and came to her feet.
"More lovely wenches, I hope?"
Clutching her handbag beneath the crook of her arm, she snickered. "I was thinking more along the lines of a several two hundred and fifty pound linebackers. I’ll just step out and speak with the detective and see what we need to do to get you out of here. Don’t go anywhere."
Jacque couldn’t believe the nerve of the saucy wench. He was a stranger in this century, in her century. What choice did he have but to agree to her preposterous terms?
Had he heard her correctly? Women now manned their own ships? The only thing a woman could do aboard a ship was reek havoc. What purpose could she possibly serve? She was as rigid as a plank and much too assertive to provide any worthwhile companionship.
On second thought.
His grin stretched from ear to ear as he thought of one particular service she could perform, would perform, if she dared tag along.
She floated back into the room and smiled at him. Magnificent, timeless beauty at its finest. She aroused desire in him at a level he’d never known before. "Looks like you’re free to go."
If only that were true.
Perhaps the miserably beautiful mademoiselle would feel differently about accompanying him after hearing what he was about to tell her. "Avast, lass. If ye could tarry just a moment, there’s something I’d like ye to hear."
Esa’s brows raised in query.
"Please, sit down." He paused long enough for her to be seated. "As ye have ye mind set on the journey, ‘tis only fair that I should warn ye of the island’s curse."
"Curse?" Her warm brown eyes sank to a cool, skeptical black. "But of course, what’s a secret treasure without a curse?" She chuckled. "Let’s hear it."
"Indeed ye shall, then I’ll be free of any guilt should you meet your demise." He broke long enough to savor the fear that flashed across her soft features. He almost felt guilty. Almost. "Nice to see I have your attention. The island is cursed, do not doubt it. ‘Tis been labeled the Curse of the Cove down the years, avast, ‘twould be centuries now, eh? It may take a week, a month, a year, maybe two, but the cove’s curse will find ye, dare ye cross the devil’s territory."
"Alright LaFleur, what is this dreaded curse?" Now her expression was mocking.
Trying hard to keep his lip from snarling, he forced a smile and said oh so casually, "Annihilation."
She flinched as though stung. Had her color paled as well? With a heavy sigh she declared, "Nonsense. I don’t believe in curses. This is just some ridiculous ploy of yours to--"
"Unfortunately mademoiselle, I speak from experience. Until yesterday, I didn’t lend much credence to curses myself."

Tami - Wow Angela, that was absolutely FABULOUS! Now there is another book to be added to my TBR! Will it never stop? LOL! Well thanks tons for stopping by it's been so much fun having you here. I hope that you take the time to stop by again and visit.

And for our loyal readers, make sure to stop by next week and visit with us when we have Jane Toombs as our next blood sucked victim, I mean guest....see ya then!

Excerpt - Without Regret My Love by Melissa Blue

Excerpt:

They stood so close she could feel the heat resonating from his body, and tingles danced across her skin as he kissed the delicate skin at the corner of her mouth. Her lips felt warm, ready. “It’s true,” she whispered, closing her eyes as he kissed the other corner of her mouth. “There are times when I feel completely overwhelmed by life. I need a place like this.” She tilted her neck as he pressed his lips down the gentle slope of her throat. His fingers lightly ran up and down her spine until she shivered. “Thank you for sharing your special place with me.”

Lifting her into his arms, Craig gazed into the ebony pools of her eyes. “There is so much more I want to share with you,” he said. “You feel so good in my arms. No, you feel...perfect.”

To his delight, she breathed, “Kiss me,” and twined her fingers through his hair.

He did, keeping his touch soft, tender, inviting.

He felt her tremble.

Cradling her against him, he settled her back into the soft bed of tall grass, pressing his mouth more insistently against hers. Her lips were made of the most pliable velvet, and he drank in the sweetness of them. Her hair was smoother than silk and it tickled his face. Her skin was pale like fresh cream and he caressed it. Her eyes, oh those eyes, like warm liquid pools of the nighttime sky, they could pull him into oblivion if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t want to becareful. He just wanted Marissa…