ENJOY A MICHAEL W. DAVIS VIDEO

BLIND CONSENT
by
Michael W. Davis

Why A Series?

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

BOLT ACTION
By
VICTORIA RODER

EXCERPT FROM T. K. TOPPIN

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

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!

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

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