Monday, August 29, 2011
Recasting a hero
Today I'm guest blogging at Paranormal Romantics about how sometimes as great as a hero is, he may not be the right man for the job. Come comment for a chance to win a book!
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Rain, rain and more rain...oh...wait...
Evacuation procedures for Hurricane Irene drove us from the shore three days early, so I'm at home again, plugged back in and watchning it pour watching the sun come out.*
To everyone in the storm's path, stay safe and dry.
Here's a picture I took at the beach, showing one of Irene's advanced scouts checking out the territory.
Note the tiny funnel cloud - obviously a harbinger of the doom to come.
*As of 10:30 am maybe we're in the eye of the storm, but everything looks rather benign here. I realize there were places hit hard by the storm, but once again, it seems the media has given itself something to do by going right to reporting gloom and doom rather than sticking to the facts. Sure, storms are unpredictable, but you would think the technology that allowed them to decide 65 million people would be effected by the storm, would also be able to tell them by the time it hit Northern NJ it would be little more than an average rainy day.
To everyone in the storm's path, stay safe and dry.
Here's a picture I took at the beach, showing one of Irene's advanced scouts checking out the territory.
Note the tiny funnel cloud - obviously a harbinger of the doom to come.
*As of 10:30 am maybe we're in the eye of the storm, but everything looks rather benign here. I realize there were places hit hard by the storm, but once again, it seems the media has given itself something to do by going right to reporting gloom and doom rather than sticking to the facts. Sure, storms are unpredictable, but you would think the technology that allowed them to decide 65 million people would be effected by the storm, would also be able to tell them by the time it hit Northern NJ it would be little more than an average rainy day.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Unplugged
After seven days of bumming around at the beach, hopefully I'll be raring to start writing again and all ready for fall.
How are you unwinding this summer?
Sunday, August 21, 2011
It goes without saying [but I'll say it anyway]
I’ve been following the Publish America vs. JK Rowling train wreck this week, and I have to admit it boggles my mind that anyone would fall for the claims made by PA and plunk down money for a chance to have anyone who is not an agent or editor read their work.
Think about it – they’re saying for $49, they will ‘bring your book to the attention’ of a famous person. [Ms. Rowling isn’t the first. They’ve apparently done this with others, including the President]. Now, ask yourself, what does ‘bringing to the attention’ mean?
They could simply jot your title down on a cocktail napkin and slip it under the stall the next time she’s in a public restroom. There. Brought to her attention. They could – and I suppose this is what PA clients were thinking – arrive for lunch at her castle in Scotland with a box of books and discuss each work individually for a moment or two over tea and scones. Yeah, because JK Rowling has time for that. She also has time to read a truck load of books and comment on each one [that’s part of the deal – you write her a short note and she’ll comment back.] Think about it. Please.
What busy celebrity or public figure, whether it’s the President of the United States, a well-known actor or a successful author, really has the time or the inclination to sit down and read dozens or hundreds or, heaven forbid, thousands of books and make personal comments on each one? They have lives and jobs and families, and while I’m sure they read for pleasure, they don’t have time to give individual authors bragging rights. ‘JK Rowling read my book and liked it!’ ZOMG!
And even if they did, [which is beyond unlikely], having an author or well-known person read your book is not the path to literary success. Sure, it’s nice to know someone who might be inclined to provide you with a cover quote, but that’s about all they could do for you. If anyone thinks JK Rowling or Stephen King or any author is going to phone their agent or their publisher and even vaguely recommend you get a publishing contract, or worse, SHOW your book to their publisher, you’re sadly mistaken. This is NOT HOW IT’S DONE. It’s just not. It’s a sad cliché perpetuated by movies and television shows. The hopeful author hounding a famous writer, asking them to read their manuscript in hopes of getting it passed along to someone who can actually write them a check – is a plot device, a trope. Maybe it happened once in the history of the industry, but like the Big Bang, it’s not something you see more than once in a gazillion years.
So, though it shouldn’t need to be said, please don’t fall for anyone promising to show your work, published or unpublished, to a celebrity. It’s useless, even if, on the outside chance, they actually do it, you’ll get nothing valuable out of it. If you’re looking for literary success, send your book to a reputable agent, or the appropriate editor at a well-known publishing house, not to JK Rowling, President Obama or, heaven forbid, Publish America.
Think about it – they’re saying for $49, they will ‘bring your book to the attention’ of a famous person. [Ms. Rowling isn’t the first. They’ve apparently done this with others, including the President]. Now, ask yourself, what does ‘bringing to the attention’ mean?
They could simply jot your title down on a cocktail napkin and slip it under the stall the next time she’s in a public restroom. There. Brought to her attention. They could – and I suppose this is what PA clients were thinking – arrive for lunch at her castle in Scotland with a box of books and discuss each work individually for a moment or two over tea and scones. Yeah, because JK Rowling has time for that. She also has time to read a truck load of books and comment on each one [that’s part of the deal – you write her a short note and she’ll comment back.] Think about it. Please.
What busy celebrity or public figure, whether it’s the President of the United States, a well-known actor or a successful author, really has the time or the inclination to sit down and read dozens or hundreds or, heaven forbid, thousands of books and make personal comments on each one? They have lives and jobs and families, and while I’m sure they read for pleasure, they don’t have time to give individual authors bragging rights. ‘JK Rowling read my book and liked it!’ ZOMG!
And even if they did, [which is beyond unlikely], having an author or well-known person read your book is not the path to literary success. Sure, it’s nice to know someone who might be inclined to provide you with a cover quote, but that’s about all they could do for you. If anyone thinks JK Rowling or Stephen King or any author is going to phone their agent or their publisher and even vaguely recommend you get a publishing contract, or worse, SHOW your book to their publisher, you’re sadly mistaken. This is NOT HOW IT’S DONE. It’s just not. It’s a sad cliché perpetuated by movies and television shows. The hopeful author hounding a famous writer, asking them to read their manuscript in hopes of getting it passed along to someone who can actually write them a check – is a plot device, a trope. Maybe it happened once in the history of the industry, but like the Big Bang, it’s not something you see more than once in a gazillion years.
So, though it shouldn’t need to be said, please don’t fall for anyone promising to show your work, published or unpublished, to a celebrity. It’s useless, even if, on the outside chance, they actually do it, you’ll get nothing valuable out of it. If you’re looking for literary success, send your book to a reputable agent, or the appropriate editor at a well-known publishing house, not to JK Rowling, President Obama or, heaven forbid, Publish America.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
HAES and the art of surrender
I’m over at Killer Chicks today talking about knowing when it’s time to quit. Come find out what I quit doing and why.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Get some Fresh Blood on your Kindle!
Fresh Blood is now available from Amazon.com!
Don't forget, if you like Fresh Blood and want follow Elena's story - pick up a copy of La Vida Muerta!
A desperate call from her missing sister sends Erica Talbot on a dangerous rescue mission. Determined to prevent her twin from becoming a feeder, Erica steps out of her quiet, lonely existence and into a dark underworld where vampires make the rules.
Maxwell Hart is a vampire investigator. Part of his job is to protect humans. The moment he lays eyes on Erica, he knows she doesn’t belong in his world, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting her there.
With Max as her guide, Erica descends into a world where humans willingly give up control to their vampire masters. Posing as Max’s submissive feeder, Erica discovers a strange freedom in relinquishing her hard won self-control to Max.
After just one taste of Erica’s blood, Max finds he hungers for no one else. How can he possess her when drawing her deeper into his dark world will change her forever?
Don't forget, if you like Fresh Blood and want follow Elena's story - pick up a copy of La Vida Muerta!
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Release day!
Available today!
Who would you sell your soul to save?
For Ceara Landon, the answer to that question is easy. She would do anything for her younger brother Kevin, even if saving his life means shattering his dreams.
On first glance it seems the skyrocketing success of Kevin’s band, Pillars of Stone, is a dream come true, but Ceara sees the truth. His increasing drug use will destroy him and ruin any chance he has for lasting happiness.
Ceara traces the source of Kevin’s dubious rise to fame back to night club owner Alexander Quinn. The gorgeous entrepreneur hides a terrible secret. He buys souls for the Devil, and he purchased Kevin’s in exchange for fame and fortune. In desperation, Ceara offers her own soul in exchange for Kevin’s, and for the first time in his lonely existence, Alex risks everything to refuse. He agrees to help Kevin sober up and guide his band to true success, but the price for Ceara is high. She’ll have to bargain with her heart to save her brother along with the man who wants to possess her body as well as her soul.
To find out more about DEVIL’S DUE visit
http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9482-devils-due.aspx
Be sure to stop by Killer Chicks tomorrow to read an exclusive excerpt!
Who would you sell your soul to save?
For Ceara Landon, the answer to that question is easy. She would do anything for her younger brother Kevin, even if saving his life means shattering his dreams.
On first glance it seems the skyrocketing success of Kevin’s band, Pillars of Stone, is a dream come true, but Ceara sees the truth. His increasing drug use will destroy him and ruin any chance he has for lasting happiness.
Ceara traces the source of Kevin’s dubious rise to fame back to night club owner Alexander Quinn. The gorgeous entrepreneur hides a terrible secret. He buys souls for the Devil, and he purchased Kevin’s in exchange for fame and fortune. In desperation, Ceara offers her own soul in exchange for Kevin’s, and for the first time in his lonely existence, Alex risks everything to refuse. He agrees to help Kevin sober up and guide his band to true success, but the price for Ceara is high. She’ll have to bargain with her heart to save her brother along with the man who wants to possess her body as well as her soul.
To find out more about DEVIL’S DUE visit
http://www.jasminejade.com/p-9482-devils-due.aspx
Be sure to stop by Killer Chicks tomorrow to read an exclusive excerpt!
Monday, August 01, 2011
Have you visited Excerpt Monday?
For a sneak peek of the cover art for my August release, Devil's Due, drop by the Excerpt Monday blog today. A comment enters you to win one of two gift baskets, one of which features both a copy of Devil's Due and Seven Days in Sydney.
Stop by and say hello!
Stop by and say hello!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Nothing like a good stretch
I wish I could get this comfortable under the dining room table. Or anywhere.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
New Release!
If you could be someone else for a week, would you want to? What if you could be someone else forever?
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Researcher Tess Ronson has been given a golden opportunity. When she agrees to have her consciousness downloaded into a prototype android body, she’s thrilled by the scientific and medical possibilities. The body, nicknamed Sydney by its creator, is physically perfect and stunningly beautiful, two things Tess is not.
For a week she lives a life she’s only dreamed of and learns far more about her own burning sexuality and untamable spirit than she thought possible. But after seven days in Sydney she also discovers the consequences of giving herself over to her every wicked desire.
Excerpt:
“She’s stunning.” Tess Ronson adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses and tilted her head as she circled the seven-foot-tall glass cylinder in the center of Gentron Inc.’s Level 4 Security lab.
The naked female form currently suspended by delicate silicon wires within the cylinder was a work of art as well as cutting-edge robotic science.
Long, copper-colored hair swirled around her pale shoulders. Dark pink areolas surrounded her distended nipples, tipping breasts that looked to be perfect D-cups. Her hips flared from a tiny waist, and her flat abs sported a tight slit of a navel. Between her slightly spread thighs sat a triangle of neatly trimmed auburn curls. Long, long legs stretched down to delicate ankles and dainty feet.
Her eyes were open, revealing light blue irises circled by a fringe of burnished lashes. Arched brows gave her a patrician appearance. Her lips were the perfect shade of pink.
Beside Tess stood Dr. Jared Simon, head of Gentron’s robotics division, hands clasped behind his back, preening. This was his triumph, and he looked about to crow.
Behind him, two other members of his top-secret research team lingered, also staring at the body in the cylinder. Melissa Stanz, PhD held a clipboard in front of her. Her dark eyes studied Tess more than the exquisite construction in the sterile tank. Next to her, Marc Roker, MD, more mechanic than physician, gaped likewise at the culmination of Simon’s last ten feverish years of work.
“She’s even more perfect than I envisioned her,” Simon announced. His eyes shimmered a bit in the fluorescent lab lighting. Pride mixed with something akin to worship made his normally stoic features seem to glow.
“Have you completed your checklist?” Melissa asked. She scribbled a few notes on her clipboard. The clinical psychiatrist disdained electronic input devices, so while everyone else employed at Gentron, Inc. walked around with iPads and BlackBerrys, Dr. Stanz carried paper notebooks and ink pens, leaving her overworked assistant the task of typing up all of her daily notes.
Tearing her gaze away from the tank, Tess nodded. “I told all my family and friends that I’m going to a symposium in Detroit for the week. I’ve recorded a couple of voicemails I can send remotely so people will think I’m calling in but missing them. I had my snail mail stopped, but I’ll be keeping up with e-mail since I’d do that anyway. Everyone I know is aware that I’ve got a coworker named Sydney staying in my apartment while I’m gone.”
“You sound excited about it, but I have to be sure you’re ready for this. You can still change your mind.” Melissa met her gaze. They’d been discussing the next phase of Dr. Simon’s experiment for months now, and if Tess had to reassure anyone one more time that she was ready to have her consciousness transferred into the beautiful body in the stasis tank, she’d scream.
This was a dream come true, not only for Jared Simon, who would get to see his most advanced android construction finally walking and talking and interacting with the world, but for Tess who, for the space of seven days, could escape her slightly plump, mousy-haired, nearsighted self and see the world through the robotic eyes of a supermodel.
“I’m one hundred percent ready for this, Dr. Stanz. This research is my life’s work too. All I can think about is how this technology will help burn victims, paraplegics, people with catastrophic injuries who’ll be able to walk around and live and work and communicate with their families while their real bodies heal. If this experiment works—”
“Not if, Tess. There’s no room for if in my work,” Dr. Simon reminded her sternly.
Chastised by his tone, she backtracked. “Of course. I meant when—”
“Once this phase of the research is concluded, we can consider the implications for life extension. No one will ever be trapped in a dying or dysfunctional body again. There will be no incurable illnesses, no irreparable injuries. Maybe even no such thing as death.”
Tess’s entire body tingled at the thought. Sydney represented the ultimate medical intervention, the answer to every disease and disorder known to man. What couldn’t be cured, one day, could simply be discarded, and an ailing person’s mind could be uploaded into a perfect, healthy, strong, disease-free biomechanical casing customized to any desired outward appearance.
The four people in this room stood on the frontier of science and technology so advanced it would transform the world the moment it was revealed to the general population. Tess felt there could be no higher honor. The mere suggestion of backing out made her ill.
Melissa glanced at Dr. Simon. “Then let’s get started.” She backed away from the tank, still making notes.
Tess’s heart rate soared. This was it. She’d dreamed of nothing else for weeks.
While Marc and Dr. Simon opened the stasis tank and began removing the suspension wires from the android body, Tess moved to one of the two diagnostic beds at the far end of the lab. A dozen different monitors and life-support devices surrounded one of the beds. Tubes and wires and electrodes hung from a metal pole along with bags of saline, antibiotics and a concoction of extraordinarily strong drugs that would keep her fragile human body alive for the next seven days while her mind resided inside the supercomputer resting within Sydney’s titanium skull.
By outward appearances, Tess would be in a medically induced coma, but on a deeper level, she’d be functionally dead, her bodily functions controlled by machines. Even coma patients, research had shown, possessed some awareness, if not of the world around them, then of a plane of existence constructed in their own subconscious. They still resided in their bodies even though those bodies were unable to respond to outside stimuli. Tess’s case would be different. Her mind would be gone, not just hiding in a little-used section of her brain.
Tests had determined the human body could only sustain itself in this state without irreparable damage for just over seven days, even with catastrophic medical intervention. So at the end of the week, Tess’s mind would be transferred back into her body...or sooner if they ran into any problems.
Eyeing the equipment around the bed, Tess unbuttoned her lab coat and shrugged out of it. She placed that and each item of her typical working uniform—black slacks, a plain white top, white socks and soft-soled sneakers—on a straight-backed chair next to the bed. She glanced around to make sure Marc and Dr. Simon were occupied before removing her bra and panties and sliding them surreptitiously beneath all of her other clothes, as though no one might suspect she actually wore underwear. She slipped on the surgical gown Melissa had provided for her and climbed into the bed to await the injections that would knock her out and begin to loosen her mind’s hold on her body.
Seven Days in Sydney is my first all-erotica title. To find out more, visit:
Smashwords
All Romance eBooks
Amazon.com
Researcher Tess Ronson has been given a golden opportunity. When she agrees to have her consciousness downloaded into a prototype android body, she’s thrilled by the scientific and medical possibilities. The body, nicknamed Sydney by its creator, is physically perfect and stunningly beautiful, two things Tess is not.
For a week she lives a life she’s only dreamed of and learns far more about her own burning sexuality and untamable spirit than she thought possible. But after seven days in Sydney she also discovers the consequences of giving herself over to her every wicked desire.
Excerpt:
“She’s stunning.” Tess Ronson adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses and tilted her head as she circled the seven-foot-tall glass cylinder in the center of Gentron Inc.’s Level 4 Security lab.
The naked female form currently suspended by delicate silicon wires within the cylinder was a work of art as well as cutting-edge robotic science.
Long, copper-colored hair swirled around her pale shoulders. Dark pink areolas surrounded her distended nipples, tipping breasts that looked to be perfect D-cups. Her hips flared from a tiny waist, and her flat abs sported a tight slit of a navel. Between her slightly spread thighs sat a triangle of neatly trimmed auburn curls. Long, long legs stretched down to delicate ankles and dainty feet.
Her eyes were open, revealing light blue irises circled by a fringe of burnished lashes. Arched brows gave her a patrician appearance. Her lips were the perfect shade of pink.
Beside Tess stood Dr. Jared Simon, head of Gentron’s robotics division, hands clasped behind his back, preening. This was his triumph, and he looked about to crow.
Behind him, two other members of his top-secret research team lingered, also staring at the body in the cylinder. Melissa Stanz, PhD held a clipboard in front of her. Her dark eyes studied Tess more than the exquisite construction in the sterile tank. Next to her, Marc Roker, MD, more mechanic than physician, gaped likewise at the culmination of Simon’s last ten feverish years of work.
“She’s even more perfect than I envisioned her,” Simon announced. His eyes shimmered a bit in the fluorescent lab lighting. Pride mixed with something akin to worship made his normally stoic features seem to glow.
“Have you completed your checklist?” Melissa asked. She scribbled a few notes on her clipboard. The clinical psychiatrist disdained electronic input devices, so while everyone else employed at Gentron, Inc. walked around with iPads and BlackBerrys, Dr. Stanz carried paper notebooks and ink pens, leaving her overworked assistant the task of typing up all of her daily notes.
Tearing her gaze away from the tank, Tess nodded. “I told all my family and friends that I’m going to a symposium in Detroit for the week. I’ve recorded a couple of voicemails I can send remotely so people will think I’m calling in but missing them. I had my snail mail stopped, but I’ll be keeping up with e-mail since I’d do that anyway. Everyone I know is aware that I’ve got a coworker named Sydney staying in my apartment while I’m gone.”
“You sound excited about it, but I have to be sure you’re ready for this. You can still change your mind.” Melissa met her gaze. They’d been discussing the next phase of Dr. Simon’s experiment for months now, and if Tess had to reassure anyone one more time that she was ready to have her consciousness transferred into the beautiful body in the stasis tank, she’d scream.
This was a dream come true, not only for Jared Simon, who would get to see his most advanced android construction finally walking and talking and interacting with the world, but for Tess who, for the space of seven days, could escape her slightly plump, mousy-haired, nearsighted self and see the world through the robotic eyes of a supermodel.
“I’m one hundred percent ready for this, Dr. Stanz. This research is my life’s work too. All I can think about is how this technology will help burn victims, paraplegics, people with catastrophic injuries who’ll be able to walk around and live and work and communicate with their families while their real bodies heal. If this experiment works—”
“Not if, Tess. There’s no room for if in my work,” Dr. Simon reminded her sternly.
Chastised by his tone, she backtracked. “Of course. I meant when—”
“Once this phase of the research is concluded, we can consider the implications for life extension. No one will ever be trapped in a dying or dysfunctional body again. There will be no incurable illnesses, no irreparable injuries. Maybe even no such thing as death.”
Tess’s entire body tingled at the thought. Sydney represented the ultimate medical intervention, the answer to every disease and disorder known to man. What couldn’t be cured, one day, could simply be discarded, and an ailing person’s mind could be uploaded into a perfect, healthy, strong, disease-free biomechanical casing customized to any desired outward appearance.
The four people in this room stood on the frontier of science and technology so advanced it would transform the world the moment it was revealed to the general population. Tess felt there could be no higher honor. The mere suggestion of backing out made her ill.
Melissa glanced at Dr. Simon. “Then let’s get started.” She backed away from the tank, still making notes.
Tess’s heart rate soared. This was it. She’d dreamed of nothing else for weeks.
While Marc and Dr. Simon opened the stasis tank and began removing the suspension wires from the android body, Tess moved to one of the two diagnostic beds at the far end of the lab. A dozen different monitors and life-support devices surrounded one of the beds. Tubes and wires and electrodes hung from a metal pole along with bags of saline, antibiotics and a concoction of extraordinarily strong drugs that would keep her fragile human body alive for the next seven days while her mind resided inside the supercomputer resting within Sydney’s titanium skull.
By outward appearances, Tess would be in a medically induced coma, but on a deeper level, she’d be functionally dead, her bodily functions controlled by machines. Even coma patients, research had shown, possessed some awareness, if not of the world around them, then of a plane of existence constructed in their own subconscious. They still resided in their bodies even though those bodies were unable to respond to outside stimuli. Tess’s case would be different. Her mind would be gone, not just hiding in a little-used section of her brain.
Tests had determined the human body could only sustain itself in this state without irreparable damage for just over seven days, even with catastrophic medical intervention. So at the end of the week, Tess’s mind would be transferred back into her body...or sooner if they ran into any problems.
Eyeing the equipment around the bed, Tess unbuttoned her lab coat and shrugged out of it. She placed that and each item of her typical working uniform—black slacks, a plain white top, white socks and soft-soled sneakers—on a straight-backed chair next to the bed. She glanced around to make sure Marc and Dr. Simon were occupied before removing her bra and panties and sliding them surreptitiously beneath all of her other clothes, as though no one might suspect she actually wore underwear. She slipped on the surgical gown Melissa had provided for her and climbed into the bed to await the injections that would knock her out and begin to loosen her mind’s hold on her body.
Seven Days in Sydney is my first all-erotica title. To find out more, visit:
Smashwords
All Romance eBooks
Amazon.com
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Unveiling
Today I unveiled my new cover art for my October Samhain release, Interview with a Gargoyle over at Killer Chicks along with some other headline news for July.
Here's the gorgeous cover... but you have to stop by Killer Chicks to find out everything else.
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Here's the gorgeous cover... but you have to stop by Killer Chicks to find out everything else.
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Get it while it's free!
For the month of July Smashwords is offering Married to the MIB for free!
Just enter the Coupon code SSWSF at checkout to get your copy for a whopping $0.00 - hurry while supplies last. {That's supplies of days in July, by the way}.
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Spence is a MIB, a special agent dedicated to protecting Earth from extraterrestrial threats. Three years ago, he fell in love with Dulcie, an alien abductee. Now the fate of an empire rests on Dulcie’s hidden memories of their affair. It’s Spence’s mission to retrieve them. It should be easy, but will Spence be able to remain objective when the love of his life experiences total recall?
Just enter the Coupon code SSWSF at checkout to get your copy for a whopping $0.00 - hurry while supplies last. {That's supplies of days in July, by the way}.
Monday, June 27, 2011
New ink!
No, I didn't get a tattoo. I just signed a contract with Ellora's Cave for my paranormal novel The Devil's Due.
Blurb:
Who would you sell your soul to save?
For Ceara Landon, the answer to that question is easy. She would do anything for her younger brother Kevin, even if saving his life means shattering his dreams.
On first glance it seems the skyrocketing success of Kevin’s band, Pillars of Stone, is a dream come true, but Ceara sees the truth. His increasing drug use will destroy him and ruin any chance he has for lasting happiness.
Ceara traces the source of Kevin’s dubious rise to fame back to night club owner Alexander Quinn. The gorgeous, blue-eyed entrepreneur hides a terrible secret. He’s a soul broker – he buys souls for the Devil, and he purchased Kevin’s in exchange for fame and fortune. In desperation, Ceara offers her own soul in exchange for Kevin’s, and for the first time in his lonely existence, Alex risks everything to refuse. He agrees to help Kevin sober up and guide his band to true success, but the price for Ceara is high. She’ll have to bargain with her heart to save her brother along with the man who wants to possess her body as well as her soul.
The Devil's Due will be part of EC's Blush line, my first Jennifer Colgan title with EC. Stay tuned for more updates.
Blurb:
Who would you sell your soul to save?
For Ceara Landon, the answer to that question is easy. She would do anything for her younger brother Kevin, even if saving his life means shattering his dreams.
On first glance it seems the skyrocketing success of Kevin’s band, Pillars of Stone, is a dream come true, but Ceara sees the truth. His increasing drug use will destroy him and ruin any chance he has for lasting happiness.
Ceara traces the source of Kevin’s dubious rise to fame back to night club owner Alexander Quinn. The gorgeous, blue-eyed entrepreneur hides a terrible secret. He’s a soul broker – he buys souls for the Devil, and he purchased Kevin’s in exchange for fame and fortune. In desperation, Ceara offers her own soul in exchange for Kevin’s, and for the first time in his lonely existence, Alex risks everything to refuse. He agrees to help Kevin sober up and guide his band to true success, but the price for Ceara is high. She’ll have to bargain with her heart to save her brother along with the man who wants to possess her body as well as her soul.
The Devil's Due will be part of EC's Blush line, my first Jennifer Colgan title with EC. Stay tuned for more updates.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friskies Buffet
Shortly after this picture was taken, Topper [green collar in front] decided he was too good to eat with the riff raff and stormed off in a huff. Ranger [middle] proceeded to eat from both his and Topper's bowl. Onyx [background] remained oblivious.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
New Release now avialable!
I’m thrilled to announce the release of my sci-fi rom-com novella, MARRIED TO THE MIB!
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Handsome, blue-eyed Spencer Ward stirs feelings in Dulcie Crandall that she can’t quite explain. Spencer feels it too, but he knows why pretty, vivacious Dulcie seems so familiar. She’s his wife.
Spence is a Man in Black, a special agent dedicated to protecting Earth from temporal and extraterrestrial threats. Three years ago, he met Dulcie, an alien abductee, during a daring rescue from an Umayan organ harvest ship. His employer, the Insterstellar Security and Time Agency, had Dulcie’s memories of their whirlwind courtship and alien wedding ceremony blocked before they returned her to Earth. Now ISTA needs the memories locked in Dulcie’s subconscious, and Spence and his half-alien shapeshifter partner, Ruben “Ruby” Throckmorton, have been assigned to retrieve them.
It should be easy, but will Spence be able to remain objective when the love of his life experiences total recall of the time she spent married to a MIB?
Excerpt:
All around Dulcie, geysers of foul-smelling steam belched from dripping pipes. Unidentifiable machinery hissed, and lights flashed in macabre shades of crimson and purple. She wasn’t supposed to be here, hiding in this dank place all alone, driven by fear and some deep, desperate need to survive at all costs.
She’d come here, though, to escape someplace much worse. If only she could remember exactly what she was running from.
Just when she’d reached the point where her only option was to scream—not for help, but for the sheer, utter hopelessness of her predicament—he appeared. He swept out of the hot, churning mist, the broad-shouldered silhouette of a man backlit by a strobe of acid green. He reached for her.
Some strange instinct bade her to take the hand he offered, but rather than rise with dignity from her hiding place and let him lead her out of this neon hell, she flew into his arms, shivering and sobbing.
He murmured something soothing while she buried her sweat-dampened face in his neck. His scent curled into her lungs on her next shuddering gasp of breath, and she calmed. Strong arms lifted her from the darkness, and Duclie melted into his muscular caress. He smelled like sin, a curious mix of male sweat, danger and an intoxicating cologne.
There was something about that smell—familiar and wonderful—that told her everything from here on in was going to be just fine. She tightened her arms around him, and he scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. The steam faded then, offering a momentarily clear view of the place. This time Dulcie tried to pay attention to what she saw.
Miles of coiled wires, rusted pipes and twisted fingers of metal and smoky crystal stretched before them. In the still-shrouded distance a white light cut through the gloom.
“That’s the way out,” he said. His voice, like his scent, penetrated her weakened defenses and left her dreamy-eyed and breathless. Beneath her splayed hand the muscles of his chest, hidden under a black T-shirt, rippled as he strode toward safety. “We have to hurry.”
“Hurry.” She nodded, but for some reason all the urgency she’d felt a few moments ago had faded. She’d have stayed in his arms forever, cradled against his rapidly beating heart, cherished in his embrace.
“Hurry…” Dulcie awoke with that word on her lips. Again. This was the third time this month. She might have been more concerned about the details of the recurring nightmare, except it always ended the same way, with her daring rescue.
To read more about MARRIED TO THE MIB, you can visit:
Smashwords
All Romance eBooks
Amazon.com
Handsome, blue-eyed Spencer Ward stirs feelings in Dulcie Crandall that she can’t quite explain. Spencer feels it too, but he knows why pretty, vivacious Dulcie seems so familiar. She’s his wife.
Spence is a Man in Black, a special agent dedicated to protecting Earth from temporal and extraterrestrial threats. Three years ago, he met Dulcie, an alien abductee, during a daring rescue from an Umayan organ harvest ship. His employer, the Insterstellar Security and Time Agency, had Dulcie’s memories of their whirlwind courtship and alien wedding ceremony blocked before they returned her to Earth. Now ISTA needs the memories locked in Dulcie’s subconscious, and Spence and his half-alien shapeshifter partner, Ruben “Ruby” Throckmorton, have been assigned to retrieve them.
It should be easy, but will Spence be able to remain objective when the love of his life experiences total recall of the time she spent married to a MIB?
Excerpt:
All around Dulcie, geysers of foul-smelling steam belched from dripping pipes. Unidentifiable machinery hissed, and lights flashed in macabre shades of crimson and purple. She wasn’t supposed to be here, hiding in this dank place all alone, driven by fear and some deep, desperate need to survive at all costs.
She’d come here, though, to escape someplace much worse. If only she could remember exactly what she was running from.
Just when she’d reached the point where her only option was to scream—not for help, but for the sheer, utter hopelessness of her predicament—he appeared. He swept out of the hot, churning mist, the broad-shouldered silhouette of a man backlit by a strobe of acid green. He reached for her.
Some strange instinct bade her to take the hand he offered, but rather than rise with dignity from her hiding place and let him lead her out of this neon hell, she flew into his arms, shivering and sobbing.
He murmured something soothing while she buried her sweat-dampened face in his neck. His scent curled into her lungs on her next shuddering gasp of breath, and she calmed. Strong arms lifted her from the darkness, and Duclie melted into his muscular caress. He smelled like sin, a curious mix of male sweat, danger and an intoxicating cologne.
There was something about that smell—familiar and wonderful—that told her everything from here on in was going to be just fine. She tightened her arms around him, and he scooped her up as if she weighed nothing. The steam faded then, offering a momentarily clear view of the place. This time Dulcie tried to pay attention to what she saw.
Miles of coiled wires, rusted pipes and twisted fingers of metal and smoky crystal stretched before them. In the still-shrouded distance a white light cut through the gloom.
“That’s the way out,” he said. His voice, like his scent, penetrated her weakened defenses and left her dreamy-eyed and breathless. Beneath her splayed hand the muscles of his chest, hidden under a black T-shirt, rippled as he strode toward safety. “We have to hurry.”
“Hurry.” She nodded, but for some reason all the urgency she’d felt a few moments ago had faded. She’d have stayed in his arms forever, cradled against his rapidly beating heart, cherished in his embrace.
“Hurry…” Dulcie awoke with that word on her lips. Again. This was the third time this month. She might have been more concerned about the details of the recurring nightmare, except it always ended the same way, with her daring rescue.
To read more about MARRIED TO THE MIB, you can visit:
Smashwords
All Romance eBooks
Amazon.com
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
All Romance eBooks
I spent Sunday uploading my self-pubbed titles over at All Romance eBooks - so if you're looking for formats you might not get elsewhere, or you're a fan of ARe, go check out my pages:
Jennifer Colgan
Bernadette Gardner
You might just find a hidden gem if you go looking. :)
Jennifer Colgan
Bernadette Gardner
You might just find a hidden gem if you go looking. :)
Monday, June 13, 2011
Happy Release Day, JB Lynn!
Today my good friend and fellow Killer Chick, JB Lynn is launching her first Carina Press release. Her book is scary, smart and full of suspense - if you want an exciting read that'll leave you afraid to sleep with the lights off, check out...
The First Victim by JB Lynn
Fifteen years ago, Emily Wright barely escaped from a serial killer dubbed the Baby Doll Strangler. She wants nothing to do with the small town she grew up in, but when her father is hospitalized she reluctantly returns home to care for her teenage sister.
When a friend of her sister is killed and left in front of Emily’s house, Emily begins to relive the nightmare she endured long ago. Soon she realizes that her sister too is in danger from the killer – and the only person who can help is the man Emily left behind: Deputy Bailey O’Neil. Together, Emily and Bailey must discover the killer’s identity before he claims his next victim…
“Does your palm itch? Emily?”
Engrossed in paperwork, it took Emily Wright a moment to realize that her assistant, Ruth, was talking to her. She looked up at the older woman as Ruth placed a cup of coffee beside Emily’s telephone. It was only then she realized that she’d been rubbing her left thumb across her right hand.
“Does your palm itch?”
Emily nodded. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Ruth beamed. “That’s good news. It means you’re going to come into money.” Her unspoken message was that it boded well for the presentation Marisol, Emily’s business partner, was probably making at this very moment. All nine of the advertising firm’s employees were eagerly waiting to hear whether they’d landed their biggest client ever.
“Do you really believe in those old superstitions, Ruth?”
“They can’t hurt. Can I get you anything else?”
“No. This is great. Thanks.” Watching her newest employee, a woman old enough to be her mother, leave her office, Emily secretly hoped she was right.
She looked down at her palm. The scar that stretched across it had faded over time and was now nothing more than a thin raised line. No doubt there were a hundred doctors in Manhattan who could remove the physical reminder of what she’d suffered, but to her the scar tissue was a talisman of sorts, proof that hope could triumph over evil.
She’d learned an invaluable lesson the day she’d earned this scar. She’d learned that she was capable of more than she’d ever imagined, that help came from the most unexpected places and to never give up. Those lessons had served her well, which was how she found herself a co-owner of a Manhattan ad agency, waiting to hear whether they’d landed their first national account.
Feeling the distant rumblings of a tension headache, she rubbed at her temples, and then made a grab for her coffee cup. She needed caffeine!
Her cell phone buzzed. Hoping that it was Marisol calling with good news, she snatched it out of her purse. An icy tingle of fear ran down her spine when she recognized the area code. Home.
It rang three more times before she took a deep breath and answered.
“Hello?”
“You’ve got to come home, Em.” Bailey O’Neil, her childhood friend and teenage crush who still made semi-regular appearances in her dreams, didn’t offer a greeting, ask how she was or even identify himself. Not that he needed to. Even though it had been close to fifteen years since they’d had regular conversations, she’d recognized Bailey’s voice immediately.
It transported her from behind her desk to a dock on a lake’s shore. In that instant it was easier to believe she was a confused fourteen-year-old girl rather than a driven, thirty-one-year-old businesswoman.
“There’s been an accident.”
He’d called and said the same exact thing two years earlier, but that had been a lie. Her mother had overdosed, and no one would ever convince Emily it had been an accident.
With Marisol, who was not only her business partner but her best friend, in tow for moral support, Emily had returned to Lakeside Acres, Pennsylvania for the funeral, choosing to stay at The Garden Gate Bed and Breakfast rather than the house she’d called home as a child. She hadn’t been back since, not even to see Laurie.
“Em?” Bailey still used the shortened version of her name, just like he had when they were kids. It almost sounded too familiar, since it suggested that they knew each other well. That was another lie. “Em? Did you hear me? I said you’ve got to come home.”
“I heard you. How’d you get this number?”
Ignoring her question, Bailey told her, “There’s been an accident. Your father’s been hurt. It’s pretty bad. They’re not sure he’s going to make it.”
“So?”
She heard Bailey’s sharp intake of breath. He probably thought she was a stone-cold bitch. So be it. She’d decided long ago that she didn’t have to explain or justify her relationship, or lack of relationship, with her dear old dad. If Bailey O’Neil didn’t approve of her reaction, that was his problem.
Bailey, though, didn’t miss a beat. “Laurie needs you.”
Try as she might, Emily didn’t hear any judgment or condemnation in his tone, only a genuine concern for her younger sister. Doing her best to ignore the twinge of guilt she felt for not immediately inquiring about her only sibling, Emily asked, “Is she hurt? What happened?”
“Your father was out on his boat. I don’t have the details yet. Laurie wasn’t involved, but she’s scared, Em. She needs someone. She needs you.”
Emily’s gaze settled on two tiny framed photographs perched on the corner of her desk. They’d been taken more than two years earlier when Laurie was thirteen. She and her sister had crammed into one of those tiny booths at a mall, made a bunch of silly faces and ended up with a strip of four, slightly grainy, black-and-white photographs. They’d torn the strip in half, each taking two of the pictures. Besides the funeral, it was the last time she’d seen her sister. Their father had seen to that.
“Em?”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Swear?”
An image of Bailey solemnly staring at her popped into her mind, not this adult version of Bailey who was just doing his job, but the boy she’d played freeze tag with.
“Em? Swear?”
“I swear.” She severed the connection.
You can learn more about JB and her books at:
Killer Chicks
Website
Follow her on Twitter
The First Victim by JB Lynn
Fifteen years ago, Emily Wright barely escaped from a serial killer dubbed the Baby Doll Strangler. She wants nothing to do with the small town she grew up in, but when her father is hospitalized she reluctantly returns home to care for her teenage sister.
When a friend of her sister is killed and left in front of Emily’s house, Emily begins to relive the nightmare she endured long ago. Soon she realizes that her sister too is in danger from the killer – and the only person who can help is the man Emily left behind: Deputy Bailey O’Neil. Together, Emily and Bailey must discover the killer’s identity before he claims his next victim…
“Does your palm itch? Emily?”
Engrossed in paperwork, it took Emily Wright a moment to realize that her assistant, Ruth, was talking to her. She looked up at the older woman as Ruth placed a cup of coffee beside Emily’s telephone. It was only then she realized that she’d been rubbing her left thumb across her right hand.
“Does your palm itch?”
Emily nodded. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Ruth beamed. “That’s good news. It means you’re going to come into money.” Her unspoken message was that it boded well for the presentation Marisol, Emily’s business partner, was probably making at this very moment. All nine of the advertising firm’s employees were eagerly waiting to hear whether they’d landed their biggest client ever.
“Do you really believe in those old superstitions, Ruth?”
“They can’t hurt. Can I get you anything else?”
“No. This is great. Thanks.” Watching her newest employee, a woman old enough to be her mother, leave her office, Emily secretly hoped she was right.
She looked down at her palm. The scar that stretched across it had faded over time and was now nothing more than a thin raised line. No doubt there were a hundred doctors in Manhattan who could remove the physical reminder of what she’d suffered, but to her the scar tissue was a talisman of sorts, proof that hope could triumph over evil.
She’d learned an invaluable lesson the day she’d earned this scar. She’d learned that she was capable of more than she’d ever imagined, that help came from the most unexpected places and to never give up. Those lessons had served her well, which was how she found herself a co-owner of a Manhattan ad agency, waiting to hear whether they’d landed their first national account.
Feeling the distant rumblings of a tension headache, she rubbed at her temples, and then made a grab for her coffee cup. She needed caffeine!
Her cell phone buzzed. Hoping that it was Marisol calling with good news, she snatched it out of her purse. An icy tingle of fear ran down her spine when she recognized the area code. Home.
It rang three more times before she took a deep breath and answered.
“Hello?”
“You’ve got to come home, Em.” Bailey O’Neil, her childhood friend and teenage crush who still made semi-regular appearances in her dreams, didn’t offer a greeting, ask how she was or even identify himself. Not that he needed to. Even though it had been close to fifteen years since they’d had regular conversations, she’d recognized Bailey’s voice immediately.
It transported her from behind her desk to a dock on a lake’s shore. In that instant it was easier to believe she was a confused fourteen-year-old girl rather than a driven, thirty-one-year-old businesswoman.
“There’s been an accident.”
He’d called and said the same exact thing two years earlier, but that had been a lie. Her mother had overdosed, and no one would ever convince Emily it had been an accident.
With Marisol, who was not only her business partner but her best friend, in tow for moral support, Emily had returned to Lakeside Acres, Pennsylvania for the funeral, choosing to stay at The Garden Gate Bed and Breakfast rather than the house she’d called home as a child. She hadn’t been back since, not even to see Laurie.
“Em?” Bailey still used the shortened version of her name, just like he had when they were kids. It almost sounded too familiar, since it suggested that they knew each other well. That was another lie. “Em? Did you hear me? I said you’ve got to come home.”
“I heard you. How’d you get this number?”
Ignoring her question, Bailey told her, “There’s been an accident. Your father’s been hurt. It’s pretty bad. They’re not sure he’s going to make it.”
“So?”
She heard Bailey’s sharp intake of breath. He probably thought she was a stone-cold bitch. So be it. She’d decided long ago that she didn’t have to explain or justify her relationship, or lack of relationship, with her dear old dad. If Bailey O’Neil didn’t approve of her reaction, that was his problem.
Bailey, though, didn’t miss a beat. “Laurie needs you.”
Try as she might, Emily didn’t hear any judgment or condemnation in his tone, only a genuine concern for her younger sister. Doing her best to ignore the twinge of guilt she felt for not immediately inquiring about her only sibling, Emily asked, “Is she hurt? What happened?”
“Your father was out on his boat. I don’t have the details yet. Laurie wasn’t involved, but she’s scared, Em. She needs someone. She needs you.”
Emily’s gaze settled on two tiny framed photographs perched on the corner of her desk. They’d been taken more than two years earlier when Laurie was thirteen. She and her sister had crammed into one of those tiny booths at a mall, made a bunch of silly faces and ended up with a strip of four, slightly grainy, black-and-white photographs. They’d torn the strip in half, each taking two of the pictures. Besides the funeral, it was the last time she’d seen her sister. Their father had seen to that.
“Em?”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Swear?”
An image of Bailey solemnly staring at her popped into her mind, not this adult version of Bailey who was just doing his job, but the boy she’d played freeze tag with.
“Em? Swear?”
“I swear.” She severed the connection.
You can learn more about JB and her books at:
Killer Chicks
Website
Follow her on Twitter
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Here comes trouble!
Right now his name is Rio, but he'll be getting a new name once he comes to live with us. My good friend "R", the troublemaker, has a mess of kittens and she offered us one...well, actually two, but this little guy won me over the minute I saw him. He's got one black ear and one white ear and he looks like a Dalmatian.
How could I say no?
Thursday, June 02, 2011
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