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BRING ME BACK with Karen Booth and giveaway

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First off, I want to thank Ivy for inviting me to guest on Manic Readers. So excited to be here!

Thank you for taking the time to visit, Karen.

Who was your musical crush back in the day?

My teenage musical crush was John Taylor from Duran Duran. I was obsessed with a capital “O” with him. No other man could compare, certainly not the boys in my school. He was cool and handsome and had a smile that knocked the breath right out of me. I also genuinely loved his band’s music, so it was perfect. Meant to be, right? There were photos and posters of him and Duran Duran all over my bedroom walls, always very artfully arranged. 

Now, I don’t know if you’ve seen a recent picture of him, but let me just tell you that Mr.Taylor has aged ridiculously well. I suppose that raw charisma never goes away. Perhaps it only improves as the years go by. Either way, he is still totally swoon-worthy. I got to meet him twice in the last year and a half and I’m very proud of myself for not fainting either time (although my friend Sara did, but that’s a story for another day).

It is important to note that JT is a part of the inspiration for my book Bring Me Back, which is about a music journalist who meets and falls in love with the British rock star she’d been obsessed with in high school. I had a dream about JT, more than ten years ago, completely out of the blue. I was married with kids at that point in my life and hadn’t pined for him in years, but somehow he wormed his way into my brain. I was left with the idea for my book.  

Lucky you and I’d love to hear that story!

You seem to lean toward Brits. Why?

It’s the voice. It gets me every damn time. I swear that a British man could deliver any bad news to me and I would be fine with it. Everything sounds better. Trust me. Imagine these things said to you by a man with a charming British accent:

“Your car is parked in a tow-away zone.”

“It appears you have made a grave error on your taxes.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, but that is not a mole.”

See? I’m a total sucker for that.   

I love an accent too…British & Scottish are my favorites.

Do you miss working in the music industry?

I don’t really miss it, although that was an amazing time in my life. That’s a job best done by a young and energetic person who is no way jaded. That certainly described me then and most definitely does not describe me now. There are many late nights spent in bars listening to bands that only you care about. This sounds glamorous, but it gets old, fast. The music industry has also changed so much since I left that I’m not sure what I would actually do. I was once a booking agent, and they continue to do well because so many artists depend on touring as their bread and butter. The problem is that being a booking agent is the worst job I’ve ever had. I definitely don’t miss that, although the money was nice. The last job I held in music was doing Film and Television licensing and I could probably go back to that, but it’s a lot of dealing with lawyers all day long. I would much prefer to write.

Do you still go to concerts and who have you seen?

I do still go to see live music, it just doesn’t happen anywhere near as much as it used to. I have, of course, seen Duran Duran many times, the first time having been 1984 and the most recent time having been 2012. The two bands I think I’ve seen the most are Soul Asylum and The Black Crowes. I used to work with Soul Asylum and they were my favorite band at that time, so I saw them any time I could, often a dozen or more times a year. My husband worked with The Black Crowes “back in the day”, before they were signed. He used to help them book shows and is still very close with the three primary members of the band. I’ve seen them at least thirty times and it might be more. 

In the last year, I’ve seen Duran Duran, Chris Robinson Brotherhood, Afghan Whigs, Superchunk, The Roots,Jesus & Mary Chain, Built to Spill and The Backsliders, although I know I’ve forgotten something.

Have you become partial to Southern Rock?

 I really haven’t become a convert to Southern Rock—the Black Crowes are about as close as I get. I definitely never liked Lynyrd Skynyrd. I enjoy some Allman Brothers stuff. This doesn’t mean I don’t like bands from the South! It just means I’m not partial to that particular genre.

I was never a big Skynyrd fan & the Allman Brothers never did anything for me.  There were so many other Southern bands I enjoyed so much more.

How do you like the South and do you use fatback or bacon grease in your collards?

I love living in the South. The people are amazing and there’s such an incredible combination of old and new here. The weather is fantastic as well. I’ve gotten to the point where summer doesn’t bother me much at all. I’m ready for fall in October, but otherwise, the heat is fine. 

As far as collards go, I don’t use fatback or bacon grease. I make a stock using ham. It’s a method I learned from Mama Dip, who owns the best Southern cooking restaurant in Chapel Hill,NC, which is where I live. You dice about a cup of ham, cook it up in a pan until some of the fat has rendered out and then add water. Simmer for 30 minutes and take out the ham and toss it—it’s done its job. Add the collards to the liquid and braise on the stove top, covered. Salt and pepper to taste. I like a splash of red wine or cider vinegar on my collards before serving. Delicious!

Yep, I prefer the ham too & you can’t eat greens without cider vinegar, at least I can’t. Pa always added peppers to his vinegar, depended on the vinegar level how hot it was.

Thanks again for visiting, Karen.  I’ve enjoyed it!

Karen is offering one (1) lucky commenter a digital copy of one of her back list, winner’s choice. “Who was your crush back in the day?” No answer, no entry so do tell. 🙂 

Giveaway ends @ 12am est 3-15-13 with the winner announced shortly thereafter.  Good Luck!

My review of BRING ME BACK..

Music critic Claire Abby is a single mom dreading her daughter’s departure for college and worried that turning forty will leave her career running on fumes. She’s floored when she lands a Rolling Stone cover story on 80s British rock legend Christopher Penman. She spent her teenage years fantasizing he was her boyfriend.  

In person, Christopher is everything Claire feared he’d be—charming, witty and unwilling to address the rumors he’s dodged for a decade. Still, she contains her adolescent fantasies and manages to earn his trust, unearthing the truth and the devastating secret behind it. His blockbuster story is her first priority when she returns home, a nearly impossible task when Christopher starts calling and flirting. She knows she should maintain a professional distance. She knows she should focus on the story. She knows it would be best to simply walk away. But how can she say “no” to the man she could never forget?

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A BARON IN HER BED with Maggi Andersen

A BARON IN HER BED – THE SPIES OF MAYFAIR, BOOK ONE

THREE EXCEPTS

EXCERPT 1:

Horatia patted The General’s nose and fed him an apple. By the time the last of it had disappeared, the clip of a horse’s hooves came from the drive. She peeped out of the barn door and saw the baron, tall in the saddle, riding towards the house.

Horatia stepped out and beckoned him. He caught sight of her and rode towards the stables then dismounted and led the horse inside.

“Sorry, my lord,” Horatia said, adopting Simon’s gruff voice. “We have no footman here. No under-groom neither. I’ll stable your horse.”

“Simon, good fellow,” he said warmly. “I came to thank you again. I am indebted to you.”

“No need for that, my lord,” she said. “Everything’s right and tight here as it happens.” She turned her back to lead his horse into one of the stalls. Seizing a brush, she bent and swept it over the horse’s flanks.

He came to rest an arm on the stall door. “I am relieved. If you had lost your job, I was going to ask you to work for me.”

She straightened to brush the horse’s back, confident of the poor light. “Mighty good of you, my lord. But not at all necessary.”

Eh bien, merci encore.” He turned towards the door.

Relieved it had gone so well, Horatia stepped out from behind the horse. She looked up to see if he had gone and found him watching her with his arms folded.

The elation left her, and she took a deep, shaky breath.

“Did you really think you could go on fooling me?” A note of outrage lay beneath the humorous tone in his voice. “How many people around here have red hair like yours?”

“My hair’s not red,” she said, incensed. “It’s chestnut.”

“I wondered how far you would carry this ruse, Miss Cavendish.”

She backed into an empty stall as he strode towards her.

He followed her inside. Reaching over, he whipped off her hat, and her hair came loose and tumbled around her face.  “So, what do you have to say in your defense?”

“Nothing, my lord.” Horatia lifted her chin, her heart pounding loud in her ears. She chewed her lip. She would have to brazen this out.

Annoyed blue eyes stared into hers. “I do not like to be toyed with. I thought there was something wrong with me.”

“Pardon?”

“Watching you bend over in those breeches. Zut! From the first, I felt a strong attraction to you. And then, when I saw you dressed as a woman, I understood.”

“You knew it was me at the dance?” She scowled. “And you deliberately teased me?”

“Don’t you think you deserved it?” He seized her shoulders and gave them a shake. “You tricked me. Why?”

She swallowed. “No trickery, my lord. I was dressed this way when I found you, if you recall. I needed to keep up the pretense.”

He shrugged. “But why do you dress like that?”

She couldn’t explain her restlessness to him and tossed her head. “I prefer to ride astride.”

He raised a brow. “You like a strong beast moving beneath you?”

She bristled at the insult. “I like to ride alone.” He made it sound as if she gained some sort of indecent enjoyment from the exercise. Her face heated. To ride astride was unfeminine, she knew, but that fact had never bothered her before.

“But to do so places you in peril.”

Horatia drew herself up. “I can handle myself as well as a man.”

“You believe that, do you?” His gaze flicked over her. What was he thinking? She quivered under his scrutiny.

Excerpt: 2

“This is a dance with which I’m familiar,” the baron said, drawing her close in his arms. “We danced it in Paris long before it came to England.”

She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. Finding herself pressed up against his hard chest produced the memory of how it looked unclothed. Her breath caught, and she wriggled within his arm. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
He let her go in surprise then took up the pose again, leaving space between them. “Merci. I did not know. You have saved me from making a faux pas.”
She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
At least now she could breathe. But this was unlike the night they had spent together, when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive?
She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did.
His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall their time in the hut and his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on some woman, and even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him overwhelmed her.
Breathing in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linen and soap, she closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. What is it called?”
He smiled down at her. “I believe it is called Trone d’Armour.” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different from the English in other ways too. The French had a disconcerting way of looking at someone. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor?

EXCERPT 3

At least two hours had passed before Horatia guided the horse back towards the road. Distracted by her thoughts, she had ridden farther than she intended. A glance at the skies told her the storm bank was almost upon them.

They would have to take their chances and return by the road. She urged The General into a gallop.

They came to the road that led to Malforth Manor but were still some miles away. She would be lucky to reach home before the storm hit. She eased the horse into a trot as they approached a sharp bend in the road, the way ahead hidden by a stand of oaks. Once round the corner, she gasped and pulled the horse up hard.

A body lay in the road.

Highwaymen tried this ruse she’d heard. She edged her horse closer.

With a quick search of the landscape, she saw a horse disappear over a hill with its reins trailing. She dismounted and approached the man with caution. Barely a leaf stirred. It was oddly still, and the air seemed hushed and quiet as death before the coming storm. It matched her mood as she stood wondering what to do about the problem before her.

The man sprawled on his side. Judging by his clothes, he was a gentleman. Beneath his multi-caped greatcoat his brown coat revealed the skill of the tailor. His cream double-breasted waistcoat was of very fine silk. Long legs were encased in tight-fitting buff-colored suede pantaloons. His mud-splattered top boots showed evidence of loving care.

He moaned.

Horatia knelt beside him and grasped his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

When he didn’t answer, she struggled to roll him onto his back. A nasty gash trickled blood over his forehead where a bruise would surely form.

The man’s dark hair was sticky with blood. “Can you hear me, sir?” His eyelids fluttered. She shouldn’t stare at him while he remained unconscious, but she couldn’t draw her eyes away. He had remarkable cheekbones. His dark looks reminded her of Lord Byron. More rugged perhaps, but an undeniably handsome face, his skin more swarthy than one usually saw in an English winter. There was a dimple in his chin and a hint of shadow darkened his strong jaw line. She gingerly picked up his wrist and peeled back the soft leather glove, glad to find his pulse strong. An expensive gold watch had fallen from his pocket. So, he hadn’t been robbed. It must have been an accident. She looked around for some sign of what had happened but could see nothing.

A gust of chill wind made her shiver, and she glanced up at the sky. Ashgrey snow clouds now hovered overhead. “I have to move you, sir.”

Horatia stood and looked around. The road ran along the boundary of the Fortescue estate. Over the hill among the trees was a tiny hunting lodge.

She’d passed it many times when she roamed the woods, although she hadn’t been there for years. Her godfather, Eustace, lived for a part of the year in the Fortescue mansion, but it was some distance away and the snow had begun to fall.

It was by far the closest shelter, but trying to get the motionless man onto a horse unaided would be impossible. She sighed. That was not an option.

Horatia looked back at him. He was large, tall, and broad shouldered.

How on earth could she move him? And what would she do with him if she did? She looked up and down the deserted road with the hope that someone–preferably someone with big, strong arms–would appear to help her, and yet, she dreaded to be found in this invidious position. This was a quiet back road; most folk preferred the more direct route, so she couldn’t expect to be rescued soon.

She wondered if she should drag him under a tree and ride for help. As she considered this, the snow grew heavier. It settled over the ground and the prone man and touched her face like icy fingers. She couldn’t leave him out in the open, prey to the elements while she went for help. In bad weather it would take ages to ride to Digswell village. By the time she located the apothecary and brought him here, the man would be near death. Somehow she had to move him off the road and under shelter, although in the dead of winter, there was little to be had.

Horatia bent down, wrapped his limp arm around her shoulders, and caught a whiff of expensive bergamot. She took hold of his firm waist and tried to pull him towards the trees, but he was too heavy. She eased him down again.

Horatia pulled off her coat and shuddered at the cold. She tucked it around him. The snow had begun to fall in earnest, and worse, the prospect of a blizzard loomed. The wind gathered force. It stirred the tops of the trees around them and whipped the snowflakes into chaotic spirals of white.

Panic forced her to act. She took hold of the man’s arms and tried again to drag him. In small spurts she edged him closer to the scant shelter of the nearest tree, an oak whose dead leaves remained, curled and brown. Forced to pause, she took several deep breaths. He was quite a weight. She broke into a sweat despite the absence of her coat and the frigid air.

Horatia was severely winded and gasping by the time she reached the tree. It was a victory of sorts but afforded very little protection. She propped him against the trunk.

His eyelids rose. Startling pale blue eyes stared uncomprehendingly into hers.

Win Prizes during Maggi’s virtual tour.

 

 

 

~Romantic Historical Lovers~ Where History Meets Passion

This story has all the elements of a perfect Regency romance, a handsome Frenchman in fear of his life from unknown quarters, a beautiful girl trying not to fall in love with him and a mysterious Lord who becomes his friend but seems to know a lot more about him than a stranger should.

As a fan of Maggi Andersen, she has done it again with ‘A Baron In Her Bed’, with a mystery encompassed within a love story that has to be solved, and races along to a satisfying conclusion.

Anita Davison

SHORT SOUP with Coleen Kwan

Hi Manic Readers, it’s great to be here. Today I’m talking about Short Soup, my multicultural contemporary romance recently released by Escape Publishing, the digital-first arm of Harlequin Australia.

So what is short soup anyway? Some people know it as wonton soup. Basically it’s a Chinese dish of dumplings filled with pork mince and tasty seasonings served in a clear broth. I chose this title because my story deals with two Australian-born Chinese characters whose parents jointly own a Chinese restaurant.Toni Lau and Dion Chan have been lifelong friends growing up together in a small seaside town.Toni moved away, first to study and then, after her marriage, moved abroad to work. Dion, on the other hand, stayed behind, seemingly unambitious. Now, after a five year absence,Toni is newly divorced and back in her home town for a little R&R. But things have changed while she’s been away. Dion is taking over their parents’ restaurant and he seems to have definite plans for change. More disturbingly, Dion himself has changed, and Toni begins to find herself inconveniently attracted to this new Dion.

Here’s a short excerpt from the story:

 “Welcome back,Toni.” A husky note lurked in his voice. An awkward pause developed before he moved forward and wrapped his arms loosely around her. “It’s good to see you again.”

As their bodies met, she found herself tensing. Over the years she’d received hundreds of hugs from Dion. But this one felt different. Now she was hyper-conscious of his physicality. His biceps were rock-hard, his chin rough stubbled, the mound of his shoulder disturbingly smooth. He smelt of sea and masculinity. Unfamiliar. This wasn’t the Dion she used to know. She pulled away, perplexed.

“Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I probably need a shower.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s just–” She broke off, unable to explain why she felt so off kilter. “I’m not exactly myself today. That’s why I stopped here for a breather when I arrived.”

He nodded in sympathy. “Not ready to show up at your folks’ place, huh?”

“I’ve been looking forward to seeing them so much, but now I kind of have to gather my thoughts first.”

He pushed sand around with his foot. “Your mum’s been worried about you. Your dad too, though he doesn’t say as much.” He pressed his sole down on the sand hill he’d created. “I know I’ve told you before, but I’m sorry about you andNick.”

The words sounded flat, rehearsed. She couldn’t decide whether he meant it or not. Dion barely knew her ex-husband. She’d met Nick at Sydney University where they’d both been studying commerce. Nick’s busy social calendar meant he’d only accompanied her to Piper Bay a handful of fleeting occasions. Soon after graduation, she and Nick had married and migrated to London, both of them landing jobs at the same investment bank. They were going to work and travel all over the world, forging their careers, then when they tired of globetrotting they would return to Sydney, buy a house together and start a family. So much for their dreams.

Toni drew in a deep breath. “Thanks,” she replied. “So am I.”

“You’re better off without him.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself.” But it didn’t always help.

He shot her a sharp glance, his eyes not soft any more. He looked like he was about to say something, but at the last moment he changed his mind and shook his head. What? she wanted to challenge him. What were you going to say about Nick and me? I need to know. But he turned away to pick up his beach towel, leaving her to stare after him in disappointment.

 

A story about best friends, childhood dreams, and the healing power of Chinese food…

Toni Lau and Dion Chan were connected from birth — first via their parents’ jointly-owned restaurant, then via their bone-deep friendship. But children grow up, and Toni leaves their sleepy hometown looking for more than it can offer.
Now Toni is back, raw with the knowledge that not all childhood dreams come true. Dion is on the brink of realising that both his own ambitions and his childhood friend have the power to derail all of his hard work. But loving Toni — and winning her love in return — has always been on his wish list. Can Dion really put her on the back burner while frying up his chef dreams? Or is it possible that together they can come up with a recipe for happiness?

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IDENTITY CRISIS and giveaway with Eliza Daly

When Olivia Doyle’s father dies under suspicious circumstances, rather than inheriting a family fortune, she inherits a new identity. She learns they were placed in the Federal Witness Protection Program when she was five years old. Her father was involved in an art forgery ring and testified against the mob. Brought up not to trust anyone, Olivia has a difficult time relying on U.S. Marshal Ethan Ryder to protect her, and to keep her secret. She fears her father may have continued his life of crime through her art gallery. She has little choice but to depend on Ethan when she realizes someone is now after her. Olivia’s search for the truth leads her and Ethan across country to a family and past she doesn’t remember.

At the age of ten, Ethan witnessed a brutal murder. He vowed when he grew up, he’d protect people in danger. Protecting Olivia is difficult when she won’t trust him. He soon realizes his desire to protect her goes beyond doing his job, but if his judgment becomes clouded by emotions, her safety could be jeopardized.

Can Ethan and Olivia learn to trust each other when they uncover secrets that will change their lives forever?

Identity Crisis is available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, All Romance, eBooks.com, and Kobo.

 

Father Clifford slipped a yellowed envelope from the side pocket of his vestment. “Your father gave this to me many years ago. Asked that I give it to you upon his death.”

She took the envelope from his hand. The organ music faded and a desolate, eerie stillness fell over the church, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She tightened the shawl around her shoulders. She opened the envelope to find a letter and a newspaper clipping. She started with the letter.

Dear Livvy,

First, know that I loved you more than anything in this world. That’s why I hope someday you’ll forgive me for what I’ve done. Telling you the truth while I was alive could have put your life in danger. Now that I’m gone, I no longer fear for your safety. They would only have hurt you to get to me.

The only way to keep us safe was to enter the Witness Protection Program when you were five. Leaving our friends and family was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I can’t stand the thought of you now being alone. I hope you’ll go back to our family, in the town where I grew up, Five Lakes, Wisconsin. I’d like to be laid to rest there, next to your mother. Please forgive me enough to grant me this one last wish. If you should ever encounter any problems, contact Roy Howard, the U.S. Marshal who relocated us, at 415-334-9076. I’m so sorry. Please believe you were the most important thing to me. You were my life. My Livvy.

Love, Dad

Olivia stood paralyzed, her mind racing, trying to comprehend the letter. Was this some kind of sick joke? For the past twenty-four years her dad had lived in fear that somebody would hurt them? What had forced him to leave behind everyone he’d loved? Everyone she’d probably loved, but obviously couldn’t remember. And if her mom wasn’t buried in San Francisco, whose grave had Olivia been visiting here all these years? She tried to hold the letter steady in her trembling hands. Of course it was vague. Her dad had been a man of few words. However, these few words expressed a lot of emotion, something he’d never been good at doing.

“Is everything all right?” Father Clifford’s voice penetrated her thoughts.

Concern creased the older man’s brow and from the curiosity filling his gray eyes, he had no clue what the envelope contained. Her dad hadn’t even trusted a priest with his secret. Her dad had been the only person she’d ever really trusted, and it turned out she hadn’t truly known him.

She merely nodded, unable to find her voice. She inhaled a deep breath. The scent of beeswax candles and incense did little to calm the panic racing through her veins. She unfolded a clipping from a Chicago newspaper, dated twenty-four years ago. The headline read Art Dealer in Bed with Mob Blows Whistle on Forgery Ring and Vinnie Carlucci. The article included a photo of police officers escorting her dad. She started reading the article.Prominent Chicago art dealer Andrew Donovan confesses to having sold more than a hundred forgeries …

Her stomach dropped. She slapped a hand over her mouth, certain she was about to vomit right there on the pew.

Her dad had been a criminal.

The nature of his crime made it all the more surreal.

She stared in disbelief at the papers in her hand. His name had been Andrew Donovan, not Alex Doyle. Her last name was Donovan. Was her first name actually Olivia? Instead of inheriting a family fortune, she’d inherited a new identity.

Or rather, an old one.

To celebrate the March 4 release of Identity Crisis, Eliza will be awarding one $20 gift certificate, and two $10 gift certificates, for either Amazon or Barnes & Noble to three (3) randomly drawn commenters during her excerpt reveal tour March 4. Please include your e-mail address with your comment. Winners will be contacted on March 8. Good luck everyone!

 

Eliza Daly’s first attempt at creative writing was in fourth grade. She and her friends were huge Charlie’s Angels fans and she would sit in her bedroom at night writing scripts for them to act out at recess the following day. She was Kelly Garrett. Fast forward to the present, she’s still writing stories about beautiful women who always get their men. The journey from fourth grade script writer to published author wasn’t an easy one, but it was always an adventure and the final destination was well worth it.

When Eliza isn’t traveling for her job as an event planner, or tracing her ancestry roots through Ireland, she’s at home in Milwaukee working on her next novel, bouncing ideas off her husband Mark, and her cats Quigley, Frankie, and Sammy.

You can find Eliza on the web at Website, Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads.

 

FENDER BENDER BLUES with Niecey Roy and giveaway

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Is any of FENDER BENDER BLUES based on true life experiences, either your own or someone close?

A few years ago I was in a fender bender with a sexy guy in a suit, the difference being that the insurance exchange didn’t lead to great sex—I was married and eight months pregnant, so sexy guy in a suit was off limits.  I put my spin on things and gave the experience a better conclusion for a romance reader. 🙂 

Do you believe opposites have more sparks & excitement, relationship wise, or is two peas in a pod the way to go?

I find that opposites attract; at least they do in my stories! And opposites mean a lot of…differences, which leads to a lot of disagreements. I guess you could say a little bit of bickering, some annoyance and lots of sexual tension make for a good read. I hope! I try to make the characters believable, too. I like to give them every day problems that can really screw up a great relationship when not dealt with the right way. And who really handles every day problems the right way??? Sometimes, when you get two people who are perfect for each other, they figure it out and make a happily ever after ending.

Do you have a certain routine when writing of do you just go with the flow?

I go with the flow. And when the flows not going, I plot a little. When I start out writing a book, I usually have an idea that’s been brewing for awhile. I know in the end there will be a happily ever after ending, but the in-between is just as much a surprise for me as it is to the reader. I like it that way. I don’t like to plot too much. I do, however, realize it’s sometimes necessary in order to get to The End.

Thanks for having me on your blog, today! It’s been fun. I’d like to share with you my new release, FENDER BENDER BLUES, a romantic comedy novel.

“Classic cars, garden gnomes, and steamy romance? My kind of book!”

~Bestselling Author Kate Perry

Her life took a wrong turn. He’s driven by success. They didn’t count on crashing into love… 

Rachel Bennett loved her job until the day she finds herself doubting her choices.  Now she’s hunting for a new career, but starting over isn’t easy.  Her plan is simple—no distractions until she finds her dream job.  She didn’t plan on fate throwing her a curveball in the form of a fender bender with a sexy guy in an expensive suit.

Craig Larsen is a wealthy, successful business owner with a plan of his own: survive his current PR nightmare and stay away from his overly determined ex-girlfriend.  His need for control and personal success is turned upside down when he meets Rach, a sassy redhead who can’t drive.

Soon they find themselves battling with Rach’s grumpy old neighbor, toilet-papering the trees of a high school nemesis, and fighting over the last slice of pizza.  Can two very different people plus one fender bender equal a chance at forever?

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“Now what?”

“Nothing.”Rach sniffed.

Craig shifted to eye her warily. “Since when do you answer me with single words?”

“Since I decided I’m not talking to you,” she answered with a shrug, crumpling up the white paper wrapper from her sub.

Craig leaned his face in close to her neck and enjoyed the startled jerk of her shoulders. Her eyes opened wide in surprise. His breath shifted a few strands of hair at the nape of her neck as he whispered, “Why, because you want me?”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said, breathless, her cheeks flushed.

She’s enjoying this. The thought pleased him. Rach was on her back beside him now, her eyes closed. He glanced around the park to see if anyone was watching. No one was. He could swoop in for a kiss and no one would catch him. No one would care, he told himself. She won’t mind

“I can feel you staring.”

Craig smiled down at her. “So what.”

She peeked at him with one green eye. “So stop it.”

“And if I don’t?” Maybe she’d tackle him, push him down on the blanket and…

She didn’t. She promptly closed her eye and went back to pretending indifference. “I’ll hit you, that’s what.”

“Not if I do this, you won’t.”

He’d only meant it to be a short kiss, but the pleasure of touching his lips to hers kept him there longer. Her tongue was velvet soft and warm against his and the slow mating of their mouths quickened his heartbeat even as he told himself, It’s no big deal, just a kiss.

She nipped his bottom lip and sent heat sliding through his body. The woman could kiss.

She whispered soft against his lips, “Now why don’t you admit that it’s you who wants me.”

 

Necey Roy

Fender Bender Bluesa romantic comedy

January 24, 2013 exclusive Amazon digital release

ComingMay 3, 2013everywhere

published by Wild Rose Press

nieceyroy@gmail.com

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