THE BROODING HERO

When someone says, brooding hero, I immediately think of Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre or Heathcliff and I remember the vicarious thrill I got in first meeting such difficult characters and how happy when the heroine is able to tame his savage heart. I've always loved a good brooding hero. That's why in borth of my recent books from Resplendence Publishing, HER PIRATE LOVER and DARK PARADISE, I've used the brooding hero. They just worked perfectly. And in each book I tempered their brooding quality with a touch of humor or with a heroine so sweet and appealing even my brooding hero couldn't resist. I think a brooding hero brings out such a knee jerk reaction on our part (our being every red blooded romantic woman) to change them and bring them to the light. My heroines do just that, but not in a calculating, manipulative way. In HER PIRATE LOVER, Hawke's dark soul is intent on revenge and he means to use the beautiful, virginal Abella as his means, but Abella's purity and her generous open heart capture him and show him what love is all about. Abella changes Hawke so his love for her is stronger than his need for revenge, but will have to give her up, after all? DARK PARADISE's Romanian Vampire Hunter, Matthew Stanislaus is another brooding hero. The very nature of his quest leaves him longing for a simpler more normal life which he believe has slipped beyond his grasp. And the woman who might be able to save him is coping with her own destiny as she slowly turns to one of the undead. I used humor to soften the grim darkness of this story and Had a wonderful time writing it. Matthew and Molly went along with my approach and in the end found solutions for both their problems. I don't think either book would have been as touching if I hadn't used a brooding hero. I wouldn't like ever book I write to have such an intense character, but for these two books, they worked.

October Whee

Hi everyone. Welcome to my blog. I try to get on here once in a while and post my thoughts about this and that. Six years ago I wrote a paranormal, a vampire book. I'd said for years I'd never write one. How could they be romantic and sexy. Every time I thought of a vampire lover, I thought of Gary Oldman, who is a fantastic actor but just not sexy in my book and the thought of his skinny chest was a real turnoff. Even the vampire movie starring not only Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Antonio Banderos turned me off on vampire lovers. They ate rats!! Enough said. Well, Antonio didn't and maybe that's why he's held a special place in my fantasies.

Anyway, I got around the problem of a vampire hero by making my heroine the vampire. Women can do anything in my book, so I made this poor innocent, bored thirtyish librarian meet up with Vasilek the evil, get bitten by the aforementioned monster and saved by a sexy as sin Hungarian vampire hunter who makes her mouth water. It was fun to write and now I'm working on a sequel with one of the characters in DARK SHADOWS. Nope, no hero vampires in this one either, just a taciturn, determined vampire hunter who runs into a sexy, playful Cat and learns, all work and no play is not good for the soul or anything else!

Now for some soulful thoughts. I ran into this note I'd written some years ago and decided it's still pertinent today.
Are we as individuals really unique, original or are we copy cats of what's gone before?To be or not to be. Hey, if Shakespere used it, why can't i? It was probably a common saying back then and he just pilfered it!
If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, etc. etc. Can we honestly under stand ourselves-better yet- I suggest this gleefully-can we understand who and what we are before we hit our forties? I remember my thirties as a time when I wanted to achieve, wanted to know there was more to me than the sum total of kitchen stove, washing machine and marriage bed, the instruments of my greatest triumphs, thus far. That was back when I fell into bed to tired to think of any fun things to do there. We are born, said I, in full dramatic cry, in the isolation of our suburban ranchers when we let go of those unknowning young women we had been and become someone new-someone who finds the courage to take pen and paper and write down what great things we think we've learned. Our new egos engage and we dare to believe what we think is worthy of other people's notice. Somewhere we stop looking at what other people are doing and thinking because we've become too busy doing and thinking and acting on new goals. Daring kicks in and we go forward unafraid, impatient with ourselves for the time we've wasted in getting here. Yet it was all part of the process. And you know what I'm liking what that whole process kicked out. I'm awesome! I'll bet you are too!

October is a Happy Month

Hi Everyone.
I can hardly believe September is nearly over and October with all its color and excitement is right around the corner. October is doubly exciting for me. I have not one but two books coming out.

The first is the sexy, beautiful love story, HER PIRATE LOVER, the second in my Pirate Booty series. I love this story, because it has a pirate captain, Black Hawke, who plans to use the innocent, virginal and very beautiful Frenchwoman, Abella Roche as a pawn in his scheme for revenge, but Abella, who is brave enough to throw aside her very life for a few weeks of happiness in the arms of a pirate, teaches him that love is stronger than revenge. Check out the sexy cover for HER PIRATE LOVER.

The second book for October is a funny paranormal about a small town librarian, Molly Prescott, who's bitten by a vampire, and Matthew Stanislaus, a Rumanian Vampire Slayer who tries to save her, but knows in the end he may have to kill her. Together they try to fight off vampires who want to kill Molly and harvest her DNA, and members of a Holy Order sworn to eradicate Vampires from the earth, all this without falling in love, but it's too late. Check out the cover for this one. What run!

If you Dare!

Okay, Everybody, Here's an excerpt from my new book, DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS. Hope you enjoy!
A pounding at the door startled her. Slowly, she rose from her desk chair, flicked off the light and slid out into the hall to peer around a wall of the reception area. Beyond the windows, the streets were dark with an oily sheen cast by streetlights on wet pavement. A light rain had started to fall. A man stood outside on the sidewalk. He looked tough, mean even. Probably a cop.

He saw her and motioned her to open up. She played dumb, shaking her head to indicate she wasn’t open. He persisted. She knew the kind. He’d never go away unless he got what he wanted. But what the hell could he want from her? She bit her lip, hesitating, then decided.

“We’re closed. It's after office hours,” she said, opening the door an inch. Now she could see him better and absently noted a scar that cut across his lower lip and down his chin. Still, he was attractive, tall and dark, his face rugged. The shoulders of his cheap suit were filled nicely and she bet his trousers were filled just as nicely.

He waited silently while she made her perusal.

“See anything you like?” he asked, grinning. He stepped closer, the movement raw and challenging in its power ploy.

“I told you we’re closed.”

“I’m not looking to buy your services, Billie,” he said, but his gaze said otherwise. He was in the market all right for what she wasn’t selling. He stuck the toe of a black loafer in the door. She braced her small frame to keep him from any further intrusion. Her short skirt slid up revealing a good portion of thigh and he leered.

“What do you want?” she demanded, scowling. “And how do you know my name?”

“I do my homework. I just want to talk,” he said, tearing his gaze away from her anatomy. His dark gaze caught hers, bold and challenging and totally unyielding.

“What about?” she asked, trying to sound as tough as he looked.

“Let me in and I’ll explain. Here.” He held up a badge. “I’m a cop.” His expression was implacable.

“Is this the way cops question honest citizens?” she demanded without yielding one inch.

“If we have to. Open up.”

“Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin,” she quipped. He shoved, hard and fast, catching her unawares so she flew backward and sprawled on the floor. Her skirt flew up, the hem nesting in her crotch.

“Nice view,” he commented.

“You son of a bitch,” she raged, jumping to her feet and extracting a tiny stiletto she kept hidden in the top of her stockings. She flew at him, the weapon raised, ready to cut out his black heart.

He sidestepped her onrush, took hold of her wrist and twisted so the stiletto fell from her nerveless fingers and she was caught in his iron grip, her back against the solid wall of his chest, her derriere nestled against his crotch. She felt his cock harden and push against her and she struggled, but he held fast.

“If you really are a cop, I’ll call your superior and have you on suspension so fast, you won’t be able to snap your shorts,” she threatened. “What’s your name and badge number?”

“I’m asking the questions here. Tell me your full name.”

“Bastard, if you don’t know who I am, why did you attack me? What do you want with me? Let go.”

“Not until I’m sure you don’t have some other little surprise hidden in your stockings, Billie.” He jerked her around so now she faced him, although she was still pressed as tightly to his hard body as before and this time, she felt his arousal grind against her belly. His hands surged over her body thoroughly and completely, searching for additional weapons. He grinned. He was liking this.

“You want to do a cavity search too?” she snapped.

“I’m willing, if you are.” His dark eyes held humorous lights.

“You bastard cop,” she cried, outraged. “I’ll kill you if you try to touch me again.”

“Like you killed Pepe Cosimero?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said, growing still for a moment. She had an inkling. He stepped back from her, pushing his dark hair off his forehead.

“I think you do,” he said quietly. “I need some answers, Billie, and I need them now.”

“Go to hell,” she cried and broke away from him, running back toward her office. Darkness had fallen over the city and the lower level of her building lay in shadows. He was right behind her; she could hear the thud of his shoes against the floor. His hand closed over her shoulder in a cruel grip that made her cry out with pain.

He threw her backward. She collided with the wall hard enough to jolt the breath from her body. For a moment she leaned, struggling to draw in air, then he was on her, his hands hard as they gripped her arms and pinned them against the wall above her head. He let the solid weight of his body trap her so she couldn’t struggle against him. She felt the heat and tensile strength of his body. Her breasts flattened against his chest, his pelvis ground against her, his arousal was complete now, hard and turgid against her mound.

She felt a betraying surge of desire and screamed her frustration. She’d never given in willingly to rape and she wouldn’t now. She’d killed the last man who tried. She’d kill this one. She bucked against him, but he rode her back against the wall and in that moment, something changed in the way he held her and the way she responded to him. She sensed it and shook her head wildly against the changing emotions. Though he still held her tightly, his clasp no longer hurt her.

His hands were large so one was all that was needed to hold her wrists above her head. He was leaning into her, breathing hard, his dark gaze studying her face. Their breath intermingled, their gazes caught and held. He moved against her slightly, the motion less punitive, more seductive. His gaze still holding hers, he slowly lowered his free hand and ran it over the curve of her breast.

In their struggle her jacket had come undone and the only thing between his flesh and hers was a thin silk camisole. The full roundness of her breast rested in his palm as if it had come home. She felt her nipple harden, felt the answering tingle between her legs. Her thighs twitched to part. Time stood still, went backward to some more fundamental evolution where all that mattered was a man and a woman wanting each other.

The Inner Pirate!

My new book is out from Resplendence Publishing. It's the first of a three book Pirate's Booty Series. This book is called THE VIRGIN PIRATE and I'm very excited about.

Here's just a tiny excerpt from it. You can go to Resplendence publishing for more information.

Excerpt:She stared at him, trying to understand the meaning of his words, then blushed as she thought of how she must seem to him. Carefully, she laid the stripped bone back on her plate and wiped her hands on her bodice. He winced.
“What?” she asked.
“Madam, you’ve just soiled a beautiful ball gown of some considerable value. I doubt that grease can ever be removed by even the most diligent laundress.”
“Are you questioning my manners?” she demanded. “I assure you I’ve been taught by a gentleman how to behave at table.” Which was true. Cedric Bickford had complimented her on her deportment and offered his knowledge on how a lady should conduct herself. Still, she felt the heat of shame mount her cheeks. Obviously, she’d done something wrong in this man’s estimation. She grabbed her tankard and drank deeply of the rich red wine and felt only a little better. This wasn’t going as she’d planned. She’d thought to spend time with an English gentleman and learn more about the world beyond this ship. But she knew she’d wanted more than that. She’d wanted to dazzle this English nobleman with her beauty and intelligence. She wanted… She couldn’t put words to it.
Ever since she’d seen him standing on the deck of his burning ship, she’d felt a stirring such as she’d never known before, and she wanted to explore those feeling. She wanted to be kissed by a man and to feel the passion between man and woman, not the animal rutting she’d seen her men engage in, but the soft, sensuous mating between two people. Bickford had offered her that, in fact, at every opportunity, he’d tried to seduce her into bed, but she’d felt nothing for him. She couldn’t say that about the tall nobleman who sat across from her, his eyes condemning her every move.
Humiliation stung her, and she covered it with anger. “I can always call Skelly to take you back to the brig,” she snapped, slamming her tankard against the table.
“Aye, you could, Madam, if that is your wish.” He regarded her coolly with eyes gone all dark and unreadable.
“Nay,” she said belatedly, “’tis not what I had in mind. As for my gown, it doesn’t matter if I’ve soiled it. I have many more.”
“No doubt acquired in the same manner as this one?”
“What do you know of a lady’s wardrobe?” she inquired sharply.
“I know about that gown. I purchased it, for a dear price I might add, for my fiancée.”
She was left speechless while her thoughts flashed to the dainty creature for whom he’d intended the gown. He could imagine some other woman floating down a grand staircase trailing the lovely silk peacock skirt behind her.
“You may have it back,” she said huffily. “I don’t care much for its color.”
“That’s too bad. The color seems created especially for you. However, I would be remiss not to inform you that you are sadly overdressed.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, looking down at the lovely gown with the greasy smears across the bodice.
“That garment is meant to be worn for an evening gala, not as an afternoon dress.”
She opened her mouth in consternation, but no words of rebuttal came.
“Ah, but no matter,” he said. “A lady may wear what she wishes, when she wishes. Now, tell me, Madam. What have you in mind for me besides ransoming at the end of this voyage?” His voice was deceptively soft. It hummed along her nerve endings and made her long for more, for a touch that would be as soft.
“I…” She raised her head but couldn’t meet his gaze. “Well, you’re a ship’s captain and a…a lord and my prisoner and—”
His gaze was too knowing, too sure. Hell be damned, he was on to her. She pushed her plate aside and walked around the table, coming to a stop very close to him, so he could smell the costly scent she’d poured over herself.
“You are my prisoner,” she said firmly, “and I can do with you. Whatever I wish. And I’ve decided to take you to my bed.”
“Ah, I’m to follow in Bickford’s…er…footsteps.”
“He was never in my bed.” She glared at him.
“’Tis not the tale he gives in London,” he said.
“Then he lies. He wanted to bed me, but I refused. I only wanted him to tell me about life in London society and…how to be a lady.”
“Nevertheless, that is his claim.” His expression showed very clearly which of them he believed.
With a sharp rustle of her skirts, she turned and paced the cabin. “The blackguard,” she muttered.
“Aye, he is that, and if you’ve relied upon him for advice on, what was the word you used? Deportment? I’m afraid he’s failed you there as well.” He watched her pace. “As for you taking me to your bed, madam. You need a willing partner, and I am not he. You might better have taken Bickford while you had the chance. I do not want you.” His tone was mocking, disbelieving of her denials.
Her cheeks grew hot and a red haze blinded her so she could barely see him, barely breathe for the insult he’d paid her yet again. She’d been too considerate, she saw now. She would take what she wanted as her men did. It was her right as captain of this ship, as the victor.
“It doesn’t matter if you want me,” she said and threw herself into his lap. She felt the long, hard length of him against her buttocks and suppressed a shiver. Startled, he made no move, so she ground her lips against his while her hands roved to the front of his breeches and gripped his cock, which had hardened since her assault. Her hand dove beneath the soft cloth of his breeches and gripped his hot flesh. She squeezed and began to pump her hand up and down. She wasn’t sure this was what he liked, but she’d seen a sailor relieve himself in this manner once and he’d seemed to like it just fine.
But Lord Trey Carlyle seemed destined to confound her in every way. His strong hand gripped hers, stilling her frantic pumping action. He pulled her hand over her head and rose so she would have been dumped on the floor if not for his hold on her. As it was, she stumbled a bit before she regained her footing and looked into his eyes. There was the blazing anger she’d seen before, the denial and rejection.
She slashed out with her other hand, striking him hard across his face. A red welt rose on one lean cheek, but he made no acknowledgment of her blow.
“Madam,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Calm yourself.” He released her hand, flinging it from him.
“I am calm,” she said. “You forget, sir, you are my prisoner and you do not give commands.”
She threw herself against him, knocking him backwards and onto her cot. In a tangle of petticoats, she fell on him and, once again, reached for his cock. It was rock hard now. Wasn’t that proof enough that he wanted her. She pressed herself to him, taking a deep breath and one of her breasts popped out of its tight confines. The nipple bobbled near his mouth, and she longed for him to take it into his mouth and suckle her. She pressed forward so, indeed, her soft pink flesh was pressed against his face. He had but to turn his head.
Instead, he took hold of her waist and pushed her to one side so she fell over the edge of the bed and landed on the floor, the skirts and myriad petticoats riding high above her thighs, her legs bare below her lacy breeches.
He swung to his feet and towered over her. She glared up at him.