Jenyfer Matthews

Sam Cheever writes fast paced romantic fiction with feisty characters who deal with life’s little challenges in unique and often hilarious ways. A long time writer of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry, Sam’s recent published work includes ‘Tween Heaven and Hell, a rip roaring fantasy adventure that will leave you panting for more. The fast-paced and highly entertaining sequel, entitled ‘Tween a Devil and His Hard Place, was released in April 2008. Her humorous romance, Dancing With Tad is coming out through Red Rose Publishing in 2008. To learn more about Sam and her work, visit her website at www.samcheever.com and her blog at http://tweenyouandme.blogspot.com/.

‘Tween Heaven and Hell By Sam Cheever

Astra Q Phelps is a Tweener, which means she’s part angel and part devil. She vaporizes devils and demons for a living. When Astra gets the call from the big Him to aid the good side in a battle between two rival devil courts, she finds herself battling not only the forces of evil but her own nature as she rubs up against the sexiest, most infuriatingly enticing devil prince and discovers he brings out her devil in the most delicious ways.

But Astra’s problems don’t end with a worrying jolt to her sexual nervous system. She is also discovering that she doesn’t really know herself all that well as she begins to uncover magic powers that she didn’t know she possessed. She might be entangled in a prophecy that links her to her delicious devil prince in more ways than one. Add to this spicy mix a few yummy secrets she learns about her longtime partner and friend, Emo, and you have a tantalizing stew of problems to solve, and only one small Tweener to unravel them all.

Sam wanted to share this interview that her heroine, Astra Q Phelps, recently did with a local news organization. It was quite enlightening.

Hello Astra, thank you for joining us today, we love your books and were hoping we could get to know you a little bit.

Hey! How’s it going? You got anything here that needs to be blown up or vanquished?

Uh, well, no, not really. I have an ex-husband… But no, forget I said that. I just wanted to chat with you for a few minutes.

You don’t want me to save the world?

Um, no, not right at this moment.

Oh good. Okay.

So, Astra, you certainly lead an exciting life. Vanquishing demons, fighting off devilishly handsome Royal Devil Princes, and saving the world, how does one get into this line of work?

One has to be born a Tweener, with a powerful Seraphim for a father and an equally powerful Royal Devil with witch powers as a mother. It’s not an easy gig you know.

I can imagine. Can you tell us what exactly a Tweener is?

Are you kidding me? Do you live in a cave? (shakes head) Tweeners are half angel and half devil. We’re a warrior race that helps the Big Guy out in the epic battle between good and evil. (shrugs) I thought everybody knew that.

Impressive. So how long have you been doing this? Vanquishing demons I mean?

Well, I vanquished my first one when I was five I think. He tried to steal my little red bucket in the sandbox. I loved that bucket. I’d have done anything to keep it.

You, um, (clears throat) you killed a demon for stealing a bucket?

Well yes and no. He tried to eat my sister, Darma too, but it was the bucket that really set me off.

I um, I see. Well, so you figured out you were good at vanquishing demons when you were five and decided that might be a good way to make a living?

Absolutely not! I mean, yeah, I was good at it. But saving the world is so hard…and exhausting. I probably would have just gotten a job throwing rowdy schmoes out of extra-terra nightclubs if it hadn’t been for that stupid prophesy.

Prophesy?

Yeah, the one that has me working with the great Unifer, that’s Devil Prince Dialle we think…we’re not absolutely sure at this point…to save the world.

Wow!

(Nods head) Yeah, wow! Except the world doesn’t stay saved. I can’t tell you how many meals and how much sleep I’ve missed over the last several months trying to keep this stupid world saved. It’s become a full time job.

(Reporter leers) Yes, but there are perks aren’t there. I mean, you get to lock lips with the gorgeous Dialle on a regular basis.

Oh yeah. I mean, he’s really yummy, and impossible to resist let me tell you…but there’s so much to do when saving the world, there just isn’t all that much time for extra-curricular activities if you know what I mean.

But I understand you manage, somehow.

(Astra grins) Yeah, we manage. Somehow.

So, what’s it like? Hanging out with the magical crowd? Are they nice?

(Astra snorts) Nice? Lady, what planet are you from? No really, what planet?

(Reporter shrugs) My ancestors came from Venus.

(Astra nods) That explains a lot. None of them are Nice. Even the angels have an agenda. They’re good, yes, but rarely nice. Demons are just plain skuzzy, with their pretty masks that fool humans every time, and you don’t want to get yourself in a room with a lot of them when the temperatures are very high…

Dangerous huh?

What? No, they smell like last week’s steak on the windowsill. And then there are the Royals…well, they’re beautiful and everything, but they’re just like sexy walking uber-agendas, you know. And their plans are never good for yours truly or the human race. (Astra sighs) My social circle just fizzes with conflict, intrigue, and dangerous agendas.

Well, you certainly have a difficult job.

Tell me about it.

But what’s this I hear about you going to the Big House to visit the Big Guy in ‘Tween a Devil and His Hard Place?

Cool place. All light and airy and stuff. He needed to fill me in on something…I’m still not sure what…talk about agendas… Something about getting my father back. He was at the right hand of God before he fell you know.

Your father? Really?

Yup. Took over the celestial army when Michael retired. The Big Guy needs him to help keep the humans safe against a really big plot to take over control of the dark world and humankind. The demons are in an uproar and the rumor is that the Angel City witch coven is pulling the strings behind the uprising. And to make things even worse, somebody from the Big House is involved and helping the witches. A dark angel with some power apparently. Some think it’s my father.

But you don’t believe it I’m sure.

Not for a minute. But the sticker is I’ve got to prove it. No easy task while saving the world.

So what’s on your plate for the next book. Are you saving the world again?

Of course. In the third book of the series, the ratio between magic and non-magic is being altered by the dropping of a veil of twisted magic. Humans can’t survive under the veil and as it descends they get increasingly crazy and start attacking everything in sight. I of course have to find the cause and put everything right again. Meanwhile, I’ve been marked by the Serpent as one of the conduits…

Serpent? Conduits?

(Astra smiles) I guess you’ll just have to read the book.

Sounds fascinating, I can’t wait. I want to thank you for visiting with me today, Astra. It’s been very…ah…illuminating.

Yeah, sure. Hey, you haven’t seen a really small dragon running around here have you?

(Reporter picks up her feet) A dragon? Why no, did you lose one?

(Astra shrugs) Maybe. Oh well, I’ll just follow the char marks…

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Please welcome romance author Anny Cook, winner of the Best New Author 2007 award from Love Romances Cafe. For more information about Anny and her books visit her website or her most excellent blog.

In the past few months several readers have asked me about how I created the worlds of Mystic Valley (for the Mystic Valley series) and Avalon (for the Flowers of Camelot series). World building is something I do before I begin writing the stories and I have a pretty specific order that works for me, though it might not work for other writers. After all, everyone has different working and creative styles.

Though I may be a “seat of the pants” writer, that doesn’t mean that I’m a “seat of the pants” planner. When a new story idea begins to prod at me, I begin by jotting down ideas about the background. The story might be the central focus of the picture, but the frame and background are at least as important.

When the ideas are written down and seem to fit together, then I draw a map. All right, don’t panic if you can’t draw, because this map is for the writer—not the public. I always draw a map, maybe even several maps, so that I remember where objects, houses, furniture, whatever might be important, are located. Maps clarify the surroundings for me. As I draw the maps, the “world” begins to take shape. What kind of flora and fauna exist on this world? What type of buildings are common and why?

The culture and society starts to take on some substance. That’s when I start a series of lists. One list answers the cultural questions—what is the monetary system, the system of government, the cultural norms? What are the positions of power? Is there a religion and if so what are the basic beliefs? What are the gender norms? What about education, military, and economic systems?

A second list has the answers regarding appearance for my characters—what type of clothing do they wear? How old are they? What are their physical characteristics? In the Mystic Valley series, the inhabitants of Mystic Valley are blue with pointed ears and small fangs. Long hair is culturally important, so with few exceptions everyone, both men and women, has long hair. Within the valley, status is based on lineage and warrior rank. Hair ornament colors are used to display the warrior’s rank. I have detailed descriptions of the ornaments, called chinkas, and also their weaponry.

The third list is the bare beginnings of a relationship chart. Who is related to whom? In the case of the Valley with a huge cast of minor characters who might someday have their own stories, it is particularly important that the relationship lines are kept straight. It would be exceedingly awkward for a sharp eyed reader to point out that Joe has inadvertently married his Aunt Sally. A corollary to this list is an alphabetical list of names used in the series so that I don’t use a name twice, and confuse my readers.

Beware inventing a new language for your new world. The glossary for Mystic Valley is four pages long and growing. If you’re going to have a new language, take a tip from me—begin your glossary list immediately and keep it up to date. In my case, my publisher chose to place the glossary in all of my Mystic Valley books. It’s far easier to provide this on request if it’s kept up to date. And your editor will thank you too when she or he is wading through a sea of new words. Just a quick word here about new words. It they’re too weird, your reader will find them distracting. I try to use them sparingly, just enough to give the flavor of the new world, but not enough to make reading the story such a chore that the reader finds something else to read. Of course, if the word is the name for an everyday object, such as the sharda that all the valley men wear, then it needs to be a very simple word to pronounce.

When the framework is in place, then I begin to write. Most of the information is pretty bare bones at this point. As I write, there will be numerous additions to each of the lists and possibly even quite a few changes as new events pop up. As the series progresses, more lists are added. For every occupation, there is a list of equipment and materials. The healers have “patient” records listing who they treated, when, where and what the diagnosis was. The justices have records listing the cases they presided over and what the final decisions were. Investigators have case files. Cooks have recipes. The barter keeper has the barter books.

This is a small glimpse of the ways I create a new world. There are other things to add to the lists—a time line, a birth/death registry, a building registry to keep track when new buildings are built and old ones are torn down. If all of this sounds complicated and a lot of work, just consider if you were building your town or village from scratch. What would need to be done? That’s what I do on paper and computer. And it also answers another question I get frequently…how do you keep everyone straight?

My goal is to provide a rich, lush background for my characters and stories. The lives and loves of the men and women of Mystic Valley and Avalon play out in the new worlds I created with a lot of thought and craft.

In this excerpt from Dancer’s Delight, Dancer has his first glimpse of Mystic Valley and its inhabitants. I thought perhaps you might enjoy picking out the different aspects of world building:

Dancer’s Delight
by
Anny Cook

The path that led to the village wandered through a new section of woods. Immediately, Dancer knew that he was in a fantasy forest. As they walked along the trail, he took note of the plants, both familiar and strange. Unlike the last stand of trees he’d encountered, most of these were very strange, indeed. There were huge trees with odd dark blue leaves. One lonely tree had smooth, glittery black bark. Back from the path, he saw a pair of trees with orange bark and triangular purple leaves. Occasionally, he spotted pine-like trees with shiny red needles. The undergrowth was a multi-colored riot of prolifically flowering shrubs and a bright blue runner vine. Suddenly, without warning, the path took a sharp jog to the right and they stood at the edge of a thriving village unlike anything he had ever seen.

Circular adobe homes with smooth, domed adobe roofs were arranged in concentric circles around a cluster of larger circular domed buildings. The domes ranged from small, one circle homes to a very large compound of multiple joined domes.

Without hesitation, Eppie headed for the compound. Following on her heels, he observed as much as he could, noting the neat yards and gardens enclosed with low stone walls. Some had blue or green birds similar to chickens pecking at the dirt. In a couple of yards, enormous long-haired creatures that vaguely resembled dogs, silently eyed them as they walked by.

On the front steps of the compound, two huge cat-like animals were curled up, sleeping in the sun. The long-haired orange one’s ears twitched as they went by and it opened one green eye before settling back into slumber. The chocolate and cream animal opened both eyes, yawned mightily, revealing a mouth full of sharp teeth and stretched before curling back up and snoring lightly. “Those are Tyger and Llyon’s packits,” Eppie commented briefly before opening the door and entering the cool darkness of a wide foyer.

Dancer merely nodded and followed her inside, completely resigned to the odd and amazing. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the shadowy hallway, but when they did, he observed a entryway like he had never imagined. A huge exquisite woven tapestry covered the wall on the left. The deep jewel colors shone vividly, even in the dimness. On the right, three unframed landscapes were arranged above a long narrow carved table. There were no artist names on the paintings, but it was obvious the same individual—in a style reminiscent of Goya—had painted them all. Bold bright colors portrayed life in the valley. The table below them had elaborately carved legs and skirt. When he bent over to study it, he saw the carvings were leaves and flowers.

Eppie barely paused before leading him into a larger room with an empty fireplace and a large varied collection of chairs. Standing in the doorway, he stared around in amazement. Every chair was occupied. Near the center of the room, he picked out two people he thought must be her parents. After focusing for a moment, he realized the rest were probably her siblings…and there were a lot of them. Every single male, from the youngest through the eldest, was dressed in the skirt-like garments. Some had on loose over-wrapped shirts, but most were bare-chested. And all of them had their hair neatly arranged in the narrow braids ending with the tiny jeweled clasps.

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Please welcome author Chris Power !

Chris lives in the southwest of England, in the heart of what once was the ancient kingdom of Wessex, and close to Stonehenge. For more information about Chris or her books, please visit her website.

Trained all his life to serve the will of the Great Goddess, Kherin is her Chosen, her warrior, mage and priest. Betrayed by one he trusted, given as a slave to a barbarian lord, when he learns his goddess’s purpose, he finds it hard to obey.

Rythian, having challenged for the leadership of his tribe and won, is forced to put the future of his people before his beloved wife and family. He refuses to let his sacrifice be for nothing. With enemies on the borders of his land threatening invasion and enemies within the tribe working against him, Rythian fights his god’s intent every step of the way.

Aided by family and friends, two very different men must learn trust and friendship to combat their enemies and become weapons for their gods to wield.

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Life has been hellish busy for a while now. This is a good thing, generally. Apart from a visit to the dentist for a filling which was amazingly untraumatic until I had to pay the bill, it means I have been visiting other people’s blogs and pimping my two e-books recently released, and traveling around the UK visiting and sometimes cat-sitting for friends. It also means the various muses have been cooperating and I have been writing many many words, but only on my stand-by novel. This is the one I return to time and again whenever I am afflicted by the bloody writer’s block on the current project. In this case, FOX HUNT.

SEA-CHANGE [working title] is flowing so well, I’m actually on the brink of finishing it. Then I will *have* to get back to FOX HUNT. It has been sitting there patiently for a few months now – well, it was its own fault for deciding to inflict me with the dreaded block.

In any case, SEA-CHANGE will have to be put aside for a short while so I can come back to it with a fresh eye to do work on the next draft or two. Once I’m certain I have the plot and relationships solid, then I’ll make sure I have all the location details as right as I can get them without actually flying out to Honolulu.

‘Okay, why is she blathering on about what is any writer’s working status quo?’ I hear you mutter. Well, because of the genre. It’s a male/male love story. There’s a bit of mystery, a bit of jeopardy in the mix, but generally it’s the story of two men, one of whom is gay and the other thinks he’s straight but isn’t sure, and their deepening friendship that gradually becomes sexual awareness and HEA. The key word is ‘gradually’. It’s over 100 k words and the explicit sex doesn’t start until the last quarter. So it doesn’t fit in with Ellora’s Cave remit. Nor any of the other e-publishing sites I’ve looked at so far. Their homoerotic novels and novellas have a strong emphasis on the erotic, and a simple relationship story will be hard to place. There would be a multitude of other e-publishers to offer it to if Cerridwen Press didn’t want it, if Jon and Drew were Jack and Jill.

But they’re not. They are both uncompromisingly male.

So why write it in the first place? Because they were in my head and their story needed to be written. It doesn’t matter if the book is never taken up and just sits on my hard drive to be read occasionally, and maybe shown to any interested friends. The important thing is that it is written, and completed to be best of my ability.

Does this mean I am not professional in my approach to writing? Should I be working only on stories I know would have a good chance of finding an e-home, aiming at a specific market right from the start? Or do I write what I want to write and think about homing it when it’s done? Until SEA-CHANGE, the ones under that heading have fitted into either Cerridwen Press or Ellora’s Cave, and the ones I have waiting in the queue are also easily categorized under mainstream or erotica. But somewhere down the line I will almost certainly get bitten by another set of characters whose story won’t be so readily pigeon-holed. Then I’ll have another stand-by novel, I expect.

Who do you write for? Or are you in the same place I am, writing about characters that won’t let you go until you’ve got their lives spread out over many pages?

If it comes to that, what *is* a professional approach to writing?

I’m pleased to welcome author Heather Hiestand to my blog this weekend!

I’m Heather Hiestand, and my first Cerridwen Press novel was released in March 2007. I still feel like a newbie, but my fifth Cerridwen novel, In Flight, is going to be released on June 12^th. The novels are all contemporary romance, set in big cities like Seattle, Las Vegas and Detroit or fictional small towns.

There tends to be a mystery or suspense of some kind in my books and I’m thrilled when I make readers think. Just today I received a review for my second novel, One Juror Down, which commented, “And then the idea that it might not be that difficult for a determined criminal to find a way to threaten someone on a jury and affect the verdict didn’t make me comfortable. These kinds of stories where the author makes a distasteful idea, like jury tampering, very plausible always make me think and wonder if there could be some truth to it, even in a fiction tale.” The Romance Studio

We all tend to have ideas of what can or can’t happen, but the truth is that life is stranger than fiction and all kinds of crazy things do occur. With One Juror Down, while I won’t say that jury tampering is easy or even plausible, the initial setup of the book that allows my heroine Cass to land on the jury is possible.

The sequel, recently released Two on the Hunt, features Georgia, Cass’ sister. For this book, I carved my realistic mother-daughter relationship from conversations with a retired social worker long after I’d initially formed the characters. And who knows, maybe the vampire wannabes are out there somewhere too! You just never know…

I’m curious to know which authors out there make you think and why? I’ll start off the conversation by saying that Karen Marie Moning’s got me thinking right now with her DARKFEVER. Not that I think her story is plausible but what things are going on outside of the edge of our consciousness that we might notice if we paid just a little more attention?

Bonus: Leave a comment for Heather and you could win a .pdf copy of One Juror Down!

Two on the Hunt

by

Heather Hiestand

Blurb:

Moonlight-dappled water, a luxurious boat and a handsome man in the next slip. Life at the South Seattle Marina is heavenly. Georgia Bellair and her four-year-old daughter Abby have been reunited after a tough couple of years and it’s time for a few days’ relaxation before moving into their new home together. Georgia would never have gone there though if she’d realized a cult was operating on the calm waters of Puget Sound and the leader thinks drinking Abby’s innocent blood will make him a full chiang-shih, a Chinese vampire.Bounty hunter Yun MacCready is investigating a series of break-ins reportedly caused by a bail jumper at the marina. He doesn’t expect to get involved with a beautiful blonde, much less work to rescue her kidnapped daughter from a vampire cult. Nor could he have expected this family’s complicated past would come back to haunt them in the form of gang lord Oscar Nesell. Evil is storming the gates of heaven.

Excerpt:

Mike MacCready stood in his client’s boat, sipping his third diet cola of the day. He watched as the sexy, very slender blonde in the next slip argued with the ugly, but extremely muscular in a thick neck kind of way, marina handyman.

“Arrangements were made with the boat owner. You need to move the boat for a couple of hours,” the man said in a heavy accent.

“It’s not my boat and the owner didn’t inform me of any repairs,” the blonde said. She turned aft and Mike couldn’t see who she spoke to, but then a little girl darted behind the woman and went down the forward hatch.

A mother, Mike thought, intrigued.

“I need to fix the bumper strip,” the handyman announced stolidly as the blonde fidgeted, clearly wishing she could follow her daughter into the cabin.

“Think she’s got a husband?” Pete asked from behind Mike.

“She doesn’t look married.” He nodded to his gap-toothed and freckly employee. “She doesn’t have that settled look.”

The single mothers he attracted tended to be low maintenance—his kind of woman. Though interested in a sex life, they didn’t have time to waste thinking about “relationships” and all that crap. He didn’t have a life that left a lot for a woman. Right now, for instance, he had moved onto a boat to watch for a bail jumper who was reportedly hiding out around here, making a few bucks by stealing from the marina’s inhabitants. Bounty hunters didn’t make good boyfriends. Mike’s mouth curved. But he was a very good time when he was available.

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It’s been heating up over the last week and yesterday was a scorcher, with a hot dry wind out of the desert. How hot was it? My daughter has a fluffy white teddy bear that had turned gray from the general everyday grime of life in Cairo. I washed it last night and set it out on the drying rack outside.

Two hours later it was bone dry and fluffy again. Definitely good drying weather – if you like the crispy look.

I am going to be spending the day packing, preparing for our weekend trip to Luxor. It’s going to be even hotter there – up near 110F most days / 70sF at night. Our plan is to go out early in the morning and see one site, then return to the hotel and spend the afternoon in and around the swimming pool. Evening site seeing will also be an option – if we feel like it. Frankly, I’m ready for a little leisure.

I won’t be around, but don’t forget to stop by over the weekend. Heather Hiestand will be here talking about her book Two on the Hunt. Leave a comment for Heather and you could win a pdf copy of her book One Juror Down.

Have a great weekend!

Please welcome multi-published romance author Shelley Munro!

When I was about twelve-years-old, my older cousin flew to India with friends for three months holiday. It was a topic of great discussion amongst my family, the conclusion universal. Why would my cousin want to go there? Surely there were more interesting places to visit?

Fast forward about twelve years to a discussion between my husband and I. I wanted to do an overland trip from London to Kathmandu. My husband wasn’t so sure. Why would we want to do that? he asked.

“Because it’s adventurous,” I said. “It will be interesting. Exciting. Just think about it.”

Finally, after much discussion, research about methods of travel and companies and careful budgeting, we booked our trip with an overland company. Thus started our adventurous streak, where we visited many countries the normal tourist never considers, including India.

These days if anyone asks me what my favorite country to visit is, my answer is instant and without hesitation.

India.

India is a country people either love or hate. It’s bright, bold and in-your-face. It’s full of history and wondrous sights, both man-made and natural. It’s full of rich contrasts, both good and bad. There are friendly people and lots of delicious food. India is full of smiles.

Since I enjoyed my visit so much, it was only a matter of time before I used India as a setting for one of my books. I added in a touch of intrigue, chucked in the odd body or two and Wanderlust was born. Wanderlust is about tour leader, Anna Tietjens who has taken her love of travel and made it into a job. Unfortunately things take a turn for the worse on tour OE68 and the passengers start dying…

Romance and travel—an exotic and deadly combination. Wanderlust is due for release from Cerridwen Press on 17 April 2008. That’s yesterday, so go and buy your copy now!

Do you like armchair travel? Do you like to read about exotic settings and if so, which are your favorites?

Bonus: Leave a comment for Shelley and you could win a pdf copy of her book Playing to Win!

by

Shelley Munro

BLURB:

Not many people live their dream, but I’ve been incredibly lucky. I’m Anna Tietjens, and I work as a tour leader for Wanderlust Adventures.

My current tour is through incredible India. It should be a breeze, except my younger sister is joining in New Delhi. Things are not exactly civil between us—a childhood full of upheaval didn’t help—and our parents have insisted she travel with me or not at all. I see fun times ahead. Now my boyfriend has turned up without warning. Don’t get me wrong. I really like Sebastian Brady. The sex is good, spectacular even, but meeting a few times a year is enough. I mean I’m not looking for love or happy ever after.

But worst of all is the bad luck I’ve been having recently. One of my passengers died in Syria, and now it looks like my co-driver might have to leave the tour. Despite the exotic location, it’s not exactly smooth sailing, and I’m starting to think someone is out to halt the tour…

A loud, terrified scream rent the air. The fine hairs at the back of my neck rose. And when the feminine scream sounded a second time, I grabbed my T-shirt and dragged it back over my head. I only paused to step into my jeans before sprinting from my cabin.

A group of my passengers milled together outside the cabins at the far end of the hotel grounds. Alarm seared through my gut, lending my feet wings. I covered the distance between my cabin and passengers in seconds flat, despite the gravel footpath beneath my bare feet.

“What’s wrong?” I squeezed out the words between adrenaline-fueled pants.

“Oh look. It’s An-An-Anna!” my sister warbled. “She’s dead. She’s dead, dead, dead!” Elizabeth was rotten drunk. She stood between Jack Donovan and Carmichael Jones and wobbled from side to side.

“You’re drunk.” My eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re all drunk.”

“Not too drunk to notice you’ve got your T-shirt inside out,” Jack said.

“And you’re not wearing a bra. Shouldn’t do that when it’s so cold in the mornings,” Elizabeth chided. She spoiled it by hiccupping loudly. The three of them laughed hysterically.

“Antonia’s been murdered,” AJ said.

It was then I noticed Antonia, another of my passengers lying on the ground. Unmoving. Fear and anger knotted inside me. Why weren’t they doing anything? I pushed past my passengers, elbowing Elizabeth and company aside when they didn’t move fast enough. “What’s wrong with her? Are you sure she’s dead? Have you called for a doctor?” Lord, Antonia wasn’t moving. She didn’t even appear to be breathing. Sheer black fright froze me for an instant before instinct kicked in and my first aid training came to the fore. I sank down on my knees and felt for a pulse. A strong, healthy pulse beat beneath my fingers. Confused, I glanced up to find every one of my passengers smirking at me. I looked back at Antonia. Her eyes were open now and she closed one green eye in a wink.

“Gotcha,” she said with a great deal of satisfaction. “We decided we’d award a prize for the best death. I think I might have a good chance of winning.”

Shock yielded swiftly to fury. I leapt to my feet, clenching my teeth together and glared at them all. “I thought there’d been an accident. I thought Antonia was really dead.” I hurled my words at them like stones, but it didn’t seem to puncture their alcohol-induced hilarity. They’d obviously spent most of the night drinking and partying, although some of them were worse for wear than others. A vein throbbed at my temple, and I felt my face grow hot. Damn, didn’t they see how irresponsible they’d been?

“We’ve started playing the murder game,” Sebastian said from behind me.

“You!” I whirled to face him, allowing every bit of my anger to show in my face. I literally shook with it. “You should know better.”

His brows rose a fraction while his face remained expressionless, but I just knew what he was thinking, what they were all thinking. They thought I was overreacting. Fine. They could think what they liked.

“The truck will leave at eight on the dot. Make sure you’re ready with all the packs and sleep gear stowed in the back locker.” My voice was harsh, my words letting them all know I meant business. Yep, bitch number one. Aware of the chill in the air and Sebastian giving my chest the once-over, I wrapped my arms across my breasts and stamped back to my cabin.

Adventure into Romance with Shelley Munro

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Terry makes her home in Orlando, Florida. To find out more about Terry visit her website or her blog.

Please welcome EPPIE award winning author Karen McCullough!

Karen McCullough has published six romantic mystery/suspense novels, two romantic fantasy novels, a Middle-earth RPG tie-in book, and most recently a paranormal novella, “Vampire’s Christmas Carol” in the Christmas paranormal anthology from Cerridwen Press, Beneath a Christmas Moon. Her most recent full-length novel release is also from Cerridwen Press, a romantic mystery/suspense thriller titled Shadow of a Doubt. Karen invites readers to learn more about her at her web site and her Myspace home.

Karen tells the story behind the story of Shadow of a Doubt:

When I set out to write Shadow of a Doubt, I planned it to be a pretty simple, straightforward mystery, with a twist. (No, I can’t tell you what that is.) I knew I wanted to set it in a small city in the Blue Ridge Mountains, with a heroine who was the only actual detective in the small police department and a hero who might or might not be involved in the crime she was investigating.

I did a lot of research for this story, including quite a bit about police procedures in general and homicide investigations in particular. I talked to a number of police officers, not just to get information but also to get a feel for how they think, how they approach both the job and life. Being a police officer is more than just a job and their attitudes spill over into the rest of their lives. I wanted to capture some of that.

I was aware that this was a risky book to write. As a police officer and a detective my heroine, Liz Ramsey, should not be romantically involved with a suspect. It’s a serious breach of ethics and any cop would know it.

One of the themes I’ve found recurring in my stories is the conflicts among duty, honor, loyalty, and love. I wanted to put my heroine in a position where she would have to wrestle with the conflicting demands of all of those things. To keep Liz from looking either stupid or morally questionable, I had to set up the situation carefully.

At the beginning of the story Greg Conyers wasn’t a suspect in the murder she’s investigating, and there was absolutely no reason to think he might become one, so there’s no reason she can’t date him and shouldn’t be attracted to him. By the time the first hint surfaces to connect him to the crime, she’s well on her way to being in love with him.

At the same time, Liz is beginning to realize the case is not as simple as it appears on the surface. The obvious answer to the mystery may not be the right one.

When it becomes clearer that Greg does have more than a casual connection to the murder, Liz is put in a terrible position. She knows she shouldn’t continue as the investigator in the case, but she also knows that the person who would take it over is just barely competent. Given that there’s more to the situation than appears on the surface, she fears that relinquishing it would result in a terrible miscarriage of justice. She believes herself capable of facing and dealing with the truth, no matter how devastating to her personally, so with the support of her captain, who trusts her as much as he can, she continues her pursuit of justice for a murdered girl.

The following scene is from fairly early in the story, when Liz is just beginning her investigation:

Shadow of a Doubt

by

Karen McCullough

Excerpt:

The fire popped softly. Warmth surrounded her and sank into her bones. She was trying to work up the energy to rise from the soft, warm, comfortable seat, leaning forward and rubbing her eyes when Greg Conyers come back into the room. He carried a tray laden with teapot, cups and condiments, which he placed on a table beside her chair.

“Detective? Tea?” he asked. “A soothing, herbal brew. You look like you could use it.”

“That bad?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment. “Not bad. A bit worn, maybe.”

“Probably. I’ve been up since one-thirty this morning.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Three or four times a year, maybe.”

He poured a cup of tea and passed it to her, then offered cream, sugar and lemon. She accepted the tea but declined the rest.

“You mind if I join you?” he asked, taking a cup himself and heading for an adjoining chair.

She laughed a little. “Mr. Conyers? This is your home, I believe?”

His lips quirked into a crooked, short-lived grin. “Your investigation, though. And your privacy I’m invading right now. Would it be unprofessional to call me Greg?”

“Only if you don’t dispense with the ‘Detective’ bit.”

He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other. “I heard one of your coworkers call you Liz this morning.”

“That’ll do,” she agreed.

He swirled the tea in his cup and looked down into it for a moment before he said, “Is it bad form for a layman to ask how an investigation is going?”

“Natural curiosity, I’d say. And technically, of course, you’re my employer.”

He looked up, startled, but she didn’t have to explain it to him. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “But the police don’t tell the public everything.”

“Nope. It’s always a bit of a tightrope, balancing what you owe the public against what you owe to the requirements of the job.”

He nodded slowly.

“I spent too much of today ducking reporters or talking with them,” she continued, “trying to be careful exactly what I told them. But they’re just doing their jobs too.”

“I suppose every job has its share of walking tightropes.”

“You ran a successful business once. I expect you know the drill.”

His eyes widened and she saw surprise and a hint of alarm, quickly hidden. “You checked my background.”

“Sheer, brazen curiosity,” she admitted. “And it wasn’t hard. Half the people I talked to remembered the article about you a couple of years ago.”

“That thing.” His eyebrows angled a bit. “Speaking of trying to duck reporters.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“I got a copy of the article. I’d say you were pretty good at avoiding journalists.”

He shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “I’ve learned how to guard my privacy.”

“Can I ask you a question? One that might impinge on it?”

He gave her an ironic look. “You’re the detective.”

“This one is personal.”

“Then I don’t have to answer it.”

“No one ever has to answer any questions. People with nothing to hide don’t seem to mind doing it as much, though.”

He might have been reading her mind when he asked, “Are there really people who have nothing to hide?”

“You’d make a good cop. You’ve got the right mindset.”

“Maybe.”

“What made you decide to sell the business and paint full-time? They’re so different, the world of commerce and the world of art. It’s hard to imagine a man who was happy in one being happy in the other.”

“How do you know I was happy in the one?” He set the teacup aside, stood and moved to stand behind the chair he’d just vacated, leaning on the back.

“Were you?”

He ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it intriguingly disarranged. “Actually, to be honest, I guess I was. When I was running Conyers Properties, I was content in my way. Driven, always on the aggressive, always looking for opportunities, chances, connections. There was purpose in it and a goal, the challenge of finding ways to succeed. It was interesting. And satisfying, in a way. But it wasn’t very deep. And after a while it was almost too easy.”

He straightened and paced around the room. “There was still a thrill in it but I got tired of the effort. It was just about making more money and I already had enough. More than enough. I’d actually dabbled in art all my life, but I realized after a while that I was finding painting more satisfying than negotiating land deals. There are more interesting challenges than figuring out how to earn the next few million. And a way to say things I never could in business. I actually had the arrogance to believe I had something to add to the world besides new office buildings.”

“I understand you’re very good at painting too.”

He shrugged off the compliment. “Getting there, maybe. There are things I could do better. Some techniques I haven’t mastered yet.” He stopped in the middle of the room and turned to her. “What about you, Liz? What led you into police work?”

“I don’t know. Actually, I can’t remember ever not wanting to be a cop.”

“Anyone in your family?”

“No. It just seems like I was always watching a detective show on television or reading mystery novels when I was growing up. I cut my teeth on Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. Went on to Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Spillane, Hillerman, Ed McBain, all the others. The police procedurals were my favorites. That didn’t change as I got older, I just became more practical. I badgered my parents to let me practice shooting, I took a few martial arts classes and I spent a lot of time at the gym working out. I went to college and got a degree in criminal justice. And here I am.”

“You’re fairly young to have made detective, aren’t you?”

“You’re pretty young to have started, built and sold a business for enough money to let you retire in state, aren’t you?”

“That’s a point,” he admitted.

“But you’re right. I am fairly young. And I’m female. And it creates problems. But I’ve done my time on the street, issuing traffic tickets and breaking up rowdy parties. The degree helped and the fact that I had some training with the FBI a few years ago. Plus, this being a small town meant the competition wasn’t as fierce.”

“And you’re very intelligent and very competent.”

She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Right now, I’m very tired and frustrated.”

“It’s not going well?”

“It’s not going at all. No one heard or saw anything. The people who might know something are nowhere to be found, while the people I can talk to don’t know a damn thing.”

“So you talk to people tomorrow or the next day. Does it make that much difference?”

“Actually it does. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after a murder are critical. Memories are fresh, people are still rattled, stories haven’t been coordinated yet.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned her head back, drinking in the soothing aromas of the wood fire and fragrant tea. She didn’t realize he’d moved in behind her until she felt his hands fall gently on her shoulders and begin to knead her tense, knotted muscles.

“You’ve done all you possibly can for today. Let it go for a while.”

What his hands were doing to her made it easier to forget about murder cases and her job and everything else but the sensation of his fingers rubbing her back and neck. She sighed. “That feels terrific.”

“Good.” For the next few minutes, she let him knead, easing the tension. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that this might not be a good idea, but even the rational part of her was hard-pressed to come up with an exact reason why it wasn’t.

He stopped and came around the chair to stand in front of her and drew her to her feet. He bent over and kissed her, gently at first, then not so gently. After a few minutes, though, they split apart, almost by mutual consent.

“Was that wrong?” he asked her. “It’s hard to know.”

“Know what?”

“Where the police officer ends and the woman begins.”

“It can be a problem,” she agreed. “Sometimes I’m not sure I know myself.”

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I’m extremely pleased to have Liz Jasper, author of the 2008 EPPIE Award winning mystery Underdead, with me this week. Liz is a frequent contributor to Lady Jaided Magazine and blogs regularly at The Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writers. To learn more about her Underdead mystery series, and for updates on the upcoming release of Underdead in Denial, visit her website.

Underdead

When she finds a body on her classroom floor with teeth marks in his neck, she must figure out whodunnit before her Underdead secret gets out. But she’s running out of time. The detective in charge of the case is dogging her every move, her vampire traits are evolving in new and embarrassing ways, and someone wants Jo dead…the traditional way!

Now sit back and let Liz tell us why perfect heros and heroines are b-o-r-i-n-g…

One of the temptations of a writer is to make one’s “good” characters a little too good. But the irony is no one actually likes a character who is good to the core and perfect in every way.

Imagine a stunningly beautiful heroine with shiny, golden hair that, without the slightest effort on her part, curls becomingly from the moment she awakens (with a charmingly dainty yawn) until her thick, black lashes flutter closed once again over her lovely violet eyes. She has a flawless 36-26-36 figure, drives a convertible Bentley and — lest you think wealth has spoiled her character — works hard every day running a charitable foundation to which she herself has donated millions. Her ready laughter is the musical tinkling of water running down a stream. She’s dating an equally handsome, muscular demi-god, a blond Ken to her Barbie–only he has his own money and runs his own charitable foundation. The fact that he is anatomically incorrect is only a literary device representing his manfully chivalrous restraint around our beautiful heroine, who is saving her virtue for the moment the glittering, rare, pink, two-carat diamond he has put on her left ring finger is joined next July by a platinum wedding band.

Everybody in the book loves our heroine, save one. She has one enemy, whom no one in town likes, as Ms. Evil is mean, spiteful, works for a for-profit corporation and has black hair. It is page 135 in our story and our unflappable, flaxen-haired heroine is curling ribbons on Easter baskets for the poor. It is nine-o- clock on Easter Sunday and– look! With her usual, impeccable planning, our unflappable heroine finishes the last curl on the last basket just in time to meet her fiancé for brunch. For being tardy is a rudeness to which she would never impose on another living soul.

Now. Who’s with me wanting to push her over a cliff? Raise your hand if you find yourself rooting for her dark-haired nemesis.

Though we all instinctively want our heroes and heroine to be “good”, a character without flaws is inhumanly so. Worse, they are boring. We can’t relate to someone is perfect in every way and, more the point, we don’t want to.

For it is often one’s flaws that give one character. That make one memorable. That, oddly enough, make one lovable.

Take, for example, my cat. (Stay with me, here.) For the past two weeks, I’ve had a beast of a cold. It was so horrible that I spent a couple of days in bed battling a high fever and a barking cough, slathered in menthol ointment I couldn’t smell and with a box of tissues under each arm. My cat, who is possibly the cutest cat on the planet, was there, on the bed with me. But she wasn’t cuddling close, in that fabled display of catly love one always hears about. (“It was so sweet — as I lay there sick and miserable, my darling cat somehow knew I needed her then more than ever and, purring, never left my side!”)

Not my cat. She wasn’t even in her usual day-time spot, at the foot of the bed on my side. My cat spent the entire 48 hours over on the other side, on the farthest possible corner of the bed for me. There was no purring. Most of the time I saw only the back of her. And when she did turn her furry little striped face in my direction, its sweet perfection was marred by the sort of cold glare only a cat can master. A look of co-mingled disgust and irritation that said clearly, “What are you doing in my bed? It is daytime. What about our agreement, that you work while I sleep, do you not get?”

And though I could have used some affection from the little turd, it is her innate crankiness that makes me like her so much. I entertained myself by inching closer, just to watch her crane her neck farther away to maintain the distance between us.

And, like my cat, whose sour disposition doesn’t mar the promise of her physical cuteness but makes her inexplicably more appealing, in a book, a character’s flaws pitted against their good points is often what makes them likeable.

Would you have liked Cinderella quite so much if at one point she hadn’t vented to her animal friends about how much she resented her step-family? Would Harry Potter have been as well-written a hero if he’d been universally-liked, the brightest student in his class, and happy all the time? And in Gone With The Wind, isn’t it because Scarlett O’Hara has so very many flaws burdening her character that we spend hour after hour fascinated by her, and, despite the parting words of Rhett Butler, we really do give a damn?

I happen to agree with Liz – characters with layers and complexity are more interesting to me. What do you think? Do you like perfection or are a few warts okay?

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I’m pleased to welcome to Cerridwen author Mona Risk to my blog this weekend. Mona had a very unique inspiration for her first novel To Love A Hero:

It all started ten years ago. In a different life, I was Director of the Analytical Division of an environmental company. I supervised a staff of chemists performing analytical tests and I worked on various government contracts. A monotonous predictable life that suddenly changed when I won a contract to refurbish a military laboratory in Belarus.

I traveled fifteen times to Minsk, capital of Belarus, and was well received by everyone. I worked with colonels and generals, chemists and engineers, and even journalists. I was invited to theirs homes and became friend with their wives. During the inauguration of the lab we were featured on their national TV. Needless to say, I fell in love with the country.

Five years later, I took an early retirement to write my first book, To Love a Hero. Through my novel, a fictional story about an American chemist and a Belarussian officer, I lived again my fantastic trips to Belarus. My story highlights the hospitality and warmth of the gorgeous and gallant Belarussians officers who sing, toast with vodka and make a woman feel like a goddess.

Keep an eye out for Mona’s next book French Peril which has just been accepted by Cerridwen
Press!

And as an added bonus, post a comment and you could win a St. Patrick’s Day Mug! Check back on Monday to see who won!

“Mona Risk writes heroes with heart, heroines with spunk in stories and settings that are simply unforgettable!” – Roxanne St. Claire

Praise for To Love a Hero:

“Author Risk has presented an interesting tale of passion and politics.”

Literary Nymphs

“To Love a Hero has a complex plot. There are twists and turns that the reader will not expect. Mona Risk is a talented author. She knows how to weave intrigue and romance into her story. The characters are well-developed. Sergei and Cecile play well together. Roussov is the perfect antagonist. Fans of romance and suspense will enjoy To Love a Hero.”

ReviewYourBook.com

Blurb:

Raised in boarding schools, Cecile buried her loneliness under long hours of study and work. On the rebound of a broken engagement, she is determined to excel in her first international contract, the refurbishment of an environmental laboratory in Belarus.

BUT… In Belarus, a Russian country dominated by male chauvinism and intrigues, Cecile finds more chemistry than she bargains for.

Admired by men and adored by women, Major General Sergei is a true hero in his country. The widowed Sergei has pledged to clean his country of the pollution left by the Chernobyl disaster.

BUT… With a glass of vodka in his hand and the lovely Cecile nestled in his arms, Sergei has more on his mind than patriotic duty and nuclear pollution, and Cecile soon learns that chemicals are not the only things that generate heat.

Can she betray his trust to save his career? Would her love cost him everything he values?

To Love a Hero

by

Mona Risk

Available from Cerridwen Press

Excerpt:

Cecile surveyed the elegant place. A mirrored sphere flickered with silver glints over the small dance floor at the end of the room. On a raised podium, a gorgeous singer with long golden hair sang while swaying to soft piano music played by a tuxedo-clad man.

The drinks came. They clinked their glasses, mingling the cheers and nazhtrovias.

Cecile struggled to concentrate on the conversation. Not an easy task with the general sitting so close beside her.

“It’s a pleasure to have you with us. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Minsk,” the general said, his gaze warming her cheeks like a soft caress.

“I’m sure we will. You have welcomed us with incredible hospitality. We appreciate your kindness,” she replied with a smile.

Elena asked through her husband if Cecile’s fall on the escalator had left any lasting bruises.

No lasting bruise but it was a fall Cecile wouldn’t forget as long as she lived. She smiled at Nicolai’s wife. “Thank you for your concern. The general caught me just in time. I felt better right away.” Oh my God. What had she said? She hoped no one thought she enjoyed being in his arms.

Cecile glanced around furtively. While the others drank and talked, the general’s lips curled to one side. He hadn’t missed the possible double meaning.

Another wave of heat spread over her throat. Dang, there was definitely a lasting bruise on her senses. She took off her jacket and smoothed her skirt. As dinner was served, she fiddled with a lump of bread and avoided his penetrating gaze. She ate little, preferring the potato pancakes to the greasy meat. With the strong presence beside her, a different hunger built in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly thirsty, she gulped her beer and forced herself to participate in the general conversation.

Nicolai stood and tugged at his wife’s hand. “Please, excuse us. I want to dance with Elena. We don’t often enjoy the luxury of such expensive places.”

John followed suit and pulled Tania to her feet. “Come on. Let me shake my old legs.”

Cecile remained at her place. She took a piece of bread and balled it between her fingers. No one had mentioned dancing as part of this evening. She felt the general’s gaze on her. No please. Don’t ask. She was here to work. Only to work.

The general stood and extended an open palm “May I have the honor?” She placed her hand in his and steadied her wobbly knees.

He swept her away from their table, toward the dance floor. He wrapped an arm around her waist, branding her with his touch. Blazing heat penetrated through the silk of her blouse. They mingled with the crowd, gliding around. Cecile floated on a cloud. She was back in his arms. And not by accident, this time. At first, they moved slowly to the music, then he brought her closer and her body recognized with pleasure the rock-hard chest. He tightened his hold. She almost groaned, her senses focused on the taut biceps pressing on her side. “Crassiva,” he whispered in her ear.

“Pardon?”

“You’re so lovely, Cecile. Crassiva means pretty.”

“General, please. I’m here on business.”

“I’m not about to forget it. But can’t you relax and enjoy the evening, the soft music?”

“I am enjoying myself. Really, your hospitality is amazing.”

“Our hospitality?” He shook his head. “Cecile can’t you stop being the Program Manager for a few hours? I’m trying to talk to you, to the beautiful woman I’m dancing with. Is it an unforgivable mistake?” His breath fanned her earlobe. She had trouble making sense of his words. Was it the result of the morning’s vodka, the beer she drank a moment ago, or the strong arms holding her pressed against his muscled chest? “Tonight we should have fun. Tomorrow we will work.” He smiled at her, such a beguiling smile that she sighed. Her legs turned into jelly and her insides melted into delicious, hot syrup.

“Tomorrow?” she repeated in a whisper. Tonight she wanted to have fun, to forget Rob, her project and the many obstacles waiting for her. Her hand slipped from his shoulder and curled around his neck.

“Yes. Tonight we celebrate, we drink and we dance.” The charm and sultry sexiness in his voice held her motionless. His finger traced a line along her forehead, circled her cheek and swept over her lips in a gentle caress. She guessed he expected her to raise her business flag, to hide behind the contract and their professional relationship.

For the life of her, Cecile couldn’t pull back. She wanted to feel—just one more time—the strength of powerful arms holding her against the shelter of his solid chest. Linking her fingers around his neck, she leaned against the muscled torso and relaxed, secure in his embrace.

He whirled around and danced them to the darkest corner of the dance floor. His lips slid from her temple to her closed eyelids, brushed her cheek and rested for a fleeting second achingly close to her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat as she waited and yearned for his kiss. But he pressed his cheek on top of her head and held her tightly. She swallowed a frustrated groan as she listened to the comforting thump of his heart and hung on his neck, almost forgetting to dance.

After a couple of dances, she thought she recognized an old classical music. “Is it by any chance Strangers in the Night?”

“I don’t know the name in English but it’s your Frank Sinatra’s famous song. Do you like it?”

“Well it’s kind of old.”

“Maybe old but special for us now. We are still strangers tonight. I’ll sing it for you in Russian.” Cecile forgot the goal of her trip and the illustrious identity of her companion as he hummed the classic melody with words she didn’t understand but felt deep in her heart.

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