Silk & Shadows

Currently working on: Wrestling Book 4 to the ground
Mood: Mouth full of dirt

On my morning alley walks with Monster Girl, the grass has gone to seed and the air smells like cider from all the fallen apples. The shadows are getting so long.  But the heat isn’t over yet because here at Silk And Shadows we’re sneaking in a week of hot love scenes.

And speaking of hot, y’all are now seeing the first posting of VOWED IN SHADOWS, Book 3 of the Marked Souls.  Here’s Jonah, the hero, in all his blond bad boy glory, with the sweltering city behind him (it’s August in Chicago, after all) and a demon storm on the horizon:

Maybe it’s just the humidity making me swoon.

We’ve met Jonah briefly in SEDUCED BY SHADOWS and FORGED OF SHADOWS. This righteous missionary man lost his wife when he was possessed, and he can’t imagine ever loving again.  So when the repentant demon within him sets him on the path of rampant unbound etheric energies that leads him straight to the Naughty Nymphette — dancing tonight at the Shimmy Shack! — he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will never, ever, in an eternity fall in love as Archer and Liam did before him.

But he is a man of strong convictions, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the Chicago league of immortal demon-possessed warriors bring this newest fighter to their side. And by “do whatever it takes,” I include doing her…

*                                  *                                  *

From VOWED IN SHADOWS:

Jonah sat and crossed his arms. He needed her demon ascendant before he made his move. She wouldn’t believe his story otherwise. “Dance for me, Nymphette.”

Physical stress triggered the demon’s rise. Dangerous, but necessary since the newly possessed needed to find a way to balance the demon within them. Males traditionally drank and fought their way through the other-realm emanations coursing through their bodies. He’d been told it worked differently with the females. Just as well, since his balance was shot.

“Call me Nim.” Her voice turned husky, not with the demon, just a generic come-on. She swayed closer. “Nymphette is such a mouthful. And maybe you want me to save my mouth for… other things, right, Cap’n?”

“Don’t call me captain.”

Read the rest of this entry �

[Note from Jessa: I met Tracy at the Romance Writers of American conference last year at a lunch hosted by our literary agency.  Right there, I fell in love with Tracy's hot and steamy erotica covers, but I think I'm even more excited about these dragons!  Check it out and don't forget to leave a comment for a chance to win a copy of her latest book!]

I’m so excited to be here today, talking about Dark Embers, the first book in my brand new Dragon’s Heat series.  Though I’ve been published for a couple of years now as Tracy Wolff (erotic suspense and Harlequin Superromances) this week marks more than the debut of a new series for me-it also marks the debut of a brand new name, Tessa Adams. 

Building a new name in today’s competitive market is difficult, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about today.  Today, I wanted to talk about a different type of naming altogether-one that is even harder.  That naming, of course, is the naming of my characters. 

When I first started writing professionally, I thought I’d have no problem coming up with names for my characters-after all, there are a million (more probably) names in the world. How hard could it be?  Ha!  That question shows you how much I knew.

Admittedly, sometimes it’s not difficult at all to find the right name and other times it’s so hard that I feel like ripping my hair out.  For example, I’m launching a dark and angsty Young Adult series in early 2011, centering around a strong female protagonist who is the daughter of a professional surfer and a mermaid.  As her seventeenth birthday approaches, she must make a choice-does she stay human or become mermaid?  Naming her was easy for me-Tempest came to me early on in the process and fit her like a glove.  Naming my dragons, on the other hand, was terrible.

As I sat down to write Dark Embers, I spent a long time wondering what a good name would be for a dragon.    Obviously, it had to be strong and sexy and hot (pun totally intended).  And, to make matters a million times worse, I didn’t need to name just one dragon- I had to name nine.  After all, when you set up a series, you need to start bringing in a group of secondary characters fairly early on-otherwise, your readers won’t be very vested in the next book in the series.  So, suddenly, I not only had to name the King of the Dragonstar clan (who turned out to be Dylan, btw, which means, powerful, with great influence, like a lion, son of the sea or son of magic, depending what source for name origins you look at-it seemed the perfect name for my tortured, reluctant yet incredibly powerful King) but I also had to name his sentries-the men who helped him protect his clan. 

After days of playing with names, I reached a really interesting conclusion-I love male names that end in the letter N.  I have Dylan, Quinn, Logan, Ian, Shawn … you get the idea (and is now a good time to mention that heroes of two of my already published books have the names Kevin and Byron???)  Talk about N overload.  To throw some variety in there, I ended up adding in a Gabe (because Gabriel is my all time favorite name ever, so of course he is one of the most amazing characters I’ve ever written) and a Liam, which is so close to ending with an N, I wonder why I even bother.  And after I finally settled on the dragon names, I had to come up with names for their mates-or at least for the first few books, as I had one to write and proposals due on another two. 

And now, that those names are finally taken care of (Phoebe for Dylan, Jasmine for Quinn and Annalisse for Logan), here I am again, struggling to find the perfect names for a brand new urban fantasy series I am working on. 

For my heroine, a direct descendent from the highest priestess of the Egyptian goddess, Isis, she is a body finder, someone who through magic, psychic link, etc. is unerringly drawn to uncover dead bodies.  Playing opposite her are two men (don’t you love a love triangle???) one a beleaguered FBI agent stuck following her across state lines as she discovers bodies and the other a powerful, magical force from her past whose very presence causes her already difficult gift to go haywire.  The only problem … I don’t yet have names for any of them.  So …  

What I thought I’d do, was ask your advice.  Any suggestions for kick-ass female names?  Or for strong, powerful male names?  Leave a suggestion here and be entered to win a copy of Dark Embers.  Thanks in advance, and thanks so much to the wonderful ladies of Silk and Shadows for having me.  I really appreciate it.

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Read more about DARK EMBERS:

King Dylan MacLeod is one of the last pure-bred dragon shapeshifters in existence-and ruler of a dying race, the Dragonstar clan.  It falls to him to protect his people-and their ancient magic.  He has one more duty: to provide an heir.

Like all dragons, Dylan can only procreate with his destined mate-for whom he’s searched for five hundred years.  His dark, rampant sexual appetite has earned him quite the reputation, all in the pursuit of his one true match.

But his search is delayed when a deadly disease sweeps through the Dragonstars, and Dylan must venture to the human world to find a cure.  He tracks down renowned biochemist Phoebe Quillum, never imagining the beautiful scientist will be the mate he’s been seeking for centuries.  But no sooner do they meet then Phoebe and Dylan are besieged by an obsessive, overpowering sexual desire.

Their passion turns to something truer-and they know in their souls and bodies that they’re in too deep to get out.  And when Phoebe is kidnapped by Dylan’s oldest enemy, he must risk everything to reclaim the only woman he’s ever loved, or his clan will be wiped out forever.

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Prologue

He’d failed. Again.

Locked inside his head, tormented by shades of what might have been, Dylan MacLeod stepped into the night and closed the heavy, wooden door behind him.

He paused for a moment, sucked in a deep breath full of heat and sand and misery. Told himself it was no big deal. Part of him even believed it.

After four hundred and seventy years, he was damn good at lying to himself.

Shoving away from the small house with the cactus garden and the stone swimming pool in the front yard, he walked the deserted street rapidly. It was three a.m., and his only company was a scorpion or two. The desert was quiet, the night solemn.

And he had failed again.

With each step he took, his conscience grew heavier.

With each footfall, his heart grew colder, until he was once again at that place without hope. It was where he usually existed, where he’d spent the last century, mired in guilt and rage and a fear he refused to admit.

That he was here now was his own fault. It had been stupid, even for a moment, to truly believe that she might have been the one.

Agitation made him walk faster, until his boots were pounding the pavement in rhythm with his too-quick pulse. Self-disgust made him shut down inside, until all he could think of was the night.

The stars.

The moon shining brilliantly over the desert.

At least until his jeans sagged around his ass.

With a muttered curse, Dylan yanked the faded denim back into place. Slid the button through the tab, jerked up the zipper.

What did it say about him that this latest encounter had left him so desperate to get away that he hadn’t stayed long enough even to get his clothes on properly? Worse, he hadn’t bothered to say good-bye to Eve . . . Eva? Eden?

For a brief moment, he struggled to remember her name, what she looked like. Then let it go, as it mattered less than nothing. It wasn’t like he’d be seeing her again. Within moments of slipping inside her, he’d figured out that she wasn’t the one-none of the signs were there.

No instant connection between them, as his clan mates so often spoke about.

No burning as the tattoo around his arm shifted to reflect the presence of his mate.

No searing pain as a part of her soul arrowed into his.

Nothing but a mediocre orgasm that had barely given his powers a pulse. Before she’d rolled off him, he’d been plotting his escape. And by the time the shower had kicked on in the bathroom, he’d been halfway to the front door.

God, he was a fucked-up bastard. Cold as ice, despite the fire that raged within him. Hot as flame, despite the glacier that had taken up residence in his stomach. Was it any wonder, then, that he couldn’t find her?

He didn’t deserve her.

His laugh, when it came, was anything but humorous. That had to be the understatement of the year. The decade. The new millennium, and probably the old one, as well. Why else would it have taken him this long to do what everyone else managed in the first two centuries of their existence? Why else would he be doomed to failure night after night, encounter after encounter? He had screwed up generations ago, and now he and his clan were paying the cosmic price. Big time.

His boots ate up the streets in the sleepy little town, as he struggled to put distance between himself and his latest sexual escapade. Wind whipped around him, played with the tails of his shirt, caressed his bare chest. But Dylan didn’t bother buttoning up. What was the point, when he was headed right back to the bar to find yet another female shifter interested in taking it off?

Hope sprang eternal.

As he walked, he scanned the desert around him. Checked out every brush of the wind against cactus; narrowed his eyes at the rustle behind a random pile of heavy rocks. Then shook his head as a low, deep howl split the air next to him. A lonely coyote was the least of his problems.

If someone had told him four hundred years ago that he would be here, in this place, he would have laughed at them. If they’d told him he would grow tired of night after night of hot, anonymous sex, he would have told them they were insane. But youth was like that-arrogant, seemingly invincible, convinced the world was for the taking. Or at least that’s how his youth had been.

He’d spent centuries gorging on women, taking them each and every way he could. Glutting himself on their scent and taste and feel, until his powers reached staggering heights. Devouring whatever they gave him with a grin and a wink and a softly whispered “Thank you.”

He had plenty of time, he’d told his father when the man had advised him to settle down. He was trying to find the right woman, he’d promised his mother when she’d fretted about the future. And then, from one heartbeat to the next, everything had changed.

His brother had been murdered. His parents had died soon after. He’d been crowned king. And just that suddenly, his people, his legacy, were without an heir. Bad enough that the second son was now the king. That he couldn’t find a mate, couldn’t deliver on his family’s legacy, was a nightmare.

There were others-his sister, his niece-who could take his place if he fell. But it wouldn’t be the same. The line of succession, which had remained in his family for more than three thousand years, would fall with him.

One more fuckup from a man who had never wanted to be king in the first place.

Dylan shoved the thought away-what he wanted didn’t play into things anymore. What was best for his people did. And what was best for them now was that he provide them an heir.

He should already have done so, should already have guaranteed his people’s survival through this millennia and into the next. God knew he had tried-for nearly four hundred years, he had tried. And he had failed.

No mate meant no heir.

No mate meant night after night of anonymous sex as he searched for her.

No mate meant a dwindling in his powers that was not just devastating, but downright dangerous-for himself and his people.

His was a precarious state of events for any centuries-old dragon, but for him it was an out-and-out disaster-particularly considering the state his clan was in.

Not that an heir would solve all the problems, but it would solve the most pressing-including the fact that it had been far too many years since a young dragon had been born to Dragonstar.

Far too long since they’d had something to celebrate.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and for one brief second Dylan considered ignoring it. The day had been dismal enough-any more bad news and he might just take flight and never return. The idea was far more inviting than it should have been, far more compelling than it had ever been before.

In the end, he grabbed his phone and flipped it open. Barked “Hello” in a voice he knew was far from welcoming. He was king of the Dragonstar clan, and as such could never be unavailable to his people. That didn’t mean he had to like it-especially tonight.

“Dylan, come quick.”

A shot of uneasiness worked its way down his spine at the panic in his best friend’s-and second- in-command’s-voice. As a rule, nothing fazed Gabe.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Marta. She’s-” Gabe’s voice broke. “She’s sick.”

His stomach plummeted to his boots. “Are you sure?”

His brother-in-law’s voice was hoarse. “I’m sure. I tried to deny the symptoms, to ignore them, but that’s not possible anymore. I don’t think-” His voice broke again. “I don’t think she’s going to make it through this.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Dylan was already running, his boots echoing in the deserted street as he stripped his shirt from his body. He didn’t bother with the pants or boots; they would take too long. Just blurred his image as he started to shift.

Pain-red-hot and intense-as bones broke, reshaped, grew longer.

Pleasure-acute and all-consuming-as he became what he was meant to be.

He ignored both sensations; concentrated instead on making it through the change. One more second. Two. And then he was in the air, his wings spread wide as he soared through the star-bright sky.

Not Marta, not Marta, not Marta. The simple phrase was a mantra in his head as he sped toward his lieutenant’s house, making sure to stay invisible, despite the panic racing through him. So many of his friends, so many of his clan, had been taken from him in the last years. He couldn’t stand to lose his sister-Gabe’s wife-too.

Please, God, not his baby sister, too.

But when he landed in Gabe’s yard, he knew his prayers had, once again, gone unanswered. He could smell the blood from outside the house, could hear his sister’s nonsensical mutterings through the walls of dense stone.

Marta was bleeding out.

Delirious.

Probably already paralyzed.

If her illness followed the same pattern all the others had, she would be dead before the next moonrise. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Inside him, the power sputtered to life, surged through him. The need to heal, to fix, to do what he was destined to do. But he’d tried it so many times before on so many of his clan members, and each time, he had failed. This disease was an enemy he didn’t know how to fight.

Rage and anguish welled within him, crushing his lungs and twisting his spine into hard knots. Throwing back his head, Dylan roared with all his pent-up fury-then went inside to watch his baby sister die.

First of all, today is Memorial Day here in the USA.  I hope everyone celebrating has a good BBQ, safe travels, and a chance for a quiet moment of remembrance.

Currently working on: Almost release day!
Mood: Whee!

This week’s topic here at Silk And Shadows is “the hardest part of writing.”  But I’m hijacking the thread, because this is a celebration week for me.   Book 2 of the Marked Souls, FORGED OF SHADOWS, comes out tomorrow, June 1, 2010!

The war between good and evil has raged for millennia, with the Marked Souls caught in the middle, but the new girl doesn’t play by old rules…

Liam Niall never meant to be a leader. Barely surviving the horrors of the Irish Potato Famine with body and soul intact, he escaped to Chicago…where he lost half his soul and gained a wayward band of demon-possessed warriors. Now, as the talyan face a morphing evil, Liam grows weary and plagued by doubt-until a new weapon falls into his hands. Her name is Jilly Chan. To save her demon-ridden soul, Liam must win her to his battle…and his bed.

Waging a one-woman war against the threats to the street kids she mentors, Jilly won’t be any man’s woman or weapon. But Liam-with his hard eyes, soft brogue and compelling hands-is a danger to her rebellious independence…and her heart.

These two halved souls sharing one fierce passion will sear a fresh scar across the city. Who’s in danger now?

“[F]or readers who love J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood, the Marked Souls series will hit the spot.”
–4 Stars RT BOOKReviews

This is only my second book, but so far, it seems to me that release week  is one of the EASIEST parts of writing.  Because by the time release week rolls around, it’s too damn late.  Everything has been done.  The story is written, edited, wrapped in a manly chest — or backside, as the case may be — printed, and shipped to the stores (hopefully) to appear on shelves.  From thence to fall into book baskets everywhere (again, hopefully).

Sure, there are other things for me to do: Bite my nails, obsessively click refresh on the Amazon ranking page, self-medicate with chocolate syrup (I already ate all the cookie dough).  But the story itself is done.  All that remains is for someone, somewhere, to read it.

If YOU want to read some of it, you can:
Check out the first chapters here.
Or read the alternate beginning here.
Or even buy it.

This is the moment (okay, months) of truth for a story.  I’ve heard of writers who say they write for themselves, but I write to share.  The release of the book into the wild is my chance — finally! — to share.

I sincerely hope you like it.

To celebrate, I’m giving away a $25 bookstore gift card this week.  Just tell me which of the two beginnings to FORGED OF SHADOWS that I posted in the links above you like better, and you’ll be entered for a chance to win.  Tell a friend about this giveaway, and have the friend enter your name in her comment, and you’ll both be double entered for a chance to win.  Thanks for celebrating with me!

My process changes with every book I write. I’d love to announce I have found the best way to get a story onto paper, but sadly, it would be a lie. Novel writing is a great adventure. For now, my process looks something like this:

Flesh out my lead characters
My story ideas often come to me in the form of a character who pops into my mind and demands to tell his or her story. This person is fully formed, but I don’t know him or her very well, so I start by trying to understand what s/he wants, why she wants it, and what’s stopping her from getting it. In my stories, there’s typically two people standing between my hero and his goal–the villain and the heroine. I spend time fleshing them out, too, including what their goals are and why they want them.

Outline
Next, I look for the major events that can or will trigger my character to become the person he needs to be in order to succeed. I identify his plan for winning, and the villain’s plan for winning. I explore how my heroine’s individual goal interferes and causes problems for my lead. I give some thought to the worst things that could happen. I’m a big believer in “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”. Torture is an excellent tool for character-building, I’ve found. Then I toss all that stuff into the pot and mix well.

Research
Now that I have a rough idea what’s going to happen, I can have some fun. Oh, the hours that are lost here. I love researching, and can easily lose myself in the details—many of which are never used in the book. I don’t curtail this activity too much, though, unless I’m way off-base. Immersing myself in the details helps me slide into my characters’ world.

Write the first three to four chapters
Yes, this is pre-writing. At least, it is for me. No matter how much thought I put in before I start writing, I never truly get to know my characters—or truly understand their motivations—until I walk a mile in their shoes. I need to see them react to those nasty events I envisioned and interact with other characters. I need to test them.

Rethink
After I’ve written those first few chapters, I need to sit back and recalibrate. Do I really know what the hero wants? Do I really know what the heroine is willing to sacrifice to get what she wants? The answer is often NO. So, I head back to the drawing board. I don’t try to figure out everything–I like the mystery if discovering new things as I go along. My plan is simply to spot the big whoppers–the issues that could turn my story completely on it’s ear and result in endless wasted pages.

The best part of this process is peeling away the layers of the character that first showed up in my head. Discovering the complexities of that person, what makes them tick. It probably won’t surprise you to learn that I people-watch in real life, too. That couple at the next table? Are they on a first date or celebrating a fortieth anniversary? Sharing the events of an average day? Or sharing a burden that’s been dragging down their shoulders all day?

Anyone else out there a people-watcher who makes up stories about complete strangers?

Currently working on: Organizing a writing challenge for my Romance Writers of America chapter
Mood: Inspiring

Writing can be a lonely endeavor.  The stereotypical writer (okay, ME) spends a lot of time at her keyboard, mumbling to herself.  On rare occasions, she is booted — blinking mustily — into the sun to confront other people.  People like… readers.  Oh noes!  What to say?!  (This is especially terrifying to some writers — okay, ME — who will be attending in the next four months three booksignings, two conventions and a conference where there will be LOTS of readers to talk to — yikes!)

So we decided (barricaded safely behind the interwebz) that this week’s topic is “Questions we’d like to ask readers.”

And my question is “Does Liam have a great butt, or what?”

This is my second cover for the second book in The Marked Souls series.  And it was every bit as nail-gnawing exciting as waiting for the first cover.  Here’s the back cover blurb:

The war between good and evil has raged for millennia, with the Marked Souls caught in the middle, but the new girl doesn’t play by old rules…

 

Liam Niall never meant to be a leader.  Barely surviving the horrors of the Irish Potato Famine with body and soul intact, he escaped to Chicago…where he lost half his soul and gained a wayward band of demon-possessed warriors.  Now, as the talyan face a morphing evil, Liam grows weary and plagued by doubt.

 

Then a new weapon falls into his hands.  Her name is Jilly Chan.  To save his talyan and her demon-ridden soul, Liam must win her to his battle and his bed. 

 

Waging a one-woman war against the threats to the street kids she mentors, Jilly stands her ground against danger in all its guises.  She won’t be any man’s woman…or weapon.  But Liam—with his hard eyes, soft brogue and compelling hands—is a danger to her rebellious independence…and her heart.

 

These two halved souls sharing one fierce passion will sear a fresh scar across the city.  Who’s in danger now?

Book 1 had Archer’s chest.  Book 2 has Liam’s butt.  My goodness, what will Book 3 show?

That was a rhetorical question.  My real question to readers was going to be something along the lines of “How important is a great butt cover when you decide whether to pick up a book?”  But I decided that’s a dumb question (and yes, there are dumb questions) because OF COURSE a great cover is important.  Maybe not the deciding factor, but a beautiful, intriguing or shocking cover can inspire the hand to reach for it.

And most writers have zero control over the cover.  Actually, there’s a lot that the writer doesn’t have control over, like — for a completely random, not-desperately-whorish-at-all example, ahem – the importance of preording FORGED OF SHADOWS at major bookstores…

But I do have some alleged, nominal control over me, myself and I.  And I since I will have to inspire readers IN PERSON (did I mention terrifying?) my question to readers is this: 

“What do you want from authors in real life?  What makes a great author/reader interaction?”

Besides chocolate, I mean.

To sweeten the pot in a non-caloric way, I have a signed ARC (Advanced Reader Copy) of FORGED OF SHADOWS to give away.  It comes with a Pepto-pink cover similar to this font color, not Liam’s handsome butt, sorry.  Comment on any post this week for a chance to win.  Heck, comment on EVERY post this week for more chances!

And finally, a parting shot…

Today, Silk And Shadows welcomes Erica Ridley, whose debut TOO WICKED TO KISS has a dark hero to die for. 

Breaking News: Win an autographed copy of Gothic historical TOO WICKED TO KISS this week only, just by answering the daily kiss question on Twitter #2w2k or Facebook!

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Although release day for my debut Gothic romance is Tuesday, March 2, today I received a text from a friend who saw a stack of copies on the new release table at Borders (!!!) and sent me a photo with her iPhone. So exciting! Too Wicked To Kiss is also a Barnes & Noble book club pick for the month of March, and I’m hoping to get news of 2W2K sightings in those stores soon, too. I’m also getting ready for my first-ever signing next week, at a local independent bookstore. Definitely a scrapbook moment! But enough about me… let me introduce you to the book!

I absolutely love the cover. I think the art department did a spectacular job at evoking both Gothic darkness and sensual romance. The back cover reads:

HIS TOUCH HOLDS HER CAPTIVE…

From the ravens circling its spires to the gargoyles adorning its roof, Blackberry Manor looms ominously over its rambling grounds. And behind its doors, amid the flickering shadows and secret passageways, danger lies in wait.

TO HIS EVERY DARK DESIRE…

Evangeline Pemberton has been invited to a party at the sprawling estate of reclusive Gavin Lioncroft, who is rumored to have murdered his parents. Initially, Gavin’s towering presence and brusque manner instill fear in Evangeline…until his rakish features and seductive attentions profoundly arouse her. But when a guest is murdered, Evangeline is torn. Could the man to whom she is so powerfully drawn, also be a ruthless killer?

TOO WICKED TO KISS

I had absolutely zero to do with the creation of the back cover copy, which turns out to be a good thing, because I think the copywriter did an amazing job at evoking the Gothic tone and hinting at the hero’s darkness.

The heroine’s first impression of his mansion does not exactly go over well:

Despite the tall arched ceiling with its bowed wooden beams curving at the creases like so many rib bones, the air was thick, heavy, oppressive, as if she had not stepped into the foyer of an aristocrat’s mansion, but a long forgotten sepulcher untouched by anything but death.

Were there no windows? Evangeline craned her neck to peer upward, just beneath the rafters. Ah, yes. Several. But not the kind to let in light.

The narrow slashes high above her head were the sort suited for medieval castles, for skilled archers to aim their deadly arrows at those who would trespass below, not for illuminating entryways for members of Polite Society. This evening, no archers crouched at the ready, just as no sun hung in the sky. Only the slipperiest, blackest of shadows filtered through the thin cracks to fall upon her upturned face like the cool caress of ghostly hands. The wisps of damp hair on Evangeline’s neck fluttered nervously, touched by a breeze she could not feel.

Nor does her first impression of the man himself:

He stood at the landing above the spiral stair, cloaked in shadow. Tall. Unnaturally so. Was it the angle, the skewed perspective of being so far beneath him? Or was his towering stature undeniable, evident in the width of his shoulders, the muscular length of his legs, the long pale fingers curved around the banister?

Evangeline swallowed a gasp.

Not because of the obsidian eyes framed by equally black lashes. Nor because of the angry slash of cheekbones, the flash of bared teeth, or the scar just above the edge of his jaw. Those things, though separately terrible, together formed a face of cold, cruel beauty. A face for statues, for frescoes, for—

Another flutter of orange light as he reached the final stair, and Evangeline could no longer breathe.

He was angry. Horribly angry. Livid. Enraged. Furious. His eyes glittered like a wolf’s because he was a wolf, a beautiful, powerful, violent wolf, prowling toward his unsuspecting prey.

Miss Evangeline Pemberton has her own dark secrets to keep, some of which are linked to the psychic abilities she’s tried so hard to hide–which is hard to do when she’s bombarded by visions and debilitating migraines at the slightest skin-to-skin touch. Before he discovers her secrets, the hero has his own unsettling encounters with the heroine:

For several long moments, Gavin watched her, unnerved by how still she held herself, how statue-like she posed. Her body was as lifeless and beautiful as an ivory sarcophagus molded in her image.

She stood so quiet and unmoving he might well have been in a room with two dead bodies. The unwelcome sensation of watching a pair of corpses had his muscles twitching in trepidation.

Gavin shifted his weight, uncomfortable in his own skin, even less comfortable with the motionless woman a few feet before him. Her fingers no longer shook, so frozen did she stand. He could not hear her breathing, even in the unnatural silence of the dank chamber. Her breasts no longer rose and fell. Even the folds of her gown held no ripples, no motion, as if they too were carved of stone and impervious to both breeze and life.

These two have a lot to deal with, but don’t worry–there’s still plenty of time for romance! Here’s a snippet from just before their first kiss:

He coasted his open mouth just above her flushed cheek, his breath steaming against the curve of her cheekbone, the dip below her earlobe, the length of her exposed neck.

Her body writhed between the hard wall and the even harder man before her. A sudden urge to force his lips upon her thrummed in her veins, but her dimming sense of self-preservation cautioned her to flee while she was still able.

You can read the full kiss scene on my blog at:
http://www.ericaridley.com/blog/2010/02/excerpt-monday-illicit-kisses/

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Erica will be hanging out at the blog today, so please leave comments! And don’t forget to check out the kiss contest on Facebook or Twitter and win an autographed copy of Gothic historical TOO WICKED TO KISS!

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Currently working on: Just finished page proofs on FORGED OF SHADOWS, the last step before June 2010 publication
Mood: Good luck, little book!  Now get out

Doesn’t everyone remember the first romance novel they discovered?  Back in the day, I stumbled upon my mother’s copy of A ROSE IN WINTER by Kathleen Woodiwiss.  A charming rouge, a burned-out manor house, an auction-block marriage, a winter ball, and a Beauty and the Beast twist.  Oh my!  After reading that, I was ruined forever.  Kinda like your typical swooning historical ingenue.

I think the right first romance novel is very much like the right first kiss.  You want it to be special, deep and meaningful, a memory to cherish.  So, like a fairy godmother picking out a prince, I take a book recommendations very seriously, especially when I am recommending a first romance novel.

Romance novels already suffer from red-headed stepchild syndrome with some (silly!) people, but I love when I can win over a new reader.  I’m always discovering new great books that I just KNOW will turn on the most hard-hearted cynic, and I also have a few gold standards that I can fall back on.

Romantic comedy
I always like to start off easy on a new romance reader.  I find a contemporary romantic comedy can be a good beginner romance because:

• The contemporary settings are readily absorbed.  There are no Austenian social mannerisms to maneuver around, no “och, wee lass, do ye ken mah claymore yearns fer ye?” historical diction to decipher.
• Rom-com movies often pave the way in reluctant psyches.
• The fun covers sometimes don’t even give away that it IS a romance.

Anything by Jennifer Crusie is a great “starter” because her dazzlingly delightful dialogue will win over non-believers.  And it’s so convenient that she’s writing with Bob Mayer now, because you can even spring these books on unsuspecting male-type readers because — hey! — there’s a guy’s name on the cover!

Historical romance
For the slightly uptight, a good, corseted historical can help loosen them up.  The trick with “reading” a reader who might like a historical is figuring out whether they’ll sway toward a more correct historical interpretation or if a rollicking adventure would more tickle their fancy.

But as far as tickling goes, a spicy, saucy story like Delilah Marvelle’s are sure to please.  And by pleasure, I think we all understand what I mean

Of course, there are also category romances, romantic suspense, inspirationals, straight contemporary, women’s fiction (with a strong romance)…  And, of course, paranormal romance :)  But as you know, paranormal romance isn’t for the faint of heart.

Finding a first romance novel for the people around me isn’t just a job.  It’s a passion!

And how lucky I am to be able to indulge my love as a tax write-off

What’s the first romance novel you recommend to newbies?  Have you ever made a romance reader for life (or — in the case of paranormal romance – afterlife)?

Currently working on: Christmas madness, not to be confused with Christmas cheer
Mood: Cheerfully mad

Writers sometimes compare their books to babies.  People with actual babies may take offense because books don’t throw up on you.  But for the sake of analogy, writing a book and doing the baby thing are both creative endeavors with certain similarities: 

• Both take about nine months to finish.  (And often enough, starting a book isn’t something you plan either.)
• There’s a lot of crap at first.
• Eventually, you have to let go and set the book/baby free.
• Nobody ever tells you to your face that your baby is ugly.

I’m not sure why this is, because there are plenty of ugly babies in the world.  And some really awful book covers too.  But among all the many munchkins and manuscripts I’ve seen unleashed upon the unsuspecting public, I’ve never heard anybody tell the author, “Ooh, that’s unfortunate.”

Sure, entire websites are devoted to snarking on covers — and more than one water-cooler conversation has revolved around Junior’s elephantine ears — but the author/momma is never present.  Well, maybe there’s a good reason for this.  And I suspect the reason has less to do with compassion than selfish concern about the potential reaction of the hormonally unbalanced.  (And if you think an author at The End isn’t unbalanced, you should watch me stagger away from my computer after the last chapter marathon.)

But maybe I’m being cynical.  Maybe people don’t laugh aloud in front of the proud author/mama because:

• It’s just rude.
• The author/momma probably didn’t have any real say in what the book/baby looks like.  Sure, you can choose a reasonably attractive mate in the hope that genetic roulette will be weighted in your favor, but mostly it’s God — or as we call them in the technical world of publishing, the Cover Gods — who chooses.
• What really matters is what’s inside.

Honestly, I know I don’t have the emotional distance needed to make decisions about cover art.  For example, because SEDUCED BY SHADOWS is set in Chicago in November, I suggested that my hero, Archer, was smart enough to wear a hat and scarf against the cruel winds.

Yeah, that obviously was a stupid idea.

And I confess, I once bought a book simply because the guy on the cover was smokin’.  A good hero brings his own heat to the Chicago night

How about you?  Ever judged — and bought — a book by its cover?

…full of alpha males to conquer evil. At least, that’s the way it works in most paranormal romance series. I would have to say it’s true of my Soul Gatherer series—although, not all of the guys appear to be alphas to begin with. Some of them are masquerading as humorous sidekicks.

But let’s face it, to be worthy of a book of his own, the paranormal hero must be larger-than-life and the perfect match for our erstwhile heroine. He cannot be a milquetoast. He can’t talk his way out of trouble, at least not as standard operating procedure. The action can’t happen to him, he needs to step out to meet it, and bust his, uh, chops defeating the bad guy.

I know, I know. I like laid-back guys with a sense of humor, too. I really do. In fact, I started a story with one as the hero…

A back road in Derbyshire, 1467

“Stand and deliver!”

The coach rocked to a halt on the bumpy carriage trail. Inside, Ronald le Fou smiled reassuringly at his three female companions. “Fear not, ladies. ‘Tis only a midnight highwayman in search of a few pennies. I will see to the knave.”

He opened the door and leapt to the ground, brushing the wrinkles out of his travel-stained velvet jacket. Nodding to the frightened coachman, he walked to the front of the stranded carriage, smiling at the man who stood in the road, blocking their path.

“Look here, my good man. I’ve a purse full of silver deniers. Take them and be on your way.”

The shadowy figure draped head-to-toe in flowing black robes planted his boarhead staff in the mud. “I do not want your money. I’ve come for the girl.”

Ronald stared at the glistening drops of spittle that had landed on his jacket. “What girl?”

“The one known as the Lock.”

“The Lock? Don’t you mean the Key?”

“No, no. I have the Key. I need the Lock.”

“Is she a pretty blonde with skin like pearls and eyes like sapphires?” Ronald asked.

“No.”

“A brunette with a radiant inner beauty and eyes the color of a spring meadow?”

“No.” The mysterious stranger shook his staff and a lightning bolt hit a tree behind the carriage. The tree toppled to the ground with a resounding crash, blocking their exit and startling the horses. “The redhead, you fool. Everyone knows a woman with mystical qualities must be a redhead.”

Ronald frowned. “But the redhead is my sister.”

“Give her to me now, or face an eternity in a demon dimension.”

“Hmmm.” Ronald let his tongue glide over the fangs in his mouth. “Since I’m already a demon, I’m not sure that threat delivers the impact you were looking for.”

The dark mage stepped forward, a snarl of rage distorting his pox-scarred face. “Give her to me.”

“You know,” Ronald said pleasantly. “If I give her to you, she’ll just break free at your first soliloquy and summon her boyfriend—that rather annoying immortal crusader with the huge Celtic tattoo on his shoulders. He’ll cut off your head with his sword, and it will all end badly. Are you sure you don’t want the purse of silver deniers?”

Raising both arms, chanting in a heretofore-unheard-of language, the mage called down another bolt of lightning.

It struck Ronald smartly and fried him into a big pile of dust.

The mage then…

See the problem? Nice guys don’t finish last in paranormal romances—they don’t finish at all. All those other arrogant, rough-around-the-edges immortals wandering through the story haven’t got the patience to deal with them. At least, that’s my theory.

Got a different theory? Step right up with your staff and share it.

Don’t forget: Jocelynn Drake is giving away a complete collection of her books.  Comment through Thursday for a chance to win!

Currently working on: Google mapping a booksigning tour of Chicago
Mood: By the numbers

I read a funny rant about a imaginary series written around a group of Regency heroes, all friends – and all dukes, naturally — who despite being all alpha males somehow never suffered even a momentary burst of testosterone-induced aggression amongst themselves.  And while intellectually I thought, well, yes, there’d probably be friction in such a group, I also thought, heck, I’d totally read that.

I love the ‘band of brothers’ trope.  From Navy SEALs to vampiric cabals, I like when the manly heroes work together, support each other, yes, even love each other in a back-slapping sort of way.  In reality, of course, we know they’d go all LORD OF THE FLIES on one another and there’d be no sequels.

But for the sake of romance, I think having our heroes start with the training wheels of a bromance teaches them some important life lessons:

1. Girls make better roommates.
Nothing ultimately prepares a man for commitment to a woman like living with other men.  Sure, he’ll whine about the vast array of toiletries in the medicine cabinet and the lingerie hanging over the shower curtain rod, but he’ll choose that hands down over tightie-whities in the hall and his buddy using his toothbrush to augur out his Sig.

2. Girls make you grow a pair.
And I don’t just mean in a lustful way.  While he’s living with his bros, a man is always given unspoken permission to never get over the mental and emotional wounds that prevent him from becoming a Hero.  As Aristotle said of bromances (well, not really of bromances but of close friendships between men): ”It is those who desire the good of their friends for the friends’ sake that are most truly friends, because each loves the other for what he is, and not for any incidental quality.”  That translates among the band as a “don’t ask, don’t tell… about anything” policy which is, no doubt, quite comfortable for them.  And sadly limiting.  Not that the heroine would ever put up with that.

3. Girls smell nice.
It’s been noted before that heroes — particularly paranormal heroes — have preternaturally keen senses of smell when it comes to their women.  Doesn’t get mentioned so much when they’re talking about their brothers, which — considering the fragrance of a typical locker room — leads me to believe that living a bromance first improves tact and diplomacy.

Most of all though, life with his band of brothers teaches the hero:
4. Even lone wolves get lonely.

So who writes your favorite band of brothers stories?  I call JR Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood, although there’re enough of them to share even if I double up