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Me, trying to show you I’m excited. Scatter-Cat got in the way.
I’m pleased as punch to report you’ll be able to read the remaining two books in the Spy In The Ton series! Last week Entangled Historical Select bought both manuscripts. (Squeal!) You will soon find Maximilian and Vivienne’s story (Book #3) available on your e-reader of choice, and not long after that, Jones and Cat’s story (Book #4). Both books will also be available as print-on-demand, should that be your reading preference.
Seriously, my lovelies, I cannot wait to share them with you. Maximilian and Vivienne are very dear to my heart, and as I write Jones and Cat’s story (working on them now!) I’m falling in love with Jones all over again and getting to know Cat.
You can meet Vivienne, Maximilian and Jones in IN BED WITH A SPY, and you might be seeing Julian, Grace and Lilias again as well, so do be sure to reread THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK for a little brush up on their history.
I’ll post more on release dates as soon as I know. In the meantime, be happy, laugh much and read well!
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He went looking for a traitor. He found a wife.
After he is betrayed by one of his own, British spy Julian Travers, Earl of Langford, refuses to retire without a fight, vowing to find the traitor. But when the trail leads to his childhood home, Julian is forced to return to a place he swore he’d never see again, and meet a woman who may be his quarry—in more ways than one.
Though she may appear a poor young woman dependent on charity, Grace Hannah’s private life is far more interesting. By night, she finds friendship and freedom as a member of a smuggling ring. But when the handsome Julian arrives, she finds her façade slipping, and she is soon compromised, as well as intrigued.
As she and Julian continue the hunt, Grace finds herself falling in love with the man behind the spy. Yet Julian’s past holds a dark secret. And when he must make a choice between love and espionage, that secret may tear them apart.
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Revenge has never been so seductive.
When her husband is killed at Waterloo, Lilias Fairchild takes up his cavalry sword and boldly storms the front, earning herself the nickname Angel of Vengeance. But there is another angel on the battlefield who is just as single-minded, and just as ruthless…
Alistair Whitmore, the Marquess of Angelstone, is a British spy. Code name: Angel. Still haunted by a first love felled by assassins, his mission draws him to Waterloo, where he is captivated by a beautiful and mysterious woman fighting amongst the men—a woman who becomes his most intoxicating memory of war.
Passion has never been so dangerous.
Two years later, Lilias and Angelstone lock eyes in a crowded ballroom and the memory returns in an exhilarating rush. The history they share, and hide from the world, is as impossible to ignore as the heat of their attraction. But it’s that very connection that spells doom for their scandalous affair. When someone from the shadows of their past proves a dire threat to their lives, passion might not be enough to save them.
I would like to make a “speech”, a little late because I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say. But it is no less heartfelt for it.
A few weekends ago I attended the Mid-Michigan Romance Writers of America Chapter’s annual Retreat From Harsh Reality. It’s a weekend of writing, camaraderie, learning and fun. Every year, the members nominate one person who has gone above and beyond in their service to the Chapter.
This year, it was me.
Thank you for the Angel Award. I’m humbled, honored and so very happy to receive it and be among the Angels.
MMRWA has meant so much to me over these last nine years. I wouldn’t be who I am without it—and that’s a writer. I’d always wanted to write and the biggest step—the biggest hurdle—was acknowledging to someone other than my husband that it was my dream. It was one of those things I kept close to my heart because I was afraid if I said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real, then I had to do something about it.
But I finally couldn’t NOT be a writer. So I joined MMRWA. I came to a meeting, terrified I’d be thrown out because I didn’t know what I was doing.
Please note, I still don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just better at faking it.
But I found my people that day. And they were warm, kind, and didn’t throw me out. In fact, the first meeting I went to was a critique. Margo Hoornstra’s advice that day still rings in my mind every time I start a book. Sometimes you have to write some pages just to get into the character’s head, and then the story can start. That’s close to verbatim, though it’s been nine years since she said it.
Before MMRWA I thought I was slightly crazy to hear voices in my head. When I discovered other people did too—and they weren’t the crazy schizophrenic kind of voices—I finally felt normal. Writers have stories to tell and people to tell them about. Sometimes it’s the plot that sings, and sometimes the characters. Either way, I discovered I was not alone in wanting to tell stories.
In the end, I found a group of women who love romance. Who love the adventure of writing. Who love the crazy of writing. And they let me in. Or, you know, maybe I pushed my way in. Because I’m me, and I’m loud, I laugh a lot and I have much to say.
So I started to love the organization. And then I volunteered for a committee. And then I was a newsletter editor. Then I started being more involved. Then more. And suddenly I was President. (Who the hell voted for this idiot, anyway?!?!?)
And then I sold. It was thrilling and wonderful and amazing, and the ladies of MMRWA celebrated with me. I entered the wild and woolly world of publishing. I was editing, writing a new book, holding down a family, a full-time job, a Presidency, a deadline, setting up my website, joining another local writing group. I couldn’t tell when I was coming and when I was going.
MMRWA was always a safe haven. A place where women understood.
That cannot be measured with any cup or bowl or device we humans have developed. Friendship and encouragement simply are. Without boundaries. Oh, I’m sure I’m annoying as all hell when I really get going. But they never kicked me out.
For that, I will always be grateful.
But they did one more thing. They gave me an Angel Award. Members nominated me. Previous Angels approved it.
I don’t work for the Chapter for recognition. I do it because I love it. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it takes time away from writing. But I wouldn’t be a writer without the ladies of MMRWA. So this is my way to give back to a group that gave to me.
I did not give MMRWA an Angel.
I have been gifted with Angels.
To start, a little bit about the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award: the RITA® is the annual contest for published romance authors. There are finalists in a number of sub-genres, such as contemporary romance and historical romance. One finalist from each category will win a RITA® Award (a pretty, golden statue named after the founder and first RWA® President, Rita Clay Estrada.)
Now, aside from the romance sub-genres, there is one very special category called Best First Book. An author can only final in this category once in a lifetime–after all, you only have one “first book.” I’m excited, thrilled, and terrifyingly nervous to say that my first book, THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK, has been nominated for Best First Book!
Even better, seven of the Best First Book Finalists are teaming up to bring you seven weeks of giveaways, culminating in one big basket o’ books giveaway! Each Friday between now and the RWA® Conference in July when the RITA® winner is announced, we will be sharing a “First” with you, spotlighting one of the finalists, and giving away a book. Last week, Sonali Dev unveiled our First Romance Crushes. This week, we’re featuring excerpts of our “Favorite Firsts” in our Best First Books.
This week, I’ll be giving away a copy of THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK to one random commenter! The winner will be chosen next Thursday, winner’s choice of ebook or print, must be 18 years or older to enter. Comment below to enter, and check out our Favorite Firsts.
And be sure to scroll down and enter the Rafflecopter giveaway for a huge basket o’ books!
RUN TO YOU Book One
Clara Kensie: This is the first time the heroine, Tessa, goes running with the hero, Tristan. And it’s the first time she admits to herself that she likes being with him. (Note: Tessa and her family are in hiding and living under an alias, so Tristan believes her name is Sarah).
“Ready to run, Sarah?” Tristan asked.
I was always ready to run. I darted off, for a moment considering running home rather than down the path. But… a small part of me wanted to run with him. Just this once. So I turned on to the path and ran alongside him. I could do this. Tristan and I were jogging together, that’s all. Not even that—we were jogging next to each other. Despite what my siblings were trying to do, Tristan would never be my friend.
But I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking glances up at him. Every so often I caught him peeking down at me too, and instead of running on concrete, I might as well have been soaring through the clouds.
TO SCOTLAND WITH LOVE
Patience Griffin: This is the first glimpse of the kind of grandmother poor Cait must live with.
What kind of granddaughter waits until the last second to let her gran know she’s coming? A stupid one? But dang it, Deydie wasn’t your typical gran. Cait loved her but the old gal had issues. Crabby, in-your-face issues. During their last phone call, her gran made it perfectly clear what she thought of Cait: a chip off the old block—specifically, her father’s worthless, good-for-nothing block. Cait knew there’d be hell to pay. She’d never given Deydie a good reason for staying away so long. But what could she have said? I can’t leave town because my husband screws around at every opportunity? Or, I lost myself along the way and did everything the cheating bastard told me to do? How ridiculous Cait felt. Especially now.
MIND SWEEPER
A.E. Jones: The joke in the first line is the reason why the entire book was born.
An angel, a demon, and a vampire walked into a bar. No seriously, they did. And all hell broke loose. Then I got called in, or rather the team got called in, to handle supernatural damage control. My job was to manipulate people’s memories. Don’t ask me how. I was born with it, and, like someone born with double joints or the ability to flip their eyelids inside out, I just do it and hopefully not freak out too many people in the process.
On this particular night, I was destined to spend the evening in a bar with no chance of getting lucky. Dead bodies tended to put a damper on romance.
PURELY PROFESSIONAL
Elia Winters: This is the first time my main character, Bridget, realizes that her next door neighbor Max isn’t all that he seems. Specifically, her friend Helen has set her up with a source to interview for an upcoming article about BDSM. This is where Bridget realizes that her source is Max, the next door neighbor she’s been lusting after for months.
How did one recognize the top of a head? But she’d know those dark waves anywhere. He looked up from his book. She spotted the bright blue eyes and the corduroy jacket simultaneously, and her mouth dropped open in stupid shock at the same moment Max gave her his familiar crooked smile.
It wasn’t until a woman pushed past her that Bridget finally noticed she was still standing in the doorway. She moved forward, more so she wouldn’t look like an idiot than out of any desire to approach, and finally stood opposite her next-door neighbor.
“I suppose this isn’t just a coincidence.” Bridget gestured to his corduroy jacket.
“Afraid not.” Max’s eyes twinkled.
“I need some coffee.” Damn, if only Starbucks sold vodka shots.
“It sure seems like you do. I’ll be here.”
Bridget ordered a grande Frappuccino, ignoring the millions of calories, and willed herself not to look back at the far corner where Max was sitting. She knew he was watching her, could feel his gaze against her skin as easily as she could have felt his hands, and swallowed through a suddenly dry mouth.
The Starbucks baristas took a long time making her drink, but not nearly long enough for her to recover her composure.
“Nice choice.” Max admired her whipped-cream covered concoction when she returned to the table at last. He had set his book aside and folded his hands neatly in front of him. “I must say, you seem a little surprised to see me here.”
“Surprised? Of course I’m surprised!” Her bag dropped to the floor with a thud as she sat down opposite him, trying to put all the pieces together. She pressed a hand to her forehead, her mind spinning. “Helen never told me she knew you…” Bridget said, thinking but not saying the last half of that sentence: …all those times I talked about how hot you were. Now Helen’s smirking made sense.
A BOLLYWOOD AFFAIR
Sonali Dev: This is the first time Samir and Mili dance with each other.
“Is this comfortable?” he asked against her ear.
She nodded and looked down at their feet. Her size-four-and-a-half feet on his boat feet.
“Now what do we do?” She leaned back and looked up at him.
“We don’t lean back like that”—he tucked her head against his chest—“or we fall over.” His chin rested on her head.
“And then?”
“Then we listen to the music.” He moved in time to the music, little bobs and sways. “We let the music pour into us.” His feet lifted a little higher, moved back and forth, taking her with him. “We let the rhythm move us.” He spun with her in his arms, little twists. Two this way, one that way. Two steps forward, two steps back.
It was the most amazing feeling. His shoulders, his hips, his arms, all of him carried all of her, his movements so subtle it was as if they weren’t moving at all, at least not on the outside. On the inside they were each move, each beat, each vibration.
THE DRESS THIEF
Natalie Meg Evans: Parisian couturier Javier, a demanding perfectionist, has asked his seamstress, Alix Gower, to model his exhibition dress, a golden gown called ‘Oro.’ Alix has helped to sew it. Now, for the first time, she feels its silken weight against her skin . . .
Twenty minutes later, Alix looked at herself in a long mirror and her eyes widened. Another woman had taken her place. She felt two inches taller. Oro showed the curve of her shoulder, and her dresser, by pinning up her hair, had made her neck seem almost swanlike. Nelly, one of the other mannequins, painted her face, giving her theatrical eyebrows and a crimson mouth. ‘Let’s do eyes like Bette Davis,’ Nelly said, holding a saucer over a candle flame. Smoky carbon appeared, which she mixed with baby oil and shadowed into the creases of Alix’s eyes. ‘There. Smouldering.’
‘Oro pleases you?’ Javier asked when Alix appeared in the salon. He had decorated the dress’s silk dupion flounces with gold vermicelli, which gave it a light-reflecting magnificence.
‘I feel like the Empress Eugénie.’
‘Move then, twirl. Let’s see that skirt dance.’ Javier snapped his fingers for black evening gloves. Alix had to wear gloves because her fingernails were too short.
‘Let them grow and don’t bite them, petite.’
She posed in profile on the stage in the main salon, where other women’s perfume hung in the air. Javier made her sit on the top step, her elbows bent, her hands raised in an attitude. An assistant arranged the golden skirts. The lights were lowered, and the photographer asked her to stay absolutely still.
Two hours later, Javier was satisfied and she was allowed to go away and change.
THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK
Alyssa Alexander: This is the first time Julian sees Grace actually fire her pistol, though she has carried it with her through their entire courtship and marriage.
A smuggler ran straight at him, only feet away, dagger poised to strike. Julian gathered himself to pivot.
It would be too late. He knew it with every ounce of his instinct, every moment of training. Fate had finally caught him. Only one thought came to mind.
Grace.
A primitive torrent of need and fear flooded him, even as he braced for death.
A shot rang out.
The smuggler fell with an agonized scream. As if in a dream, Julian saw the dagger flash in the moonlight as it dropped to the ground.
Julian jerked his head up and scanned the beach—and his blood froze.
Grace kneeled on the shingle, her pistol braced on her forearm. Smoke curled from the weapon. It still pointed at the smuggler now dead at Julian’s feet.
The world seemed to stop spinning. It went silent and black, the smugglers disappearing from his consciousness so that all he could see was her, with her eyes as silver as the moon that shone down and gilded her hair.
Hello Dear Readers!
You may have noticed that my website has been a bit sparse in the past few months. That would be because I broke it back in February. Yes, I broke it, through my own idiocy and lack of tech skills. All of my blog posts and content disappeared, and Mr. Alexander had to perform a few rescue maneuvers. But it’s all (mostly) back up and running now.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t reload my blog posts. They have been lost in the ether, I’m afraid. So I shall be starting this blog from scratch today, with some fun facts and news:
1. I like bacon. If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter already, you probably know this.
2. I love to cook, truly love it. However, my success rate is about 60/40, though as my skills have improved (I made spring rolls! and sushi!), the rate is probably closer to 80/20. Still, Mr. Alexander is grateful there is a pizza joint across the street from our house.
3. THE SMUGGLER WORE SILK, the very first book baby I ever had, is nominated for Best First Book in the 2015 RITA contest! I cannot tell you how shocked, awed, grateful and generally hyperventilating I was when I received that call! Just call me Kermit and pretend you didn’t see me flail!
4. I love yoga, though I don’t get to practice nearly as often as I like. I also like running. I’m not sure why, because I spend much of my run thinking I’m about to die. But I do it anyway!
5. I have three furbabies. They are by turns a joy and a pain in the you-know-what. The oldest, Grumpy Puck, is currently having anxiety issues and is licking off her hair. Poor thing is half bald. Scatter-Cat, a silver kitty just over a year old, eats tin foil and uproots every plant in my house. She also likes to play in the shower. Strange, that one. Last is Ajax, who is just under a year old. He’s skittish, which makes him hilarious to watch. His own tail makes him jump!
So, there you go. A little bit about me that you can’t find in the official bio. I hope you’ll all come visit me on Facebook and Twitter!