DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR - Simple Gifts

We interrupt the codas (we'll resume on Monday) to bring you a holiday giveaway. LB Gregg and I thought we would get together and gift a few of copies of Simple Gifts and The Dickens With Love audio books. There's nothing nicer than listening to an audio book as you labor long over those holiday chores. :-)

We're each giving away 5 copies, and all you have to do to be eligible for the giveaway is read the excerpts and comment on both blogs.

Pretty simple, right?

So without further adieu, an excerpt from one of my very favorite LB Gregg stories, Simple Gifts.

BLURB:

A former ward of the state, Jason Ferris is fiercely protective of his carefully guarded private life. When he's felled by a rogue lawn ornament at a Christmas party, Jason finds himself in the care of his first and most devastating love-- dark, dangerous, and equally damaged Lt. Robb Sharpe.

 

Newly returned from years away in the military, Robb's homecoming isn't exactly the stuff of fairytales. Now thrust together after a ten year hiatus, Jason and Robb discover that perhaps some things are worth waiting for.

EXCERPT:

 

“Jason? Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Quick question. Do you like astronomy?”

“What?” Robb closed the distance between us and I caught a whiff of spice, pine, and wool. He smelled like a lumberjack, not a soldier. He’d left his parka down in the bar, and his sweater sleeves were pushed to his elbows, his shirt collar lay open, and the sight of his pale Adam’s apple had me biting my lip.

His finger brushed the back of my hand and I fumbled the key. Sick or nervous or not, the fleeting contact snapped across my skin like an electrical shock. His touch thrilled me.

“Jase?”

I stared at his fingertips, familiar yet strange, and the air between us shrank until I couldn’t breathe to speak. Honestly, with a single stroke, he robbed me of thought.

I pulled away, but he said, “Hey. It’s okay,” in a disturbingly husky voice that I recalled too well. He took the key from my palm and I almost fell down the goddamn steps. I wanted to bolt — living up to his expectations — but he grabbed my borrowed shirt in his fist and my heart fluttered against his knuckles. His breath warmed my cheek. “Steady.”

Mother. Fucker.

A smile hid inside the rough tones of his broken voice and the sound eased my troubled mind while stimulating other less troubled areas. I knew that voice. I’d heard it before — in the dark of night, in the back seat, under the stars, in the boathouse, in his bedroom, behind the bleachers. And I’d hear him say steady again in the dark tonight, as I lay alone in my cold bed.

And, bang, I knew why he wanted to see me. He still wants me. He hasn’t let go, either. He came to see me.

I would have stumbled a second time, but Robb had me. Jesus, he had me good. “You need to lay down.”

I really, really did, but I could not for the life of me move to unlock my own front door.

“You good?”

“Yup. Fine.” I squeaked and he let me go. Robb fit the key into the lock and I stifled a groan.

What the hell kind of drugs had they given me at that hospital? I swear I’m tripping.

The sound of my apartment door swinging free sobered me. “No, wait! My cat—”

In a flash, Norm vanished into the stairwell, but that was the least of my worries.

“What the hell...?” Robb blocked the doorway. “Holy crow. Are those stars?”

I froze at the threshold of my home, not that Robb noticed. He wandered in, face tipped heavenward to better see the strange beauty of my apartment’s contrived night sky. Above his head paper starlight shimmered down from a black-lit galaxy. Orion, Sagittarius, Ursa Major, Canis Minor, Scorpius, Gemini — the constellations hung in painstaking precision, glowing on purple pinpricks, lighting the darkness.

Accurate and overly detailed, I’d crafted every star, made each scrap of paper and creased every fold. The project had taken years but, Voilà, origami universe.

Robb wandered, and the stars led him through the apartment, straight toward my bedroom as if they guided a wayward captain home after years at sea.

I shook that idiocy from my head and on leaden feet I trailed after my overnight guest. Hot blood colored my cheeks. “I know my apartment is a little odd.”

“No.” He turned to look at me and I banged into his chest. “Did you make all of these?”

“Well, yeah. Who else?”

“I swear, the sky looks exactly like this in the desert. Clear and wide and the stars go on forever. Only not as colorful, or so close.” He tapped a tiny pointed star and it spun on a delicate silver thread. “This one was done in pieces, right? How the hell did you make them so small?”

“Practice.” I left him marveling over my freakish masterpiece and flipped the bedroom light switch. There were a couple pair of jeans on the floor, and the simple maple bed lay unmade, but otherwise, a portion of the Milky Way flowed from my window, over the bed, and disappeared in the closet. Pretty much business as usual.

Robb followed me, nosing into my private life with ease. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“I thought you remembered everything?” I wouldn’t bore him with a retelling, but the only real memory I had, before I became a ward of this fine state of Connecticut, was making my first paper crane when I was maybe four or five. We were in a bus station, my mother and I. We’d gone inside to keep warm and to pass the time, and she showed me how to crease those tricky paper folds. I could still see her blonde hair falling across my cold fingers as she worked. Make a wish, Jason baby.

***

Comment below and then pop over to LB's and comment there!

Character Interview #1 - Jeff and Austin from A VINTAGE AFFAIR

I see them walk into the Magnolia Room, the bar at the Stonewall Jackson Inn where they first really started to get to know each other. Austin is talking, Jeff is listening, smiling faintly, his gaze taking in the nearly empty room. He spots me, touches Austin’s elbow. Austin breaks off what he was saying, looking a little wary.

 

For some reason I always think of Austin as blond, but it’s Jeff who is blond. Austin has dark hair and the boyishly pouty, unthreateningly exotic looks you’d expect of a Calvin Klein underwear model – though he’s not remotely the pouty type and his modeling days are long behind him. Jeff has a more straightforward handsomeness. Those all American good looks that effectively sell so many pick up trucks and pairs of Levis.

 

“Red or white?” Jeff asks and Austin shakes his head, amused.

 

“Surprise me.”

 

Jeff goes to the bar and Austin comes over to the table to greet me.  We get the preliminaries out of the way, and I ask, “Does he often?”

 

Austin is still smiling, still wary. “Does he what?”

 

“Surprise you?”

 

He relaxes a fraction. “Yes. As a matter of fact, he does.” The look he throws Jeff, now busily charming the lady bartender, is affectionate.

 

“So how are things going? Where are you living now?”

 

Austin tunes back in. “We’ve been doing the long distance thing, but as of last weekend…” he expels a long breath, “we’re homeowners. We bought a house in Buckhead.” His smile is happy, even content.

 

“So you’re relocating to Georgia?” I admit that’s a surprise. I thought it was more likely they’d move north.

 

“It’s easier for me to relocate than Jeff. He’s got contacts here, both in law enforcement and the community. It would take him years to build that network up again. Whereas I can work from home a lot of the time.” He shrugs.

 

“But you’re not living in Madison?”

 

“No.” There’s a pause before he adds, “Buckhead gives us both a little breathing room.”

 

Jeff rejoins us. He sets a glass of white wine in front of Austin. “Muscadine Supreme. From Georgia Winery.”

 

Austin makes a hm sound and gently swirls the wine to release the bouquet. We watch as he sniffs the glass thoughtfully. He hms again and Jeff smiles faintly, tolerantly. He’s drinking beer which he raises toward me in greeting.

 

We wait as Austin tilts the wine glass and checks the color. Finally he takes a sip. He considers.

 

“So you’re still in the PI business, Jeff?” I ask as Austin takes his iPhone out and makes notes.

 

Jeff nods.

 

“How’s that pay?”

 

“Enough.”

 

Of course, they’re not hurting for money. Austin inherited a bundle when Harrison passed away.

 

“Have you solved any more mysteries?”

 

Jeff says briefly, “Every day.” Austin looks up at that he and Jeff exchange funny little half-smiles. Private smiles.

 

“What are you doing now, Austin?”

 

Austin’s face gets that closed look again. Guarded. “Writing mostly. Exploring the possibilities.”

 

“Like?”

 

“He’s had a lot of offers,” Jeff says. “Anybody’d be lucky to have him.”

 

Austin grimaces.

 

“I think he ought to open his own winery,” Jeff says.

 

“It’s not that easy, Jeff. It’s not just about money or even land.”

 

“You could do it.”

 

Austin is shaking his head.

 

“How’s Ernest?” I ask, since that seems like a safe topic.

 

Jeff chokes on his beer. Austin bites his lip and tries not to laugh. He answers, “Ernest is  building a rocket.”

 

“His second rocket,” Jeff says. “The first one blew up.”

 

“Do you see much of him?”

 

Austin says, “He’s at school right now. But I try to see him every couple of weekends.”

 

“What does Ernest think of Jeff?”

 

Jeff says gravely, imitating Ernest’s adult-sounding tone, “An interesting specimen, Austin.”

 

Austin laughs. “He didn’t say that. Not exactly.”                                          

 

When Jeff chuckles, his eyes crinkle. He drinks his beer and doesn’t bother to argue. 

 

“What do the assorted and various stepmothers thinks of you two getting together?”

 

“Assorted and various things,” Jeff drawls.

 

Austin smiles faintly, watching him.

 

“Do you ever see the Cashels?”

 

“Naw,” says Jeff.

 

“I met Cormac for lunch when he came to New York to meet his publisher.”

 

“That was your good deed for the year,” Jeff responds.

 

“He’s okay.” Austin shrugs dismissingly.

 

I say, “You know, a lot of readers thought you two wouldn’t last.”

 

“Us?” Austin seems genuinely startled.

 

Jeff’s mouth twists, but he doesn’t say anything. He seems more interested in Austin’s response. 

 

“What’s been the biggest challenge for you?”

 

Austin’s brows draw together as he considers. Jeff answers that one. “Trying to make it work long distance. Plus Austin travels a lot. This winter he was backpacking for a month in South America. I think I heard from him a total of three times. I had no idea if he was alive or dead.”

 

Austin makes a pained face. “You’d probably hear if I was dead.”

 

“That makes me feel a whole helluva lot better.”

 

I interrupt, “What’s the most fun about being together?”

 

“All of it,” Austin says.  

Jeff meets his direct gaze unhesitatingly. “Yeah, no matter how much time we spend together, it’s not enough. So we’re buying this house onChatham Road.” 

 

“Chinese wallpaper in the dining room,” Austin says. Apparently that’s a good thing.

 

“What do you fight about?”

 

“Chinese wallpaper?” Jeff suggests.

 

 “We don’t really fight,” Austin says.

 

Jeff states, “We disagree over Austin’s notion that it’s okay to veer from his itinerary without letting anyone know, and that it doesn’t matter if he forgets to check in for a week.”

 

Austin expels a long breath but doesn’t argue. They’ve been over this ground once or twice. He says, “Nobody has ever shot at me when I’m working.”

 

Jeff opens his mouth. I interrupt, “What have you each learned from the other?”

 

Austin says, “To phone home regularly.”

 

Jeff laughs. He says, “That the right person makes a difference.”

 

“To what?”

 

“To everything.”

 

“He means sex.” Austin is teasing Jeff. Jeff looks mildly uncomfortable, but that’s not the surprise. The surprise is that Austin is so relaxed that he can joke about something that was surely painful to remember at one time.

 

Jeff says almost stubbornly, “I mean everything.”

 

Their gazes hold briefly. Austin inclines his head as though acknowledging a point.

 

“What do you laugh about?”

 

Jeff says confidentially, “Well, when Austin gets excited he has this little trick—”

 

“Jeff.”

 

Jeff laughs.

 

“Bastard,” Austin says without heat. Jeff is still laughing, and after a moment Austin joins in.

 

Which answers that question – and probably all the rest of them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do You Need an Agent?

I was reading an article on Sterling Lord's Lord of Publishing: A Memoir. Lord, of course is that Sterling Lord. The legendary literary agent. Lord was discussing how the industry has changed and how literary representation has changed. He was...not scathing exactly, but when he started out in publishing, it wasn't the numbers-driven industry it is now. So obviously there has been a shift or two since the old days, and agenting is one of the things that has shifted the most. There just isn't a more endangered animal in publishing than the literary agent. But it's still too early to say how this is all going to shake out. Agents seem to be reinventing themselves, some of them taking on roles of managers and publicists and editors. Evolution, I guess.

Anyway, there’s been a fair bit of discussion in our genre lately on this topic. So I thought, as someone who has done it both ways (er, that would be publishing) I’d offer my ten cents on the question.

 

Do you need an agent? Short answer? If you’re writing m/m fiction, probably not. Not just yet, anyway.

 

Long answer? See below.

 

Basically you need an agent for two reasons that remain unchanging. To open doors that are otherwise closed to you. And to negotiate better, smarter deals than you could get on your own.

 

Actually, you can add a third very good reason for partnering up with an agent: The agent sees the big picture and has a plan for how to help you reach your career goals. I don't think Sterling Lord and his ilk did a lot of career planning back in the day, so that's a newer development.

 

Reasons NOT to get an agent: the agent is opening her own publishing house and/or you think having an agent gives you credibility and clout.

 

 An agent starting up her own publishing business is an agent who sees the writing on the wall. Most money in publishing is not made by authors – nor, especially now – agents. On one level it makes sense for an agent to open a publishing house. Heck, everyone else is doing it, and at least plenty of agents have worked in publishing houses and have practical ideas of how publishing operates. Also, often agents can see the commercial possibilities of a work that they just can’t sell to a publishing house. So the agent will publish the promising but unsaleable book and both author and agent will profit.

 

I’m not saying this is always a bad plan, I’m saying there is a potential and dangerous conflict of interest, which may or may not come into play.

 

As for the clout and credibility… Even seven years ago, that was still true. Now? Now it depends on the particular agent – and the particular doors he can open for you. You do not need an agent who can get you a contract with Dreamspinner Press. An agent who can sell your male-male romance to HQN. Yeah. That’s probably the agent you want.

 

So let’s consider good reasons to get an agent even if you are just planning to write male- male romance for the rest of your career.

 

Opening doors that are otherwise closed to you. Let’s say that hithertofore you’ve been publishing with Schnooky-Nooky Press and you’re hoping, for starters, to break into one of the bigger epubs. You figure if your submission is agented, you’ll get a closer read. Maybe even a priority read. This is quite possible. Having an agent means someone besides you is willing to invest in your career, and that does count for something. Plus, your agent may have already done a lot of the ground work by asking for revisions and edits on your manuscript before she ever agreed to take it on. That could be very helpful to you, again, depending on the agent.

 

Or this scenario. You’re hoping to move up the publishing food chain and maybe place your work with a major player publisher. Unless we’re talking Harlequin and a few other romance publishers, yes, you absolutely need an agent. No question. The catch here is that agents operate – as so much of publishing does – based on relationships. Access to HarperCollins does not occur simply by virtue of being an agent.  You really want to look at who your prospective agent represents -- and where he’s selling their work.

 

To negotiate better, smarter deals than you could get on your own. Lest it sound like I am anti-agent, I am grateful at least once a month for the negotiating my own agent did on my behalf with legacy publishers. Thanks to my agent (and only to my agent -- because none of this would have occurred to me at that time) I still own my audio rights and – more importantly – my work is not being held forever by a publisher who has successfully argued in other cases that, even though ebooks barely existed at the time I signed contracts, putting a book into POD or digital form = still in print.

 

Thank you, Agent Lady, wherever you are. You saved me from making costly and painful mistakes. Not that I would have had the opportunity to make those mistakes since I wouldn’t have got my foot in those doors without your help. So thank you again.

 

That said, it’s hard to go too wrong in epublishing provided you exert a little commonsense. Oh, and watch and listen to what’s going on with authors around you. If you’ve got long range writing career plans, you need to educate yourself in your field, and that includes having a basic grasp of the rights you should not blithely hand over.

 

And even if you do sign a not-so-favorable contract (as I have done a couple of times since I swanned out on my own) the ramifications don’t tend to be lasting. It’s an ill wind that blows no good, and I can say that (in this particular genre) even contracts that I regretted, have almost always, in the end, worked in my favor. Or at least not done me any serious and lasting harm.

 

Could an agent keep you from signing a bad contract? Yes. Absolutely. So could a lawyer. You could always consider joining the Author’s Guild, which provides free legal advice for members.

 

Can an agent get you a better deal when most of the epubs and indies we deal with are working from boiler plate contracts? Maybe. Probably? It depends on how you define (and price) “better.” Are more author copies or shaving a year off a lengthy contract worth $23,000. to you?  It’s not a rhetorical question. If you’re earning 100K+ thanks to the efforts of your agent, yes, I would think that was worth it to you. 

 

The agent sees the big picture and has a plan for how to help you get to your career goals. Now and again I hear authors saying things like why should an agent get 15% of my hard work? The theory is an agent is worth every penny of her commission because you’re earning more than you would earn without her. That’s the idea. The idea is that the agent brings opportunity and possibility to the table. But opportunity and possibility aren’t solely about the editors she has lunch with. An agent’s success also has to do with how educated and knowledgeable she is about the industry in general – and her understanding of the best way to apply that know-how to your particular situation.  Agents stay relevant and indispensable in the new publishing climate when they are as invested in your success as you are. You don’t want an agent who is essentially running an author mill and relying on volume to stay afloat. You want someone helping you make the right decisions. Both in the short term and for the long term.  You want someone with an eye on the future – maybe even with a theory of what the future is going to look like for both of you.

 

So…do you need an agent? The answer to that question is dependent on two things. Where you are in your career right now, and where you want to be in five years. You have to be honest in your assessment. As far as where you are right now—usually the answer is not where I want to be. As for what you want in the future? Do you want complete artistic control of your work? You don’t need an agent. Do you want to earn a lot of money from publishing your stories? Again, you don’t need an agent. Do you want access to mainstream publishers as they slowly, creakily open the doors to male-male romance? If you hope to take your career mainstream, then yes, you probably will need an agent.

 

Just remember that “writing mainstream” is about more than having an agent represent you to big publishers. Nor does writing mainstream guarantee success – depending on how you define “success.” A definition you need to give thought to.

 

That, however, is a topic for another day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so it begins...

Vote here. Vote now.

Confessions of a Small Business Owner

It's surprising to me, though it really shouldn't be, how much time I'm spending on the business -- the busyness -- of writing even though I'm not writing.

I think that's maybe one of the hardest jumps for writers to make -- even writers who hope and plan to make money at their writing one day. It's hard to move from thinking of yourself as a creative person -- an artist -- and start thinking of yourself as a business. Not that you're not still an artist just because you become commercially successful, but it's definitely a different skillset.


When I originally anticipated going on sabbatical, I was sort of vaguely thinking I would just pull the plug and disappear for a year. But that's not practical, given that I earn my living writing. Oh, the books will continue to sell without my doing much, but they sell more when I'm out there twittering (I am such a BAD twitterer, aren't I?) and Facebooking and Goodreading and blogging. That's just the reality. It pays to advertise. So disappearing really wasn't an option, and frankly, I'd probably have got a little bored anyway by the total solitude I initially thought I needed. Still, I have pulled back a lot and there are days when I don't do much more than check my email.


Anyway, the business of writing. Last week is a good example. I was coordinating getting cover art for the three titles that revert in June, I was coordinating the different files and formats I would need for the titles reverting in May. **Stop! That reminds me. May is when the rights to Fatal Shadows and A Dangerous Thing revert to me. I plan on breaking up that omnibus and selling the first two novels separately again, so I want to make sure that word goes out on that. It was a very nice deal for readers, and I hope everyone (well, not EVERYONE) took advantage of it while it lasted. 


Back to the busyness. There were signed books to send out, a newsletter to put together, the question of Japanese translation rights. Which reminded me about those Dutch translations rights. I needed to send a letter to Liquid Silver that I wanted THOSE writes back. I investigated getting audible books made (and, yes, maybe I've found an answer on that one). There was email to answer (that doesn't count though because we all have email). There was setting up a CreateSpace account and starting to get these reverted titles into print.


You see? I'm on sabbatical, but that just means I'm not writing. Every day I'm working. This is not a complaint, although maybe it sounds like one. I'm running a small but thriving business and I can't just go on an indefinite holiday and hope it all works out. Even if I never write another word again, there is still this business to run.

I sort of always knew that, but now it's more firmly established in my mind.

And then lo and behold, the night before last, I actually devoted a few hours researching "A Perfect Day." I told myself I wasn't going to write anything, that it was still too soon to be thinking of that, but the research always seems to stimulate imagination.

Speaking of which, I was struck again by how time-consuming research is. Well over an hour disappeared while I tried to figure out the exact right yellow wildflowers that might be blooming in Eugene, Oregon in May. Why does the exact flower matter so much as long as it's in season? I don't know. But somehow it does. Have I always been this obsessive? I fear so.

It was such a relief to remember that it didn't matter how much time I was taking -- no deadline is involved. Maybe I finish this story for May. Maybe I never finish it. It just doesn't matter.

But then yesterday I woke up and I thought...well, I'll just fill in a few of the blanks. And 2,000 words later, I realized I had been writing. And enjoying it.

But what I most enjoyed was that when I was tired and wanted to stop, I could. I could close the file, turn off my computer, and go pester the SO.

It felt good. I can still write. That's a relief. And, er, I can stop anytime I want to.  That's a relief too.

Roll the Presses

It must be a weird convergence of planets or colliding stars or something, but in the past couple of weeks I've had three or four readers pointedly asking about print. One guy suggested I hated Capitalism and one gal seemed to think I'm the one who stuck the knife in the unsuspecting back of legacy publishing. Why are people trying to kill books? she asked in (judging by the frowny face emoticon) all seriousness.

So, for the record, despite my youthful Socialist ideals, I'm pretty much as big a Capitalist as the next successfully self-supporting writer AND I am not trying to kill books. I'm not even trying to wound books. I love books. I love ebooks and print books and picture books and graphic novels and I even have fond memories of a weird little cloth book I had as a toddler. Which I think I loved so much I may have actually eaten.

But I digress.

I respect the passion for stories and reading that leads people to get riled because they can't find the books they want to read in the medium they prefer. That is indeed annoying, and I am sympathetic because I remember quite well how frustrating it was to find stories I wanted to read only available digitally in the days before I had an ebook reader.

I understand and I sympathize and obviously the more books I can sell, the more money I make, and I like that. (See cap·i·tal·ism. noun \ˈka-pə-tə-ˌliz-əm above.)

So we're kind of all on the same side here.

The thing is, I don't always control whether a book goes to print or not. Some -- actually most -- of my publishers retain the print rights on the titles I sell and that means it's up to them whether the book goes to print. I don't have any objection to any of my stories going to print. And most of my stories ARE in print.

And of the ones not currently in print, most of those will be in print as the rights revert back to me and I republish the books myself. Pretty much the only titles that won't be in print are the ones through Carina Press. And even those will eventually be in print although it will be a few years before I get those particular rights back.

So hopefully that answers that. Pretty much everything is eventually going to be in print. The fact that all my titles are not currently in print is not because I have anything against print publishing.

Now the fact that all my work will eventually be in print doesn't mean that you'll be able to walk into your local bookstore and find Fatal Shadows on the shelves. It doesn't work like that. In order to publish in print I'll be using print on demand technology (POD) and those books are rarely carried by bookstores. You'll be able to special order them usually -- just as you do now -- or you'll be able to get them through various online retailers.

The other thing to be aware of is that POD books are almost universally trade paperbacks, and those don't come cheap. They're usually ten bucks and up. Again, that isn't something I can completely control. I have to be able to make some modest profit on print books. I'd at least like to break even.

Anyway, hopefully that answers that and we can now return to the previously scheduled complaints about why authors choose to write short stories.

Christmas Kisses

Happy Holidays! Today Men Under the Mistletoe releases from Carina Press. The anthology features romantic holiday stories to warm your heart and tingle your toes by Ava March, KA Mitchell, Harper Fox and yours truly.

We’re promoting the anthology with a mini blog tour starting right here and right now. Along the way there will be snippets to read and the occasional prezzie to giveaway -- check the bottom of this post for the week’s scheduled stops.

Anyway, today’s topic is Christmas Kisses. There’s something inherently romantic about Christmas, I think, though I’m not exactly sure why that is. It’s not romantic in the way Valentine’s Day is. The romance of Christmas is tied in with a sense of nostalgia -- that longing for the way things used to be -- for home and family and all good, familiar things. It’s the time of year when we finally stop to count our blessings, and it’s also the time of year when we almost can’t help but evaluate our lives against our childhood dreams.

It can also be a lonely time of year if you’re far away from family and friends, and maybe that’s part of where that wanting someone special and all our own comes from. Someone to open presents with on Christmas morning and kiss under the mistletoe Christmas night.

Anyway, that’s the day’s topic. Christmas Kisses. You’ll find some tantalizing oscillatory excerpts from the anthology below.

Oh! And today I’m giving away one of the rare print editions of the anthology. To be eligible for the random drawing you must A - Follow the blog (look to the right hand sidebar and follow the directions) and B - leave a comment.

AVA MARCH

In the beginning of My True Love Gave to Me, I tried to capture the intensity of first love. The rush of emotion, the innocence of youth, the all-encompassing need to be together. In Alexander and Thomas’s case, it’s 1817 and the holiday season, which means a continual press of social and family obligations. Finding time alone with no one else being the wiser is almost impossible. In this excerpt, Alexander arranges some time completely alone with Thomas. It’s first time since they’ve arrived in London from Oxford when they have more than a brief stolen moment together.

A cool draft of air swept into the entrance hall as the butler opened the front door. “Mr. Norton, your carriage.”

It was all he could do not to dart out the door. His father’s black town carriage stood at the ready at the foot of the stone steps. Another one of their hostess’s footmen had the door already open. Rather than immediately enter, he paused to give the direction to the driver then followed Thomas inside, settling on the black leather bench opposite him.

The door snapped shut.

“Why are we going to Drury Lane Theatre?” Thomas asked.

“We aren’t.” He closed the shade on the window in the narrow door, cloaking the interior in almost full darkness. “I needed to give the driver a direction and it will do as good as any.”

The carriage lurched forward.

“But—?”

Alexander pounced on Thomas, cutting off his words.

Knees straddling muscular thighs and with his hands cupping that strong jaw, he pressed his lips to Thomas’s. Greedy and impatient, he flicked his tongue against the seam of Thomas’s lips.

With a groan, Thomas opened his mouth. A silken tongue brushed his own.

Hot and intense, sensation washed over him, filling his chest, his heart, his soul. A moan shook his throat.

By God, it was only like this with Thomas. No other had ever come close to rousing these feelings within him. Making his pulse pound through his veins and need claw desperately at his throat. This was where he belonged. With Thomas. In the man’s arms.

HARPER FOX

Harper’s tag for this scene from Winter Knights read “A less-than-obviously-romantic Christmas Kiss from Harper – this one takes place in a cave, and isn’t even between the book’s two main protags.” But I think you’ll agree that this scene where rescue-worker Arthur desperately tries to calm Gavin down after a rockfall, and one thing leads to another, is anything but unromantic.

He lifted me carefully into his arms. My mouth found his and he pushed me back for a second, then groaned and sought me for himself. I buried my hand in his hair’s rough silk. Shuddering, he kissed me, his fingers clenching on the collar of my shirt. He laid us

down on the debris-strewn floor. Dust and small stones were still falling—seeing this by lamplight, I choked in terror, but he hushed me. “No. Look at me. Just look at me.”

His clear grey eyes, his smile, were enough to stop the roof from caving in. They would hold up the sky. I imagined him as Orion, or Bootes, the shepherd-god who bore his namesake star Arcturus, stretched out across the starry night, and I seized him.

KA MITCHELL

The first kiss in "The Christmas Proposition" is more about a kiss that they don't share, mirroring the words that neither of them were willing to risk saying during their first time together. It also gives the reader a chance to see how things went down (ahem) the first time Mel and Bryce met.

Mel is a waiter at Skipper's Diner and he's just helped a waitress handle a bunch of rowdy drunks. But as it turned out, one of the men wasn't drunk, and Mel knows him very well.

The bags thudded and clanged as I tossed them up into the dumpster. The air froze the inside of my nose, almost enough to make the smell bearable. I might have been expecting it, but my heart still leapt into my throat when a hard warm body pressed into me, shoving us through the back door, pressing me up against a stack of empty crates from Doyle’s Dairy.

The smell of him, sweat and dirt and man, chased away the leftover stench that leaked from even frozen garbage.

The back door banged shut behind us.

“Still fucking cold,” he said.

“It’s winter.” Not my best comeback. I’ll warm you up had a lot more charm. But my heart still pounded and the smell of him, the feel of him against me had way too much of that circulation focused on my dick. My brain was suffering oxygen deprivation. At least, that was my story, and I was sticking to it. It had nothing to do with whose body had me pinned against the crates.

The body that was sliding down, the man who, without a word or a kiss hello, was dropping to his knees for me. Why kiss me hello? He hadn’t bothered to say good-bye.

I knocked the cap off his head. Even in the dark, his hair gave off those beautiful auburn highlights I remembered from two summers ago.

Bryce reached behind me and untied my apron, letting it drop to the floor before working back around to my fly. His breath flowed hot and damp over my cock.

 

The instant before those full lips closed around me, I whispered, “Just like the first time, huh?”

 

 

 

JOSH LANYON:

Though Mitch and Web were best friends and boyhood sweethearts, their relationship ended bitterly. They haven’t seen each other for nearly a decade and their lives have gone in very different directions. Mitch is on the run from a busted romance but somehow he finds himself falling for Web all over again.

The first kiss was tentative. The second kiss not so much.

They had kissed as boys, but back then the simple pleasure of mouths pressed together and shared breath had been fraught with their own insecurities about who and what they were. Kissing had somehow seemed more gay than the other things they did, and neither of them had been totally comfortable with it.

So it was a surprise to realize how familiar the taste of Web’s mouth was. Twelve years ought to make a difference, seeing that it was unlikely Web still lived on chili dogs, Dr Pepper and Goodart’s Peanut Patties. But Web still tasted sweet as Mitch parted his lips with a gentle tongue. He closed his eyes, savoring Web’s instant, generous response. Yes, they’d both learned a few things over the years. Web’s tongue touched his own. It really didn’t get a lot more personal than tongues twining in the dark, moist heat of two men’s mouths.

Mitch broke the kiss with reluctance and one final, teasing lick. The hardness under his caressing hand began to throb more urgently, and he was conscious only of wanting to make this good for Web. The best ever. Maybe he had been a moody, difficult kid, but he had loved Web with all his heart, and if he hadn’t taken the time to show it then…

*****

Don’t forget to join the blog and comment below for a chance to win a print copy of Men Under the Mistletoe.

The schedule for the rest of the week looks like this:

Ava March on Home for the Holidays -- December 6th

KA Mitchell on Scene and Setting -- December 7th

ALSO ON DECEMBER 7TH we’ll be blogging at Carina about what the boys will be doing next year -- and we’ll be exchanging cookie recipes. Seriously.

Harper Fox on Dark to Light -- December 8th

And a final Happy Holidays from all of us on December 9th right back here where you started!

WiP - This Rough Magic

It was always a dame, wasn’t it? In the dime novels, it was always a dame.

A smart and sassy society dame smelling of gardenias, with a fox stole thrown over her bony shoulders, and a mouth that would make a French maid blink. In real life, the dames Rafferty met were of a different breed. They wore Vogue Pattern #7313 and lines of worry in their tired faces. They came to him in the hope that he could locate a missing son or daughter -- or straying husband.

There had been one society dame. Rafferty had helped her get back some letters, and her marriage to a Texas oil tycoon had gone right ahead as scheduled. Every now and then she threw some business his way. He could only think that Mrs. Charles Constable was somehow to blame for the very handsome and very nervous young man currently perched on the uncomfortable chair in front of Rafferty’s desk.

The chair squeaked as Brett Sheridan, of the Nob Hill Sheridans, gave another of those infinitesimal shifts like a bird on a cracking tree limb. Sheridan’s eyes--wide and green as the water in San Francisco Bay--met Rafferty’s and flicked away.

Yes, a very handsome young man. From that raven’s wing of soft dark hair that kept falling in his wide, long-lashed eyes, to the obstinate jut of his chiseled chin.

Not so young, but not so old either. Twenty six? Twenty seven maybe? Sheltered, most certainly. The Brett Sheridans of the world were always sheltered. Right up to the moment the world decided to puncture their bicycle tires. Still, a nice ride while it lasted.

Rafferty said, “And you think your sister took this, what d’you call it, folio?”

Sheridan had a nice voice too. Low and a little husky, not too affected though he’d obviously spent time at a fancy New England boarding school. “Not Kitty. The thug she’s running around with.”

“Harry Sader.”

“Right. Do you know him?”

Rafferty’s mouth quirked. He reined himself in ruthlessly. “Despite how it looks, I’m not on nodding acquaintance with every bum in town.”

“No. Quite.” Sheridan’s color rose. Rafferty tried to recall what the story was on him. There was some story. That much he did remember. “I just thought that in your line of work you might have crossed paths before.”

“I’ve heard of him. He runs with Kip Mullen’s gang.” He could have told Sheridan a story or two about those boys that would have curled his hair, but scaring the client was rarely good business. “Explain to me again what this folio is?”

“It’s a book or a pamphlet. In this case it’s a book of Shakespeare’s play The Tempest.” Sheridan bit his lip rather boyishly. “I suppose, technically, it’s a quarto, but I admit I don’t fully understand the difference. The only thing I know for certain is it’s the earliest printed version of the play. It was printed in the sixteenth century, nearly a decade before the First Folio.”

Rafferty opened his mouth and then closed it. It probably didn’t matter, right?

“And this folio that is or isn’t the first folio is worth a bundle?”

“It’s not the First Folio. That was printed in 1623. It contains thirty six of Shakespeare’s plays, nineteen of which previously appeared in separate, individual editions. All the separate editions are quartos except for one octavo. But Mr. Lennox refers to it as a folio. The Tempest, that is.”

Rafferty could feel his eyes starting to spin. He resisted the temptation to hang onto his desk.  “This thing is worth a bundle?”

“It’s priceless.”

“Sure, but I bet the insurance company tagged it with a dollar amount.”

“Mr. Lennox is very wealthy. The insurance money means nothing to him. He wants the folio back.”

“The quarto.”

“Correct. He wants it back at any cost.”

“Ah. He’d pay a king’s ransom?”

Sheridan nodded unhappily.

“And the last time anyone saw the-folio-that’s-really-a-quarto was the night of your engagement party?”

“Last night. Correct. Mr. Lennox hosted a garden party for us -- Juliet and me -- at his home in Pacific Heights.”

“And you immediately jumped to the conclusion that your sister’s beau was responsible?”

“There isn’t anyone else likely.”

Rafferty dropped his pencil and pushed back in his chair. “That so? All swell society folk with arm-long pedigrees, were they?”

There was that delicate wash of color again. Not exactly what you expected from hale and healthy young Harvard bucks. Not unless they were given to unwholesome activities like painting watercolors or writing feverish poetry. Or worse. Rafferty was pretty sure worse was the not the rumor he’d heard. He’d likely have remembered that.

“No. That is… Yes.”

“Which is it? No or yes?”

 “It wasn’t my immediate thought, no,” Sheridan said stiffly. “But Kitty was acting so…so oddly. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized what must have happened. Sader took the folio and Kitty knows about it.”

“You mean she was his accomplice?”

Sheridan’s mouth thinned down to a line. His jaw lived up to the promise of that obstinate chin. “Maybe.”

“And you want me to find this folio and return it to its proper owner, your fiancée’s father?”

“Yes. That’s part of it. Mr. Lennox has given the culprit seven days to return the folio. After that, he’s going to the police.”

“Why the stall? Why didn’t he ring for the cops last night?”

“Because--because it’s obvious to everyone that the crime was what you’d call an inside job.”

“Well, that’s one thing I might call it.”

“Perpetrated by one of the Lennox’s guests. Lennox is trying to save…someone from social ruin.”

“Not to mention prison.”

Sheridan paled. “Yes.”

“Okay. Seven days to find this book or whatever it is and return it to old man Lennox. What’s the rest of it?”

“I want you to convince Sader to keep his mouth shut about Kitty’s involvement--if any--and to get him to agree to stay away from her.”

“That’s a tall order. Doesn’t Kitty have a say in all this?”

Sheridan’s throat moved as he swallowed. “No.”

“And how am I supposed to convince Sir Lancelot to give up the Lady of the Loot?”

Sheridan’s chin lifted. He said unconscious arrogance, “I understood from Pat that you’re reasonably inventive.”

“Pat?”

“Pat Constable. She’s the one who referred me to you. You to me. Anyway, I should think that the threat of jail would be sufficient to steer Sader away from Kitty.”

Rafferty’s brows rose. “You want me to blackmail him?”

“I don’t want to know anything about it. I just want Kitty out of his clutches.”

Rafferty managed not to laugh. The Brett Sheridans of the world did not like to be laughed at, even when they were talking what they would probably refer to as poppycock. Rafferty would have referred to it as something else, but not in polite company, and this company was about as polite as it got. Requests for blackmail and intimidation not withstanding.

“All right,” he said.

Sheridan’s eyes widened. “You’ll do it?”

“Wasn’t that the idea?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t sure--didn’t think it would be this simple.”

“Yeah, well, it sounds straightforward enough. Right up my alley.” Rafferty tried to look suitably disreputable. He didn’t have to try hard these days.  

“There’s a time element to all this--”

“Seven days. I didn’t miss it. And it’ll cost you more.” Rafferty named a figure that should have made the sensitive Mr. Sheridan blanch. He didn’t bat an eye as he reached inside his Scotch wool topcoat and withdrew a leather wallet. He counted out the crisp notes.

“You always carry this much cash?” Rafferty inquired taking the bills, folding them, and tucking them in the breast pocket of his suit.

“Pat told me you weren’t cheap.”

Rafferty snorted. “I’ve been called many things, but never cheap.”

Sheridan’s lashes flicked up and he gave Rafferty a long, direct look. So direct a look, in fact, that Rafferty wasn’t quite sure he was reading it correctly.

“What will your first move be?”

Rafferty blinked. “Huh?”

“How will you proceed with the case?”

“Are you sure you want to know? It’ll probably be necessary to, er, bend the rules a little….”

Sheridan drew back as though from a flame. “No. You’re quite right. It’s better if I don’t know. But you’ll…keep me posted on your progress? There’s so little time.”

Rafferty rose from behind his desk, and Sheridan rose too, automatically. “The minute I find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Right. Of course,” Sheridan said doubtfully. “Thank you.”

“No, no,” Rafferty replied urbanely. He was starting to enjoy himself. “Thank you.”

            “Gee.” Linda’s tone was wistful. “He even smells beautiful.”

“That’s Lenthéric aftershave, sugar.” Rafferty turned from the grimy window as Brett Sheridan’s tan V-8 convertible sedan sped away down

California Street

. “He fills the suit out all right, but if he’s got the brains of a Pekingese I’ll eat my hat.”

Linda laughed. She was a blonde bit of a girl, barely five feet in her socks. Not that Rafferty had seen her in her socks--or anything but those prim little numbers she wore on the Saturdays, Mondays, and Wednesdays she manned his front office. He’d met her--rescued her, if you took her word for it--the morning she’d escaped with hours-old Baby William from the Drake Home for Unwed Mothers.

“Do we have a case?”

Rafferty reached into his pocket and showed her the wad of bank notes.

Linda gasped. “Who do you have to kill?”

            “This is honest dough for honest labor. I may have to rough Harry Sader up a little.”

Linda’s big brown eyes went saucer-like. “Harry Sader?”

“He’s managed to get his claws into Little Lord Fauntleroy’s big sister. I’m going to encourage him to let go--among other things.”

“What other things?”

“Our client thinks Harry stole a book.”

“I didn’t know Harry could read.”

“I guess it’s a very valuable book, and it would keep Harry in gin and greyhounds for the foreseeable future.”

“Harry Sader is trouble.”

Rafferty flashed her a grin. “Trouble is my business.” He reached for his hat.

* * * * *