1) Unearth the truth about vampires and, 2) Become hella famous.
Nowhere on that list did I have “die” or “get turned into a bloodsucker.” But guess what? Life doesn’t always go according to plan. Now, thanks to an unfortunate back-alley encounter, I’m the newest member of the undead country club (fangs, coffin, and all). And my savior? Sire? Whatever…
Freaking. Dracula. Himself.
Even stranger, he claims I’m his mate. Like… eternal love. But come on! I don’t have time for that. Not only do I need to track down my attempted murderer, but I also need to learn how to be a vampire. Falling in love is the last thing on my mind right now.
Reality came crashing down, and I jerked back. I’d just kissed Dracula. Vlad. The Count. Whatever. The man had more names than I did panties at the moment. Which, speaking of, I needed to phone Lucy and ask her to go shopping, since we’d only packed weekend bags.
But that was a different, easily solvable problem. Nothing like this. Kissing Dracula had to rate stupider than busting into a vampire club to expose illegal bloodletting, which turned out not to be illegal. Impulsive, remember?
This right here was proof. Two nights under this man’s roof, and I was making out with him and swapping blood like we were lovers. Gah! I shouldn’t have thought that. I didn’t need the word “lovers” in my head right now. Not with him standing so close, eyes still blazing, and certainly not with my lady bits still waving their pom-poms and cheering me on.
Kissing Dracula was stupid, right?
Maybe?
Who the hell even knew anymore? “I, uh, should go.”
Vlad inched toward me. “Go where? This is your room.”
Right. My room. Because I’d just showered after attacking Harold. And here I was, getting my freak on with the Count himself. If he could just stop watching me like I was the cherry on top of a very delicious strawberry sundae, that would be greatly appreciated. I couldn’t think with him standing there, all smoldering eyes and swollen lips.
The invitation was clear, as were his desires. I wasn’t one of those women who was blind to the opposite sex. If I so much as gave the word, Vlad and I would tumble into that tiny bed next to us.
And damn, I was tempted.
On the one hand, I was a grown-ass woman, allowed to kiss whoever the hell she wanted. But on the other, this man was five hundred years older than me—which, ick—and a vampire. All right, maybe that last one was unfair, considering I was also a vampire. But if he’d never been turned, he would be rotting away in a grave right now. Then again, so would I. Not a very sexy thought. Why focus on the what ifs, though? He had been turned, and instead of a rotting corpse, he was a downright gorgeous beast of a man who I wanted to dry hump like a randy mutt. Decisions, decisions….
“Okay, then you need to go,” I told him. “I, uh, need to be alone. Is that okay? I need to think. And I can’t do that with you here.”
Vlad inclined his head and blinked, the heat fizzling from his gaze. “Very well.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course. I’ll be in my office, should you need anything.”
A shiver rolled through my body. I could think of one thing I needed, but my last impulsive decision had gotten me killed. I really needed to start thinking things through. And since I wasn’t allowed to go to a bar and get wasted—probably wouldn’t even work anyway—there was only one other thing I could think to do and that was call Lucy.
Vlad took my hand and kissed my knuckles before exiting my room.
I slumped against the wall and blew out a relieved breath. Man, he knew how to wind me up. And he hadn’t even done anything. Just walked into my room. Was that all it took now to get my engine revving?
Kinsley Adams is a thirty-something-year-old author who stopped counting when she turned twenty-five. When she isn’t writing uproariously hilarious romantic comedies, she’s raising her womb-gremlin with the hopes that he might one day become the world’s first Supreme Leader.
He might be one of the best riders in the world, but she’ll give him the buck of his life.
WOULD YOU RATHER… Go through your entire life without ever falling in love? OR… Have a rough-and-tumble cowboy stomp all over your heart with his sharpened spurs before riding off into the sunset like John f***ing Wayne?
Yeah, that happened. And frankly, I knew better. All cowboys are trouble. I’ve grown up around them my entire life, so I know how they operate. I’ve broken some of the toughest horses in the business. But for some reason, I found this thoroughbred impossible to resist.
A lot of good it did me too. Nothing but tears and comfort eating in the aftermath.
Suddenly, after a year away with no phone calls or texts to show for it, he’s back. He thinks we can pick up where we left off. But I’ve got news for him: His eight seconds with me are already up.
Little do I know, there’s a reason why he’s come back. And it’s the absolute last thing I expect.
“Does every cowboy on the goddamn planet want between your legs?”
I don’t know how or why, but I just knew I was going to have to do some sort of explaining regarding my conversation with Landon. But am I really obligated to? I don’t think I owe anyone, even Trace, any explanations at all.
With ire fueling my movements, I spin around, eyes full of warning. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
A muscle pops in Trace’s jaw. “Who was that guy?”
I’m surprised I’m actually willing to appease him by answering. “Someone I used to date. Which falls under the category of none of your business.”
Eyes narrowing to slits, he mutters, “none of my business,” as he backs me up against the concrete wall of the darkened hallway between the bathrooms and the concession stand. When he eventually has me trapped between his arms, he presses his fists against the wall and shifts all his weight onto one foot.
“I think I at least have the right to be annoyed by the fact that he couldn’t stop eye-fucking you as you walked away. Wouldn’t you say, Quinn?”
Oh, the nerve of this man!
My chin goes up in the air. “That doesn’t give you the right to be angry with me.”
“Whoever said I was angry with you?” he asks through clenched teeth. “I’m angry at him for looking at you that way. For ever having had the right to. Or maybe I’m just angry at myself for caring in the first place.”
How he always manages to make my anger pull an abrupt U-turn I’ll never know. Something about his unpracticed, candid reactions just get to me. Even if I don’t like what he’s saying, I’d rather be disappointed with the truth than be happy with a lie.
But this particular truth doesn’t disappoint me at all.
The fact that he’s jealous of Landon coils tightly around my chest, making it feel like all my insides are being squished together.
“Why do you care?” I find myself unwisely asking.
“Because, goddammit. If you’re going to ride any cowboy this summer, it’s going to damn well be me.”
Melanie grew up in the Midwest, but she loves living in the Southeast (where the beaches are!) now with her husband and daughter.
Melanie’s other passion is traveling and seeing the world. With anthropology degrees under their belts, she and her husband have made it their goal in life to see as many archaeological sites around the world as possible.
She has a horrible food addiction to pasta and candy (not together…ew). And she gets sad when her wine rack is empty. At the end of the day, she is a true romantic at heart. She loves writing the cheesy and corny of romantic comedies, and the sassy and sexy of suspense. She aims to make her readers swoon, laugh out loud, maybe sweat a little, and above all, fall in love. Go visit Melanie’s website and sign up for her newsletter to stay updated on release dates, teasers, and other details for all of her projects!
Raw heat is still streaking through my body just from the mere handshake.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more perfect man.
Eyes the shade of a crow’s wing are locked on mine, and full symmetrical lips quirk up into a mercurial smile.
His face is all angles with high exotic cheekbones and a chiseled jaw you’d find on a storybook prince. The bright morning sun shines over his skin, making it look like the sun kissed it that color bronze.
The gray streaks in his beard, hairline, and temples only serve to highlight his beauty and strength in what I can see of the rest of his body. As if to highlight that his perfection came with age and he’ll look even better and better, and sexier, the older he gets. The silver hoop in his ear tames him a fraction, adding to his style but also conjuring the image of a pirate in my mind. It gives a glimpse of the conquering cartel king he is.
Of course, I was given a picture of Alejandro Ramírez before coming to this ill-fated interview. So, I already knew he looks like a seamless blend of Antonio Banderas and my all-time favorite Mexican actor Eduardo Verástegui.
Alejandro is what they would look like if they were one person.
The lucid image makes me wonder if I really am stuck in a fucked-up rendition of a dark fairytale. One where he is the prince and I’m the villain, or maybe everyone is the antithesis to good in this story.
Title: Tor Author: Jennie Lynn Roberts Series: The Hawks #4 Genre: Fantasy Romance
What is it about her that makes him lose his mind? Every. Damn. Time.
Tor’s world is falling apart. The king he’d sworn to guard? Dead. The family he worked so hard for? They certainly wasted no time disowning him. All he has left is the Hawks… and an intense desire to win Keely’s heart. It won’t be easy—especially after the mistake he made—but he has to try, because the alternative, living without her, is unthinkable.
Losing someone you love leads to nothing but pain; Keely learned that the hard way. But there is something about Tor that makes her wonder if loving him is worth the risk… if only he felt the same way. Now her best option is to create a new future on her own—no matter how much she might wish her relationship with Tor could be different.
But all is not well in Brythoria. The treaty still isn’t ratified, and the mountain border is filled with enemies poised to destroy them. Can Tor and Keely find their way back to each other? Or will their second chance at happily ever after burn in the fires of impending war?
Tor, book 4 in The Hawks series, is a sexy, steamy, adult fantasy romance full of swords, shifters (kind of), and tons of action. But fair warning: This book is intended only for readers who love fast-paced adventure, soul mates and found family—and characters who curse when they fight for survival. If that’s you, happy reading.
Tor found Keely in a small glade, the pale afternoon sunlight streaming around her. The ground was littered with fallen leaves, muffling his footsteps, but she still spun to face him before he’d fully entered the glade, lifting a crossbow, and pointing it straight at him.
He stopped instantly. Her grip was firm and confident, and if she released, he’d have a bolt through his heart in an instant.
They stared at each other for a moment, and then she lowered the crossbow, pointing it safely away toward the ground at her side. Her posture was one of strength and experience, even though she still seemed to be protecting her shoulder slightly, and he remembered her mentioning that she had some skill with shooting.
“Archery?” he asked, stepping closer.
She raised one eyebrow. “I wasn’t allowed weapons in the palace. I’ve been feeling out of practice.”
Bloody Ballanor. He could only imagine how awful it had been for Keely, a maid, with no status, no power, and not even a weapon to defend herself, in Ballanor’s court.
“No wonder you hated it,” he admitted quietly.
“Hated what?” she asked in her soft Verturian accent.
“Hated Ballanor. The court. Brythoria.” He paused, not wanting to include the guards, although he knew he should. “All of it.”
She shrugged again. “At least it’s over.” She hefted the crossbow in her hand, taking its weight. “And now I’ve got a weapon.”
He grunted. “I see that.”
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to say more.
“I’m glad,” he admitted.
She grinned back at him, pleased with his answer, and he couldn’t help adding, “You said that you shoot.” Gods. Mathos was right, he did have a habit of stating the obvious. But the obvious always seemed so much safer than saying anything else.
“Yes, I used to. I’d like to start again.”
Late afternoon sunshine streaked across the small glade and the trees were filled with the evening calls of birds, and suddenly it didn’t seem so quiet anymore.
He stepped closer, wishing he could have put a crossbow in her hands long before, wishing he could apologize for the time she’d spent in Ballanor’s court, but unable to find the right words.
Gods, she was so strong. And so beautiful. The golden sunlight caught her hair like a halo, and he ached to run his hand through the silky strands. When he’d pulled her into his arms in the moat, her damp hair had smelled of heather—woody and slightly floral—and he wondered if that soft scent would surround him if he gave in and reached for her.
How many hours had he spent remembering the torture of cutting her jerkin away? Balancing the knife so that it cut smoothly, never jarring her or pressing into her more than he absolutely had to. Utterly, acutely aware of her. Every breath, every movement. The way her elegant hands gripped the blanket, like a woman might grip her sheets as she lost herself in pleasure. If he had leaned forward, just an inch, he would have been able to run his tongue over that perfect skin; pink and flushed from the cold.
“Shall we have a competition, then?” she asked eventually.
Yes, they had to do something. Because otherwise he was going to take another step forward, and another, and then he would be close enough to touch her. He had to remind himself that he had no right to touch her. No right to reach toward her, despite how much he wanted to. How desperately he wanted some of her light to shine on him, to ease the cold he’d wrapped himself in.
Jennie Lynn Roberts believes that every strong, kickass heroine should have control of her own story, a swoony hero to support her at every turn, and a guaranteed happily ever after. Because that doesn’t always happen in real life, she began creating her own worlds that work just the way they should. And she hasn’t looked back since.
Jennie would rather be writing than doing anything else—except for spending time with her gorgeous family, of course. But when she isn’t building vibrant new worlds, she can be found nattering with friends, baking up a storm, or strolling in the woods around her home in England.
If you want to talk books, romance, movies, reluctant heroes, or just about anything else with Jennie, feel free to contact her atwww.jennielynnroberts.com. But be prepared to settle in for a long chat if you bring up shifters, vampires, Star Wars, or The Princess Bride….
Title: Unshackled Author: Cara Dee Genre: Contemporary Mafia Romance
Standalone MM Mafia Romance Best Friend’s Father Age Play Hurt/Comfort Unshackled spares no one, and along the way, you’ll get everything from high-speed car chases, secret meetings in the dark, and the rawest hours of grief, to strong family ties, humor, and unconditional love.
In the wake of the bloodiest war the Sons of Munster had seen in a long time, we were supposed to celebrate our victory and move on with our lives. I wanted to see my brothers-in-arms dance and drink way too much. I wanted to hear laughter and Irish music. Instead, we were a syndicate crushed by grief.
Shannon O’Shea had lost more than most, and every fiber of my being screamed at me to pull him from the depths of his despair. As the father of my best friend, he’d been there for me when my parents kicked me out for being gay. Now it was my turn. I had to find the answers. I had to rescue him.
The day he asked for a favor and demanded discretion, the plan unfolded before my eyes, and I couldn’t resist the temptation. No names, no faces. He wouldn’t know it was me in the darkness. At the same time, the shackles around my wrists tightened as old enemies slithered back out of the gutters of my city, and my brothers and I were once again on the warpath.
Seventeen minutes later, I returned to my own place a changed man. A deaf man.
I rubbed my ear and tossed my keys on the hallway table.
Shan was sitting on the couch, sipping a drink. Vodka, judging by the bottle on the coffee table.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked.
He glanced over at me, and the languidness of his movements told me everything I needed to know. He’d been at it for a while.
I removed the bottle and returned it to the cabinet.
“I need a favor,” he muttered. “I…I can’t ask sober.”
I frowned and sat down next to him. How bad could it be? Our guys in the syndicate turned to me for favors all the time. With my position, I was more connected than the boss himself, ’cause Finn had to stay clean. He couldn’t get his hands dirty for nothing.
“Whatever you need, sir. You know that.”
He nodded with a dip of his chin, then finished his drink and set the glass on the table. “You’ve set men up with mistresses and girlfriends before.”
Shite.
I’d been waiting for this, yet I hadn’t expected it so soon.
“Aye.” I eyed him carefully. His pain was as evident as usual.
But maybe it wasn’t so soon after all. It’d been over a year since Grace had died.
“Do you want me to arrange something for you?” I asked. “I can get it done in a couple of hours.”
He swallowed hard. “I miss human touch, but I don’t wanna see anyone.”
I felt my forehead crease. I could relate to the yearning, but I wasn’t sure if he was talking literally about the last part. “You mean you don’t want a relationship, or you want it anonymous?”
“Both,” he rasped. Then he cleared his throat. “I’m not looking for intimacy. Just physical. No faces, no names, no talking, no off-the-books apartment, nothing social.”
I nodded slowly, the alternatives appearing in my head—or disappearing, one by one. I wanted to say intimacy was exactly what he needed, but it was his choice. There were still options.
“That leaves you with massage parlors and fetish clubs,” I answered.
“It has to be dark,” he insisted. “Pitch black.”
Okay. He really didn’t wanna risk seeing a face. Fine, I could work with that. A certain underground club came to mind, and it was run by a friend of Colm’s. Aside from the main club being an essential location for our drug trade, it had an upstairs area with a VIP section, a hallway full of private booths, and a couple rooms with viewing windows for live porn.
“Any other preferences?” I asked. “I reckon you don’t care if she’s a blonde or a redhead in the dark, but body type? Age? You want her screened and on birth control so you can go without rubbers? You care about safewords? You want a subservient little thing or a bossy—”
“Jesus,” he muttered and rubbed his temples. “It suddenly feels too complicated. And at the risk of making it worse, I’d prefer a man.” Fuck my life. Fuck my life hard.
I’m often awkwardly silent or, if the topic interests me, a chronic rambler. In other words, I can discuss writing forever and ever. Fiction, in particular. The love story—while a huge draw and constantly present—is secondary for me, because there’s so much more to writing romance fiction than just making two (or more) people fall in love and have hot sex.
There’s a world to build, characters to develop, interests to create, and a topic or two to research thoroughly.
Every book is a challenge for me, an opportunity to learn something new, and a puzzle to piece together. I want my characters to come to life, and the only way I know to do that is to give them substance—passions, history, goals, quirks, and strong opinions—and to let them evolve.
I want my men and women to be relatable. That means allowing room for everyday problems and, for lack of a better word, flaws. My characters will never be perfect.
Wait…this was supposed to be about me, not my writing.
I’m a writey person who loves to write. Always wanderlusting, twitterpating, kinking, cooking, baking, and geeking. There’s time for hockey and family, too. But mostly, I just love to write.
I’ve been drowning since the death of my wife, but that all changed the moment she walked back into my life. She was my best friend growing up, until one day she left me. I haven’t seen her in years, but now that she’s back, I can’t possibly let her go again. It would kill me.
Christy I decided to leave the day he told me he was getting married. How could I possibly watch him walk down the aisle and marry another woman? But after being gone for years, events in my life have forced me home. I don’t know how I’m going to face him again, or how I’ll be strong enough to resist him. He’s been the love of my life for years. He just never knew it.
I’m a stay at home mom that loves to read. Some of my favorite titles are Pride and Prejudice, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Horatio Hornblower. I started writing when I was trying to come up with suggestions on ways I could help bring in some extra money. I came up with the idea that I could donate plasma because you could earn an extra $500/month. My husband responded with, “No. Find something else. Write a blog. Write a book.” I didn’t think I had anything to share on blog that a thousand other mothers hadn’t already thought of. I decided to take his challenge seriously and sat down to write my first book, Jack. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed writing. From there, the stories continued to flow and I haven’t been able to stop. I hope my readers enjoy my books as much as I enjoy writing them. Between reading, writing, and taking care of three small kids, my days are quite full.
Her hand slipped around me and cupped the back of my neck. “What, baby?”
“To always put our children first.”
She shuddered. “Oh, sweetheart.” I heard the tears in her voice, didn’t need to move to see them in her eyes. “I promise,” she said thickly.
I nodded.
That had to be enough.
For tonight, that had to be enough.
“Who knows about Conor?” she questioned.
“Brennan, Declan, and Eoghan don’t know. Conor doesn’t know that his parents are in the loop now.”
“I won’t say anything.”
“I know you won’t.” I hesitated a second before grating out, “Junior and I, we burned down St. Patrick’s Church.”
“That means we don’t have to go to any services now? Yay!” she cheered.
“Well, that’s a novel way of looking at arson.”
Her laughter bubbled free. “I’m not the Catholic here.”
“Didn’t you wonder why we didn’t go to church last night?”
“Since when do I look gift horses in the mouth? I was just glad I didn’t have to go out into the cold.”
Aoife made me look devout so I wasn’t totally surprised by her reaction, even if it was further proof of the life changing her.
My lips curved. “Big baby.”
She shoved me in the side before she released a soft whistle. “Father Doyle is probably rolling around in his grave even though he isn’t dead.”
“He called Senior today. Demanding the villains suffer.”
“I’ll bet he did. Look at him turning the other cheek,” she sneered. “Does Aidan Sr. know you and Junior were behind it?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.” I pulled back to look into her eyes. “I watched it burn, and it was like the ties that bound Junior and me to that place burned with them.”
“Do you feel lighter?”
“I do.”
“Who knew arson was good for the soul? Not sure Father Doyle would like that news to spread.”
At her jovial response, all I could think to say was, “I changed you.”
“I grew up. I know the world is mean and nasty, and I know that we can’t do anything to change that.
“I know pedophiles walk the streets every day, and they get away with it. Hurting more kids, destroying more lives.
“I know that being bad doesn’t mean you’ll be punished.” Her fingers raked through my hair. “I told you, you didn’t change me. Being a mom did that. It made me see the predators out there who could hurt my children. And not just how you were hurt either.” She pressed a kiss to my lips. “We’ll keep our family safe, Finn. We’ll do that together.” She hugged me. “Now, let’s get some sleep. You need it, Smokey Bear.”
She smushed my face into her tits, and her hands continued smoothing through my hair as if she could soothe me as easily as she soothed Jake.
If only that were possible.
As I lay there, I recognized there was a certain irony to the situation.
She hadn’t thrown me out. Cast me from heaven for confessing my sins to her… a confession that felt more cleansing than anything I’d ever admitted to Father Doyle in the confessional where my baby brother had been fucking raped by a clergyman.
And as liberating as that was, it was also cataclysmic. Because if it felt this good to get the truth off my back, how many of my filthy secrets could she handle without turning me away…?
I’m a romance bookaholic and I won’t touch a book unless I know there’s a happy ending. This addiction is what made me craft stories that suit my voracious need for raunchy romance. I love twists and unexpected turns, and my novels all contain sexy guys, dark humor, and hot AF love scenes.
I write MF, Menage, and Reverse Harem (also known as Why Choose romance,) in both contemporary and paranormal. Some of my stories are darker than others, but I can promise you one thing, you will always get the happy ending your heart needs!
As she slips into the water with me, Amanda’s breasts bob, floating to the surface. Being in here is like no other moment we spend together. Explaining what it’s like to be in the water with her is like trying to describe a kiss. You can do it, but why? Unique expressions of who we are don’t translate.
“It’s so warm,” she tells me, delight floating across her face like sunshine between the leaves of an oak tree, the water and light in the cocoon of the lap pool spinning magic.
“I turned up the heat. I know you like it warm.”
“Doesn’t that make it impossible for you to do laps?”
“No. I’m not competing anymore.” I reach for her, hands enjoying the slippery magic of her skin. She kicks toward me, one hand on the pool’s ceramic-tiled edge, the other on my shoulder, pressing down. My feet are on the bottom but the feel of her next to me, weightless as she moves in for a kiss, makes all my boundaries dissolve.
We are the water.
Dipping under the surface, she runs her hands down the length of my legs, first skimming the outer edge of my thighs, then skimming over knees and calves. She slides an appreciative hand up between my legs before breaking the surface, her hair wet and flat against her scalp, her hand leaving me to wipe her face.
“Tease,” I say.
“I’m a sure thing.” Kicking her legs, she smiles at me. “Thanks for turning up the heat.”
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men’s room toilet (and he isn’t a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down.
Title: Your Vileness Author: R.R. Orange Genre: Young Adult Fantasy Romance
Amandine Klinghoffer is a daring young detective working on her first independent case in the fabled kingdom of Glamwein.
Was there a murder in the royal palace? And if so, who stands to benefit from plaguing the prince with ghosts?
Prince Ivan, the lazy, cowardly, good-for-nothing embarrassment of the realm is hiding something.
He would rather profess his undying love for Amandine than give her any useful information. He is obviously using romance to distract her from finding the truth.
As Amandine investigates with Ivan’s “help” she begins to suspect a plot that threatens the fate of the entire kingdom and its magical beings.
The staircase terminated in a heavy wooden door that concealed whatever lay ahead. It looked like an ordinary door, but she sensed foreboding and gloom as if they were etched into its wooden panels.
Amandine pushed it open.
A rush of cool air caressed her face, bringing the scents of burnt sugar, oranges and gingerbread treats the spectators were enjoying below. She stood in a broad, open-aired gallery just below the belfry—the rope dangled down through an opening in the ceiling, and she could have reached for it to ring the bell.
Without wasting another moment, Amandine drew the pistol from her left pocket and fired a bolt of energy behind and above her. The crackle of electricity was brief, but as she turned around and beheld the octopus-like limbs of the Strangler writhe wildly and fade into nothingness, the piercing scream of the ghost went on for quite a while until it too faded along with any traces of its physical existence.
“In broad daylight,” she muttered, “the nerve of it.”
Then she remembered someone else had quite a nerve.
“You knew this was here,” she stated, facing Prince Ivan, who stared at her with his big blue eyes, dumbfounded.
“That was impressive,” he finally said, his charming smile returning.
“You led me here on purpose,” she continued.
Stranglers were not dangerous and technically, being incorporeal, could not really strangle anyone. They did like to wrap their tentacles around a human victim, instilling a sense of dread, misery and damp coldness. No one had ever died from it, but some people had been known to faint from sheer terror.
“Damn, Klinghoffer,” Ivan said, evidently forgetting his resolve not to swear and walking into the dark corner where the spectre had been moments ago, “You destroyed it without a trace.”
“I should hope so. The electrical charges in this weapon are strong enough to unbind the faint energy keeping ghosts in our physical world. And it’s Mademoiselle Klinghoffer to you. Actually, I don’t even feel like speaking with you after you lured me here, hoping to embarrass me.”
“Just another test of your skill,” Ivan said, looking completely unconcerned by her anger.
Her face moved of its own volition into a cynical smile. “Your surprise at my success tells me you expected me to fail.”
“But how did you know where to aim?” he asked, ignoring the accusation, “You fired the shot without even turning around.”
She shrugged, trying not to be softened by his admiration for her skill. “After a while, you develop a sense for these things.”
Amandine did not feel hurt exactly but perhaps slightly saddened by the fact that he was just as predictable as her schoolmates had been. Even his ruse of luring her into a haunted church proved fairly weak and pathetic.
“I wonder what sort of thing died to create that?” he asked.
“It’s not one thing but two or three people whose fates were intertwined in unfortunate ways. If they’re unlucky enough to die at the same time or in fairly close succession, the resulting ghost is a Strangler.” Amandine explained. “Anyway, I shall make my way to the royal palace now. I don’t suppose you actually brought me up here to see the Fairy News.”
“Of course I did. Come on!”
He made to take hold of her hand, but Amandine dodged his grasp. She had little interest in being led about by this royal manipulator. He looked hurt, or pretended to.
“Oh, come now,” he coaxed, “haven’t you ever heard of letting bygones be bygones?”
“A very Glamweinian sentiment,” she remarked, standing aloof and folding her arms close to her body.
“True, we don’t like to hold on to grudges. We like to say, ‘if you look back, you get a smack.’ Isn’t it a wonderful tradition?”
“Sounds a little violent,” Amandine said, “I think it’s wise to look back and learn from your mistakes, especially when the most recent incident only happened a few seconds ago.”
Ivan kneeled down on the grey stones, opening his arms dramatically.
“I beg your forgiveness, fair Klinghoffer,” he said in a solemn voice, his lips quivering as he suppressed a grin, “and I promise, no more pranks while I show you the Fairy News.”
“All right,” Amandine said coldly, “Please rise up. You’re being ridiculous.”
He leapt up and rushed to the edge of the gallery where a tall arch framed his dapper figure. “It’s already started!”
R.R. Orange has a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. She has worked as an English and Creative Writing instructor, a marketing writer, and a dog walker. Although she loves dogs, she is not a dognapper, unlike some of her characters.
Fun fact: she is also fluent in Russian, French, and intermediate in Portuguese.
Years ago, Flora fled the quiet Scottish island where she grew up — and she hasn’t looked back. What would she have done on Mure? It’s a place where everyone has known her all her life, where no one will let her forget the past. In bright, bustling London, she can be anonymous, ambitious… and hopelessly in love with her boss.
But when fate brings Flora back to the island, she’s suddenly swept once more into life with her brothers — all strapping, loud, and seemingly incapable of basic housework — and her father. Yet even amid the chaos of their reunion, Flora discovers a passion for cooking — and find herself restoring dusty little pink-fronted shop on the harbour: a café by the sea.
But with the seasons changing, Flora must come to terms with past mistakes — and work out exactly where her future lies…
What starts as a story of a small-town girl who moves to the city and then comes home again, quickly became a much larger story about the island of Mure, its people, and the changes that are about to come. Mure is an island – very remote – and very set in its ways. Life has slowed down and fallen behind what most of us would consider modern, but Mure doesn’t really care. The people, for the most part, like it that way.
But change is on its way in the form of a rich American. And the small-town girl that’s just returned home – her job is to convince the island that this change is the best thing for everyone. To add a layer of romance, Flora is in love with her boss and is hoping this job will somehow bring them closer together. Her boss is a little different, and I enjoyed some of his unique outlooks on how things worked.
As Flora begins to settle in to life on the island, she discovers a new joy – the joy of sharing good food with friends and family. Her perspective begins to shift and her priorities realign. It was wonderful going on this journey with her and discovering what life on a remote island might really be like. Following the lives and the residents and watching as they go about their lives and adjust to times may not sound like the most exciting story – but it is far more than I expected and I loved every page.
