Saturday, December 17, 2011

Brief Preview

My debut novel, "Finding You Again," will be officially released on January 11, 2012, but I thought I'd give a brief preview of it before that special day. So I'd like to post the book's blurb and short prologue. I know many people hate prologues and just want to get right into the main action of the story, but it really is a short prologue, just 239 words, and I thought that even though the subject isn't amusing, the way it was done still had a sort of light and breezy tone to it.

On release day, I plan to post a longer excerpt, part of a scene I particularly like. But for now, in case anyone has the time to do some random reading during these last, ultra-busy days before Christmas and the New Year, here they are: the blurb and prologue of "Finding You Again."


Maggie Demarco thought she’d have the perfect wedding…until the groom backed out without even saying goodbye. So she packs a bag and flees to the town where she grew up to heal and prepare for the rest of her life.
Eric Holt is surprised when he learns that Maggie’s back in town. He’s never forgotten the hours he spent in high school introducing her to the joys of sex. Of course, he’s also never forgotten the pain of her rejection. But he’s still willing to help her recapture the sexual mojo she lost waiting for her AWOL groom, and he proposes a no-strings-attached affair to prove how desirable she still is.
Neither expect the unintended consequences, when old hurts resurface, new problems arise, and simple sex threatens to turn into the craziest complication of all: love.


At one-thirty on a beautiful afternoon in early June, Maggie Demarco stood in the small anteroom at the rear of St. Athanasius Church, wearing a magnificent white gown and waiting for the moment when her father would walk her down the aisle and deliver her for all time into the tender arms of her groom, the love of her life.

At one forty-four, Maggie was still waiting.

At one fifty-nine, the entire assembled wedding party finally realized Maggie was still waiting. And so were they.

At two-twelve... That’s right. Still waiting.

At two-sixteen, calls, e-mails and instant messages began going out to the groom to alert him that he was, umm, just a wee bit late to his own wedding.

At two-twenty-seven, Maggie’s father, the wee-bit-late-groom’s father, the best man, and the ten groomsmen all set out in search of the love of Maggie Demarco’s life.

At two-forty-eight, it finally became evident that the groom hadn’t been in a horrible auto accident on his way to church. Nor had he suffered a near-fatal heart attack, been snatched by kidnappers, or developed a sudden case of amnesia. He had simply turned tail and left town for parts unknown without bothering to inform his bride that he’d experienced a last-minute change of heart about their happily-ever-after.

At three-o-five, belatedly admitting to herself that her perfect wedding was toast, and so was she, Maggie Demarco ripped the tiara veil off her head and ran from the church. Caught between cathartic tears and even more cathartic anger, she vowed, so help her God, that she would never marry anyone—no way, no how—and if she ever found her former beloved fiancĂ©, she would whack the lily-livered louse senseless with what was left of her five-hundred-dollar bouquet.

And, of course, a Happy, Happy Holiday to all!


Tuesday, December 13, 2011

The Bedroom Door

When it comes to love scenes in a romance novel, I am SUCH a voyeur. Shocking, but true. A voyeur. I never thought that term would apply to me, but it does. If a love scene takes place behind closed doors, I feel…cheated. I’ve invested time into this book, fallen in love with the hero right along with the heroine, and for what? To have the bedroom door slammed in my face? Noooo!

So I’m a voyeur, a ‘leave the bedroom door wide open, thank you very much’ kind of reader. I don’t want to use my imagination about what is going on in the bedroom. I want the details! Lots of details. So it would only make sense that this is how I write.

I write sizzling, dangerously sexy contemporary romance and romantic suspense—no intimacy hidden behind closed doors in my books. With me you get detailed, explicit love scenes. Heck, sometimes my heroes and heroines don’t make it to the bedroom at all. Instead they find themselves atop a desk, against a wall, or in front of a trio of mirrors…


“I’m not the type of woman men fall for.”

“I’ve fallen for you.”

Heat flooded her system. She forced herself to breathe, to keep her eyes locked with his. “No you haven’t. You …”

He pushed off the mantel and stepped in her direction. “I—what?”

“Never mind.”

“Finish the sentence, Isabeau.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then let me.” He closed the distance between them. “You were going to say I haven’t fallen for you, weren’t you? You actually believe him? That you’re nothing more to me than convenient?”

Her pulse throbbed thick and hard. Heat radiated off his body. The scent of him filled her head. She wanted, more than anything, to press herself against him and relive the pleasure of his mouth against hers. Instead, she lifted her chin.


He leaned in close. So close his breath brushed across her lips. “You believe him, but not me?”

“You are here only temporarily.”


“And I am just down the street.”

“I suppose.”

She ran her tongue over her dry lips. “So the whole thing does seem rather—”

“Don’t say it.”


Something dangerous came and went in his eyes. “Now I’m getting angry.”

His hands skimmed down her sides, slipped under her shirt and settled on her lace-covered bottom. Her breath went uneven. Searing need swarmed her.

“You want something to believe, believe this.” He pulled her into the solid ridge of his erection. She lost her concentration. “There is nothing convenient about the way I feel about you.”


“You think you’re not the type to draw a man’s attention, think again. I can’t stand in the same room as you without wanting to taste you. I can’t taste you without wanting to taste all of you.”

Oh, God. Her knees turned to jelly. A hot, wet pulse came to life between her legs.

“If you can’t see in yourself what it is that I see, feel what you do to me.” Taking hold of her wrist, he placed her hand in the center of his chest.

His heart was racing. She tipped her head back and looked into his eyes. Her bones began to liquefy.

“The way you’re looking at me,” she whispered.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like I’m important.”

“You are.”

She swallowed hard, wanting to believe him. “Like I’m beautiful.”

His lips brushed across her temple and her eyes drifted shut. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Then you would know how beautiful you are.”

Her eyes snapped open as he spun her in his arms. His hands settled on her shoulders, drawing her back against his chest. She gasped at their image reflected in the trio of mirrors that hung on her wall. When had this become a seduction?

Get your copy today from The Wild Rose Press!