Because I'm having trouble coming up with topic...
Should I blog about my burgeoning enjoyment of reading Young Adult books like Richelle Mead and Laurie Halse Anderson?
Should I blog about my love of the show Castle and how if they do not get some Emmy nominations for the season finale, Knockout, it will be a crime?
Should I blog about strep and how it killed my week by involving my youngest and her missing of three days of school?
Should I blog about the housing market and how after 7 months, our house finally sold, getting us out from two mortgages?
Should I blog about my cats and how I've tortured them by putting a bird feeder on a window?
Should I blog about how lucky I am?
Should I blog about my dragon story and how I'm about to start editing the first one and hopefully get it submitted next week to Loose Id and start the next story?
Should I blog about e-piracy and its impact?
Should I blog about my love of Main Street Diet Root Beer and how I think my store is going to stop selling it?
Snoopy? Snoopy is always a good blog topic.
How much of a geek I am? On making a camp shirt with camp name Firefly, and putting a cut out of Serenity on it?
Or how about all of the above...
Mechele Armstrong
www.mechelearmstrong.com
May 27, 2011
May 26, 2011
Fourth and Goal by Jami Davenport
I'm very happy to announce that my football hero romance, Fourth and Goal, is now available. If I have a book of my heart, this book is it. I started writing this book close to a dozen years ago. When I become more serious about getting published, everyone told me "sports romances don't sell" so I abandoned this book. Yet, I always knew I'd return to it some day.
If you know me personally, you know I love football.
Over the past few years I became frustrated with the football hero romances currently being published. In the vast majority of them, the heroine did not like or understand football, the hero often gave up the game for the heroine, and/or football was merely an afterthought. You could have changed the hero's career and nothing in the story would change.
So I asked myself: What if? What if the heroine is not only a fan, but she wants a career in football? What if she's more knowledgeable about the game than most men? What if the hero isn't a big star but a struggling third stringer attempting to resurrect his career? What if I write this book for women who truly love and understand football?
So I dusted off my old football hero romance, rewrote the entire book, and here it is years and years later. I think the wait was well worth it, and I hope you do, too.
________________________________________________
Book 1 in my Seattle Lumberjacks Football Series
By Jami Davenport
Available from Loose Id
BUY LINK: http://www.loose-id.com/Fourth-and-Goal.aspx
Blurb:
In a game played on and off the field, only one of them will emerge the winner.
Armed with an uncanny ability for evaluating football talent, a dogged determination to succeed in a man's world, and an empty bank account, Rachel McCormick agrees to help struggling wide receiver Derek Ramsey get his game back. Rachel believes Derek, her former best friend and lover, knows the truth behind a points-shaving scandal which ruined her father. She vows to expose the secret even if it destroys Derek in the process.
When Derek's coach suggests sex as an excellent tension reliever the night before a game, Rachel takes one for the team. The next day, Derek has the best performance of his not-so lustrous pro football career. As Derek and Rachel rack up nights in bed and other places, the team racks up wins on the field. Rachel is torn between her loyalty to her father and her growing affection for Derek. Now it's fourth and goal, one second left on the clock. Their hearts are on the line. Do they trust each other enough to go for the long bomb or do they get dropped for a loss?
Read the entire first chapter here:
May 24, 2011
KHYBER RUN
Khyber Run is out today.
Transplanted from an Afghani battleground to a Florida playground at age ten, Zarak Momand spent the next several years trying to remember Pakhtunwali, the Pakhtun Way, and instill the Pakhtun warrior spirit in his younger brothers. A generation later, he’s a burned-out Navy hospital corpsman who has lost touch with everything that matters: his brothers, his heritage, and possibly his soul.
Then he’s kidnapped by USMC scout-snipers hell-bent on seeing justice for a murdered brother marine. The murderer has deserted. They have ideas where to find him and plenty of unofficial support--but this is Afghanistan, where the easy answers are wrong and the best-laid plans don’t stand a chance. Codenamed Zulu, Zarak navigates the ambiguities of fourth generation warfare, where there are no front lines and where the moral high ground shifts from situation to situation. He can rely on no one but Oscar, a sexually compelling marine who is every bit the warrior young Zarak had once hoped to be.
When finally told the deserter murdered his estranged baby brother, Zarak sees his way clear. Pakhtunwali allows a man to pierce the wall of hospitality--even the code of sanctuary--to demand justice for a murdered son or brother. For the first time in years, his Pakhtun self and his American self are in full accord. With Oscar at his side, and with the memories roused by their travels in these legendary mountains, he finds his spiritual center.
But is Oscar’s rough passion a betrayal between brothers? And what happens when the deserter would rather die than go back?
Chapter 1
I woke muddled, thinking the ship's engines sounded wrong. Red light glared on my eyelids. Breathing meant gagging on the seagull-shit taste of a hangover. And that sound was not my ship's engines. More like a sardine can's engines or…a plane?
Opening my eyes took effort. A plane. From the rear of the fuselage, I faced up an aisle between rows of knees hugging sea bags. Not sea bags: MOLLE-packs. Red lights in strips overhead barely illuminated a couple hundred hunched forms in desert camo, a row of males in body armor along each bulkhead, facing inward, and two rows of females jammed into back-to-back seats in the center. Male or female, each of them clutched one of those carbines the sponges called an assault rifle.
Why am I in a plane packed with camo-assed bullet-sponges?
The plane's deck angled down sharply. Screams rang in my ears, going dull. My ears cleared, painfully, and the shrieks sharpened.
Crashing. That's what we're doing.
The deck roller-coastered up, then yawed faster than physics should allow. Whiplash. I saw stars. The stench of vomit wrung my empty guts.
A dive and another yaw brought more screams ringing off the bulkhead, prayer in Spanish close by, retching farther away.
How did I stay in my seat, with gravity halving and doubling and snatching me starboard to port? When the plane steadied long enough to let me look down, I saw bands of dull silver duct tape strapping my thighs to my seat, and another red-streaked silver band over my belt.
Something hung on my lower face. I had some kind of mask. No. Somebody had duct-taped a puke bag to my face. It sagged obscenely against my chin, like a giant used condom.
Pulling it off hurt. The stench blasted from it.
Where do I put this? I looked around, blinking, trying to make sense. The screamers in the middle seats were mostly army. The hundred or so men squatting in the seats lining the bulkhead were marines. Some laughed at the women. Others hunkered down, as if waiting for shrapnel to find them. A few threw curious glances at me, the only squid in sight.
A cluster of pops rapped at the bulkhead, like popcorn in my mother's big pot. One of the sponges grinned at me. "Small arms fire. Welcome to Bagram."
Bagram? A map of the giant air base flashed in my eyes, then a dim memory of riding my father's shoulder, hiding my face in his turban while a trio of Shuravi -- Soviets -- stomped an ominously silent laborer. Couldn't be…
"He means hold on," added another sponge.
I dropped the puke bag to grab my seat. The plane tilted, again nose-diving but this time braking hard. Instead of falling to the deck, the bag shot forward, splatting against a female's ear.
"I'm hit! Aaah!"
"God! Brains! Oh, God!"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaah!"
The plane swerved and jinked, each jerk redoubling the shrieks. The smell of fear, sharp and sour, fought with the smell of vomit.
One of the marines chuckled, despite the sweat beading on his face, and pitched his voice low enough to hear under the shrieks. "You know you're going to have to police that up, Squidward."
"No-go, sir. The doc's our volunteer."
Volunteer? WTF? I twisted to see who'd called me a volunteer, but his rifle caught my attention first. A bolt-action rifle. A sniper's weapon.
Behind the rifle, teeth flashed in a grin. He didn't seem to exist, except as a rifle, a hint of helmet, and a grin. Then the grin vanished.
The deck flipped overhead. The unsecured marines bounced, sending bellows among the screams. I hung from my seat, still taped in place.
The deck flipped again, then slammed up at us. A marine fell across my lap. I caught his weapon before it could bean him. The cool metal slapped into my hand, rousing memories like an old lover's name.
Find a different excerpt here: http://www.loose-id.com/Khyber-Run.aspx
Amber
Visit www.shapeshiftersinlust.com tonight!
Rocked
My paranormal MMF menage - Rocked - is out today. My first for Loose-Id that's not a vampire story!
The Rock
Desired by men and women, Eli’s good looks make sexual conquest easy until he attends a party at the Supernatural Museum, where they land him in deep trouble. He says no to the wrong women, and his punishment is to learn the ultimate meaning of loneliness.
The Stone Maiden
Much to her family’s disappointment, not only is Pepper single but she works a hard and dirty job as an apprentice stonemason. Pepper loves bringing stone to life with her chisel but struggles with the isolation that comes with being different. Then there’s her attraction to her boss, Alessandro, who appears to prefer men. When Eli materializes out of nowhere, Pepper can hardly believe her eyes. Now she’s caught between a rock and a hard place.
The Hard Place
His hands hardened by years training to become a master stonemason, Alessandro is an expert at his craft, but not in matters of the heart. A daily frustration when he’s in hopelessly in love with Pepper and the man of his dreams has disappeared. As Alessandro’s team begins to restore the Supernatural Museum, he, Pepper and Eli are drawn into the building’s secrets and risk losing everything they hold dear.
May 21, 2011
Zombies, and Bees... and Pr0n?
When in doubt, write about porn… Seriously, I was totally tapped for a blog post today… and then this week, I saw some porn. I actually don’t watch a lot (I get the majority of it from following the Coffee and Porn in the Morning blog from Marie Sexton & Heidi Cullinan).
I’m a wee bit picky, which is probably why I don’t watch a lot. I like a little plot, a little acting ability, and dear God, they have to look like they’re enjoying themselves. But… as far as ‘plots’ or perhaps ‘themes’ go, I discovered there are worse things than no plot and disinterested, lackluster acting. The search for a decent plot with one’s porn can lead one down some unexpected and unfortunate paths.
One: zombie porn. It was horrible. Horrible. The zombie giving a blow job is something I will never be able to brain-bleach away. And the sounds. Ugh. *full body shudder*
Two: bumblebee porn. Seriously. Everyone was dressed (for a brief time) in yellow and black stripes and sparkly deely boppers for antennae. The deely boppers NEVER came off, no matter what sex act occurred. I felt like I’d wandered into some fetish-land that I had no idea existed. For those who have that fetish… well, they have my sympathy, because it must be hard to find a lot of bee porn. There was nothing in the description to even hint at the bee-ishness. Clever marketing or piss-poor planning? Who knows. But it must turn someone's crank.
Nevertheless, it’s all going into the ideas folder, because I'm sure I'm going to be using one or the other in a book one day. And if you're into bee porn, well, I apologize in advance, because I'm pretty certain I'm going to use it for comic relief.
KC Burn
I’m a wee bit picky, which is probably why I don’t watch a lot. I like a little plot, a little acting ability, and dear God, they have to look like they’re enjoying themselves. But… as far as ‘plots’ or perhaps ‘themes’ go, I discovered there are worse things than no plot and disinterested, lackluster acting. The search for a decent plot with one’s porn can lead one down some unexpected and unfortunate paths.
One: zombie porn. It was horrible. Horrible. The zombie giving a blow job is something I will never be able to brain-bleach away. And the sounds. Ugh. *full body shudder*
Two: bumblebee porn. Seriously. Everyone was dressed (for a brief time) in yellow and black stripes and sparkly deely boppers for antennae. The deely boppers NEVER came off, no matter what sex act occurred. I felt like I’d wandered into some fetish-land that I had no idea existed. For those who have that fetish… well, they have my sympathy, because it must be hard to find a lot of bee porn. There was nothing in the description to even hint at the bee-ishness. Clever marketing or piss-poor planning? Who knows. But it must turn someone's crank.
Nevertheless, it’s all going into the ideas folder, because I'm sure I'm going to be using one or the other in a book one day. And if you're into bee porn, well, I apologize in advance, because I'm pretty certain I'm going to use it for comic relief.
KC Burn
May 20, 2011
World Building 101
Scanning through reviews (I shouldn’t, but I do), I noticed the phrase wolf-shifter used to describe Daniel, the hero of A Taste of Scarlet. I understand this is a common designation in paranormal romances that feature humans who’ve acquired the ability to shift into werewolf form.
But in the Treeland Pack storyverse, werewolves are a separate species. Pure bloods can shift to human form from birth. This may be a small distinction, but for me it’s critical to who they are–werewolves capable of appearing human. Not converted humans.
By the same token, in the Treeland world, humans can not become werewolves. Doesn’t happen. Mixed blood werewolves come from a male werewolf mating with a human woman. They may or may not be capable of shifting to wolf form. There’s no way to know until puberty. Those who never shift are latents. Of those who do eventually transition, most die.
A kind reader stopped by to explain that the term shifter refers to any paranormal creature who can phase between at least two forms--usually human and a beast of some kind. Made perfect sense to me after she explained it. :)
Fortified with this new knowledge, I now understand my wolfies are shifters, my demons aren't, but my dragons are.
When I read, exploring a new world is definitely part of the fun. Do you like to discover new realities or do you prefer your fiction set in well established worlds?
But in the Treeland Pack storyverse, werewolves are a separate species. Pure bloods can shift to human form from birth. This may be a small distinction, but for me it’s critical to who they are–werewolves capable of appearing human. Not converted humans.
By the same token, in the Treeland world, humans can not become werewolves. Doesn’t happen. Mixed blood werewolves come from a male werewolf mating with a human woman. They may or may not be capable of shifting to wolf form. There’s no way to know until puberty. Those who never shift are latents. Of those who do eventually transition, most die.
A kind reader stopped by to explain that the term shifter refers to any paranormal creature who can phase between at least two forms--usually human and a beast of some kind. Made perfect sense to me after she explained it. :)
Fortified with this new knowledge, I now understand my wolfies are shifters, my demons aren't, but my dragons are.
When I read, exploring a new world is definitely part of the fun. Do you like to discover new realities or do you prefer your fiction set in well established worlds?
May 19, 2011
He Came Nowhere Near My Tabloids!
Dear God. Is it time for another blog? How does this keep catching me all unawares?
Okay. So my latest work from Loose Id is a gay riff on the Thin Man movies (yes, this does annoy a lot of folks who wish they'd thought of it first). But I'm not claiming to be Hammett or Chandler, I'm claiming to be Josh Lanyon doing a riff on Hammett.
Anyway, the book is called This Rough Magic, and it's a lightly comic 1935 mystery about a dashing San Francisco playboy and the hardboiled detective he hires to find a missing folio of The Tempest.
What this story is not is noir. But then neither is The Thin Man. Certainly not the films, but not even the novel. And nothing (well, few things) annoy me more than when some bright-eyed kid with a fedora too small for his swollen head starts throwing around terms like noir and hardboiled like confetti in an Armistice Day parade.
So, in case you were wondering, what inspired the alcoholic, burnt-out communistic ex-PI Dashiell Hammett to write The Thin Man? Well...Hammett had social ambitions. He'd met a dame, you see, and she was an intellectual dame with social amb--well, no. She was a chick who loved to drink and could write and she was willing to put up with Hammett. So that was pretty much it. You can't really blame The Thin Man on Lillian Hellman.
Of course those of us weaned on crime fiction have great fondness for The Thin Man, but the fact is, we're mostly fond of the films. Most of us blabbing about the book haven't actually read the book. That's pain-fricking-fully obvious. We've seen the films and we're hoping to crib our way through like college students who read the Cliffs Notes on Wuthering Heights before the big exam. That whole long, meandering scene where Gilbert talks about cannibalism? Yeesh. Now there are those who see that as pivotal to the story and a brilliant an example of...whatever. I confess it bewilders me. I think it indicates Hammett had started drinking again. The prevailing theory is he needed to fill pages. We've all been there.
Anyway, here's the part that gets me as a writer. The success of The Thin Man so...winded Hammett that he never wrote again. No. Not true. He never wrote another novel, but he wrote a few shorts and there are theories that he co-wrote Hellman's work (which I personally find pretty specious and probably more wishful thinking than anything). But there was no surpassing The Thin Man. It was everything he'd hoped it would be -- and what could be worse for a writer?
In fact, The Thin Man was so enormously successful that I think it paralyzed Hammett in some ways. Not that he hadn't had a string of successes. The Maltese Falcon anyone? Red Harvest? The Dain Curse? But The Thin Man is in a class all its own, and it spawned a generation -- is still spawning -- snappy, sophisticated crime fiction about romantic couples who make witty love in between solving gruesome murders.
Which is where This Rough Magic comes in. At least...I hope this is where it comes in. I don't pretend to be Hammett. I don't pretend to be writing The Thin Man. No people were eaten in the course of my story and there are no cute little dogs. There isn't even a murder. But there is snappy dialog, a bit of romance, and I think -- hope -- enough of a mystery to keep you guessing.
And, oh yeah, it's the first book in a new series called A Shot in the Dark. I hope you like it!
May 11, 2011
The Power of Laughter
A day without laughter is a day wasted.- Charlie Chaplin
At the height of laughter, the universe is flung into a kaleidoscope of new possibilities.
- Jean Houston
Everybody laughs the same in every language because laughter is a universal connection.
- Yakov Smirnoff
I admire the heck out of writers who can repeatedly make readers laugh out loud. It doesn’t matter the genre of the story. In fact, a humorous line can happen in the most unexpected books and still work. It’s all about voice and character and where the author chooses to place the humorous moments.
Even on the worst days, laughter can turn emotions around in a flash, can help start the process of healing, and can connect us with another person in a way little else can. It’s a powerful part of being human. I believe when we don’t laugh enough, our overall mood is negatively affected.
I was struggling with my WIP this week, and that frustration has a tendency to leak into other parts of my life. I know it’s getting bad when we decide to relax and watch a movie and the first words from my partner are, “Let’s watch something that’ll make you laugh.” But not all movies and TV shows labeled as comedies can get me laughing. I suppose that’s true of everyone. Like most forms of entertainment, humor is highly subjective. And one issue in finding good comedies that fit my tastes is that when selecting a movie, I almost always skip the comedies and go for action, suspense, or drama. Way to increase my odds.
I do have a few movies and TV shows that almost always make me laugh, or at least give me a smile, and they’ve become my standbys when I know I’m letting a bad mood take hold. Here are a few:
- Office Space
- Galaxy Quest
- My Cousin Vinny
- Parenthood
- The Golden Girls
- The first season of Roseanne
- Specific episodes of The Closer, M*A*S*H, and Friends
Sloan Parker
www.sloanparker.com
May 6, 2011
How far is too far?
On Twitter the other day a conversation arose about joining the Mile High Club. One person remarked "the airplane bathrooms are too gross to pee in, much less have sex in." Several others said, "................." (I would assume since they'd had sex in airport bathrooms.)
Anyhoo, that conversation got me to thinking: how far is too far? How much is too much? As an erotic romance author, I try to push the envelope in my sex scenes. After all, who wants to read about yet another missionary-style coupling? BORING. No, you greedy things want to read about sex in the workplace, in the water, in an elevator, upside-down, twisted-like-a-pretzel, etc.
When does it go too far for me? With positions I know damn well are back-breaking, or guys who can get it up and come seven or eight times a night no matter how old they are (where IS that guy, and why isn't he tied to my bed?), or people jumping into bed w/o establishing any sexual tension or chemistry.
So when does it go too far for you? Tell me in the comments below!
-- Cassandra Carr
http://www.booksbycassandracarr.com
http://www.loose-id.com/Talk-to-Me.aspx
Anyhoo, that conversation got me to thinking: how far is too far? How much is too much? As an erotic romance author, I try to push the envelope in my sex scenes. After all, who wants to read about yet another missionary-style coupling? BORING. No, you greedy things want to read about sex in the workplace, in the water, in an elevator, upside-down, twisted-like-a-pretzel, etc.
When does it go too far for me? With positions I know damn well are back-breaking, or guys who can get it up and come seven or eight times a night no matter how old they are (where IS that guy, and why isn't he tied to my bed?), or people jumping into bed w/o establishing any sexual tension or chemistry.
So when does it go too far for you? Tell me in the comments below!
-- Cassandra Carr
http://www.booksbycassandracarr.com
http://www.loose-id.com/Talk-to-Me.aspx
May 2, 2011
New This Week: Fourth and Goal
Fourth and GoalBy Jami Davenport
Blurb:
In a game played on and off the field, only one of them will emerge the winner.
Armed with an uncanny ability for evaluating football talent, a dogged determination to succeed in a man’s world, and an empty bank account, Rachel McCormick agrees to help struggling wide receiver Derek Ramsey get his game back. Rachel believes Derek, her former best friend and lover, knows the truth behind a points-shaving scandal which ruined her father. She vows to expose the secret even if it destroys Derek in the process.
When Derek’s coach suggests sex as an excellent tension reliever the night before a game, Rachel takes one for the team. The next day, Derek has the best performance of his not-so lustrous pro football career. As Derek and Rachel rack up nights in bed and other places, the team racks up wins on the field. Rachel is torn between her loyalty to her father and her growing affection for Derek. Now it’s fourth and goal, one second left on the clock. Their hearts are on the line. Do they trust each other enough to go for the long bomb or do they get dropped for a loss?
Excerpt:
Chapter One -- The Kickoff
Hiring the one woman he could never forget was a dumb-assed idea and the wrong play to run, but Derek Ramsey took the ball and ran with it anyway. Five years ago, his one-weekend affair with Rachel McCormick had tackled him for an emotional loss. She’d been his best female buddy, and he’d fucked up a good thing by following his dick instead of his brain. After battling a half decade of guilt and coulda-shouldas, he dreaded and anticipated this reunion.
She’d been employed as his caretaker and living in the little house next to his barn for a few days. He’d managed to avoid contact by taking an impromptu weekend visit to his dad and stepmom a few hundred miles away. But he couldn’t stay away forever.
Weary of postponing the inevitable, Derek walked down the driveway from his ranch house to the barn and small caretaker’s house. Pausing halfway down the hill, he whistled for backup. Consider him a coward, but his chocolate Lab would serve as a diversion if this reunion didn’t go well. Oddly, Simon didn’t come running. Derek shrugged. He must be chasing rabbits in the woods or something.
He’d have to go it alone. As he rounded the last bend in his driveway, Rachel McCormick stomped up the hill toward him.
Oh fuck. He knew females. He’d endured growing up with an older sister. Rachel had that close-fisted, furious carriage to her stride that meant only one thing: someone was going to die. Please, God, don’t let it be him.
Even as he planned possible escape routes, his male head perused her body and responded with a resounding thumbs-up, though it wasn’t really his thumb that was up.
The woman marching toward him with murder in her eyes barely resembled his tomboy buddy from his high school and college days. This Rachel wore a navy blue blazer with matching skirt and shoes, complete with manicured nails and makeup. The suit hugged her tall, lean body and accentuated her curves and straight-to-heaven legs. Long reddish brown hair was pulled back into a tidy ponytail. While he preferred the blue jeans and T-shirt version, this one was just as gorgeous and way more unapproachable. Don’t mess with me radiated from every pore in her body. Not a glimpse of the shy, sweet Rachel he had once known.
“Rachel, good to see you again.” Derek spoke calmly -- hoping to defuse the bomb -- and halted a few steps from her.
She didn’t return his small talk. Green eyes blazing, she scowled, as dangerous as a hand grenade with the pin pulled in the hands of a chimpanzee.
“Problem?” he asked conversationally and forced a pleasant smile on his face.
“Do you own a demon chocolate Lab?”
Derek barked a laugh and sealed his death sentence. Her expression went beyond homicidal. “I have a Lab named Simon. He’s opinionated and untrainable. It sounds like you’ve met him.”
“How long has he engaged in a life of crime?”
“Oh shit. What did he steal now?”
“My truck keys. My only set.”
“Oh.”
“Where is the little delinquent?” She glanced up and down the driveway.
“I called for him earlier. He didn’t come. I suspect he’s busy burying the evidence.”
“I missed a job interview because of that hoodlum.” Her laser-tight glare sliced through his defenses.
“I’m sorry. I could get you a cab.”
“It’s too late now.” She spoke through gritted teeth and visibly drew in a long, calming breath. A split second of uncertainty flashed across her face, peppered with a vulnerability that brought memories flooding back to him of the girl he had once known. Sweet Rachel with a passion for football and a kind word for even the most unworthy person.
He watched as she gathered her composure and hid behind an emotionless mask. “I still need my keys.”
“I doubt we’ll find them. He’s very good. A serial digger.”
“What do you expect when you name a dog Simon? It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.” She stared up the dirt road. “My keys could be anywhere.”
Derek didn’t hold out much hope. Dense woods surrounded the driveway on both sides. At the end of the woods was a large field, cross-fenced into several smaller grassy paddocks. It’d take an act of God to find her keys. He truly doubted the Big Guy considered such a trivial matter worthy of his attention.
“So Simon’s on your hit list along with me.”
“Right up there at the top.” No denial of his place on the list.
“Are you a member of AAA?”
She pointed down the driveway. “That’s my truck. What do you think?”
He knew what he thought. He thought her lips looked pretty kissable, even without lipstick or gloss. He thought she was the sexiest thing he’d seen in a long time. And he thought -- oh damn, every thought bordered on dangerous and impossible and stupid.
“Derek.” She stared at him as if she expected an answer, but he’d be damned if he could remember the question.
“Yeah?”
“I said I’ve scaled back on material goods and choose to live life simply.”
He raised one eyebrow, not buying that one. “Judging by the dents in the thing, you might want to part with a few bucks…for your own safety.”
“Harvey has character.” Her anger still simmered below the surface, and a stranger stared back at him with frosty green eyes. Still beautiful, but formal and cold. He liked her better mad.
Derek snorted. “Harvey looks like he escaped a life sentence in a wrecking yard.”
“He runs great.” Rachel squared her shoulders and stood up straighter. She gave him her most charming smile, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. “Look, champ, I’d love to stand out here and shoot the breeze with you, but I’m a busy woman. Your agent already discussed the particulars of the position with me.”
He imagined all sorts of particular positions he’d prefer to do with her. She’d feel pretty good in his arms right about now, all soft and warm. And then he’d take her to bed and bury his cock deep inside her. She’d scream and beg for more, just like one weekend so long ago. Derek shook his head. This line of thinking headed nowhere but trouble and stopped now.
“I’ll get you a locksmith.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll call one.”
Derek wiped sweat off his brow and shoved his hair off his forehead. Damn. Was she so oblivious to him that she wasn’t picking up on his thoughts? He hoped so. As far as money, he knew better than to offer any. She had her pride. He’d let her keep it. He knew how valuable pride was. Since college, his none too lustrous pro career had severely dented his.
A joyous bark caught his attention. Simon trotted down the road toward them. A stick hung from his mouth, and his tail wagged with enthusiasm. No sign of stolen goods. On his best doggy behavior, the felonious Lab sat down next to Derek, grinning for all he was worth and incredibly pleased with himself.
“Simon, meet Rachel. Rachel, meet Simon.” Simon thumped his tail on the ground and gazed up at her.
“We’ve met.” Rachel glared at the dog. Undaunted, Simon took it as a compliment and drooled on her foot.
“Rae, I’m sorry. He’s my dog. I’ll take care of this.”
“A dog-skin rug in front of my fireplace would be payment enough.”
“You don’t have a fireplace.”
“One small detail. I’ll build a campfire on the porch.”
“You’re a heartless woman.”
“Don’t you forget it.
Author Info:
Website: http://www.jamidavenport.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jamidavenport
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/jamidavenport
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