Friday, April 25, 2014

@AuthorTinaGayle talks about her newest book #RomFantasy

Has writing been something you always did, or was it a discovered talent that came to you at a later point?

I came to writing later in life. Though, I have always written stories in my head it is not the same as putting them down on paper, a challenge to say the least.

Do you remember how it felt when you were offered that first contract? What emotions stand out in your memory?

So excited when I received that email with the contract attached, I had my head in the clouds for weeks.

Is this a first book, part of a series, or the latest in a long line of many?

Long line of many. Fallen Leave is the second book in the Family Tree series.  I love these people so much I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to end this series.

What is the oddest thing that’s happened to you since you chose to become a professional writer? Will it ever make it into a book, or is that a secret?

Strangely, I can’t think of anything odd happening or maybe my life is just so odd I can’t tell the difference.

Do you have your next book underway, or other titles in the planning stages?

Oh, yes, the next book seems to always be calling me. Right now, I’m finishing up my Executive Wives’ Club series. Then I’m starting on book 3 of the Family Tree series, Winter’s Wonders.

Do you have a favourite genre and why? Is it one you write in, read in, or both?

My problem is I like too many. It has to have a romance, but I like fantasy, paranormal, suspense, women fiction, futuristic, etc. I like them all and want to try them all out.

What, to you, is the most exciting part of the writing process? Does it change from book to book or remain the same?

The first draft is the most exciting part because you are creating a new world full of new characters.

If you could co-author a book with anyone, who would you choose and why?

Jim Butcher, one because I think it’d be fun to have delved into the male perspective of writing and because my son likes his writing so my son might read me.

What kind of book do you think would come from the collaboration?

A romantic fantasy with amazing wizards.  Feel free to contact me – Jim.

Where can readers find you on the web?

Website  |  Blog  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads  |  Facebook  |  Google+  |  LinkedIn

Thank you,Tina, for being my guest.

Fallen Leaves

As autumn comes to the Winston estate in Ohio, Amber Harrison learns further lessons in her new position as keeper for the spirits and ghosts who haunt the estate--and further lessons in love, too. She and her love, Carter Miller, grapple with the fears and passions of new love, while caught up in the storm of ancient family drama.

This is the second book in the unfolding saga of the psychics and talents associated with the Winston estate, a sheltered place where past, present, and future are woven into a single dramatic tapestry of love and desire. The tale spans multiple generations, multiple eras, and offers something special for all ages of reader. A sexy, erotic winner, with an assortment of couples to appeal to most tastes.


“How long before you install the new cabinets?”

He turned on the ladder. His dark brown eyes captured her, engulfing her in an encompassing warmth. She melted under his heated gaze, which ran from the top of her head to the white socks on her feet. He lifted a brow at her attire, but he didn’t comment on her pink sweat suit.

“With the old cabinets out of the way, I need to knock down this wall and tear up the flooring. The electrical work is next on the agenda.” He climbed off the ladder, yanked off his gloves, and slid a hand through his thick, wavy hair.

“It might be awhile before we install the new cabinets. Right now, we’re simply working to remove the old stuff so we can start fresh.” He smiled, which didn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes or the fatigue in the slump of his shoulders.

“There’s no hurry. If you’re busy with something else, this can wait until your Dad and Mattie come home next week.”

“No, Dad doesn’t want her dealing with this mess.” Carter unbuckled his tool belt and placed it on a workbench. “I promised him I’d have it done.”

“Is Grant helping?” Amber stepped around several pieces of sheetrock and stray bits of wood, to the bottom of the stairs.

He walked to the backdoor. “Friday, his classes are over at noon.”

With his hand resting on the doorknob, he appeared anxious to leave. “I’m headed to lunch, and then I need to drop by the office for a while. Are you sure you’re okay here by yourself?”

Amber toyed with the idea of saying no. She missed the taste of his lips and the strength of his arms, but she nodded instead. “Yes, I’m fine.”

After opening the door, he paused. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

She waved and turned to head to her room, satisfied she’d at least gotten him to talk. Her leaden feet trudged up the steps. Unexcited, she contemplated her latest assignment from the family council. How could she achieve such an impossible task?

Purchase links:

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

New Release and ARe Earth Day SALE! #RomFantasy

SO... book lovers!! Today everything is HALF PRICE at ARe Romance, so if you're missing one of my titles, or looking for a new one to try - today's a great day to jump in - the rebate will be credited to you, and then you can buy MORE awesome books from some of the best authors in the business!!

Check things out HERE

(This means you can get several of my books for as low as 49 cents)

Genre: Mystery/thriller

Andrew Dahle is a career spook, with no messy emotional ties to complicate his life. He’s worked with the best, and despite himself, he’s about to discover that he’s got friends he really didn’t know he wanted.

A straight-forward operation to grab a defector before he can leave the country with a top secret project goes wildly awry, and forces Andrew to choose between saving the life of a colleague’s son or nailing his target. To his great surprise, he saves the young man’s life, and wakes up in a hospital.

Grateful, Richard MacAvoy, a retired agent with his own elite contacts and players, steps in when Dahle is injured saving his son. Desperate to complete his mission, Andrew reluctantly accepts the help MacAvoy offers, and in the process just might learn that alone isn’t always the best way to work, and friends might be worth the vulnerability he’s always shunned.

An ARe best-seller already, and you can now get it hot off the NEW release press at a half price discount: HERE

Also available at AMAZON and direct from the PUBLISHER


“All right, you know exactly what I expect to happen here,” Andrew stated calmly. At the brief nods he received, he began to turn away, until Brad Matthews posed a question Dahle had hoped to avoid.

“What if something alerts him and we have to abort or risk casualties?”

Dahle took a deep breath and silently cursed Michael again. The Director knew better than to saddle Andrew with a partner, yet he’d done it another time—after a long and loud discussion. This young agent was about the worst of the lot, though.

“My mission here,” he began with forced patience, “is to see that Hunter does not escape with the Phantom plans. That is our only reason for being here, and I fully expect to have him in custody. If anybody interferes, consider it secondary to getting this idiot. Is that understood?” He eyed each of the three men he’d been given to complete the maneuver quietly and quickly.

Not one of them dared risk further questions as they met the ice blue of Dahle’s stare. They nodded their understanding, and two of the men slipped away without so much as a mutter.

“Where do you want me positioned?” Matthews asked.

Andrew resisted the cryptic suggestion that sprang to mind.

“Once Phillips and Weyburn have gotten into position on the roof, I want you inside. I’ll coordinate from here.”

“Think we’ll be able to get him outside?” Brad wondered, nerves making him talk more than he knew he should have been—especially to this man, he noted mentally.

“He thinks he’s safe in the Museum. He’s met his contact here before. Once he comes into the street, it will simply be a matter of handing over the project plans or dying where he stands. Those two are about the best marksmen we’ve got,” Dahle told him, again with that patient, condescending tone which infuriated the younger agent. A beep in the earphone he wore told Andrew his snipers were in place.

“Get inside, Matthews,” he ordered. “And, for Christ’s sake, don’t get anywhere near him, just follow him out!”          

As he watched Matthews go into the huge Metropolitan Museum of Art, he stilled the hand that wanted to rub at his temple. He knew the gesture was becoming a nervous habit, and it irritated him. He pulled out his sunglasses and glanced at the rooftop opposite the Met. He knew exactly where the two men were supposed to be positioned, and he spotted them simply for that reason. He raised the radio he held and spoke into it. “Stand by, he should be coming out anytime now.”

Satisfied that things would go according to plan, Dahle got into his car to wait until Brad got Hunter into the open for him.

* * *

 Almost fifteen minutes had passed since Dahle had sent his partner inside the huge museum, and there was still no sign of Hunter emerging from the building. Nor any word from Matthews, he added furiously. He was beginning to have serious doubts about the smoothness of this operation. It should have been simple and straightforward, but each minute that passed made him feel less and less certain about that assertion.

Too many people around, he observed for at least the tenth time in that many minutes. Not that he had any humanitarian reason for the concern. Mostly it just annoyed him that the presence of too many people complicated his chances of a successful capture of this traitor Michael wanted back. If bystanders died, it was hardly of any importance to Andrew—as long as Hunter wasn’t on the casualty list until after he’d recovered the Phantom Project plans.

Damn!  There should have been a signal by now.

The sound of a gunshot echoing through the museum was not the signal Dahle was waiting for, and he felt rage swell instantly. Panicked screams followed the shot, and he got out of the car, gun in hand, then started toward the main entrance. He’d gotten no further than a few steps in that direction when he was stopped short by the two figures coming out the doors.

Disbelief and anger fought for release as he stared at Hunter and his hostage. Blue eyes met blue, and Andrew almost winced at the relief he read in the expressive features of Danny MacAvoy. The damn kid really thought Dahle would save him from his bad luck!  What truly infuriated Andrew was the unwilling realization that the young man was right. Despite his orders to the contrary, he was going to be the one breaking his own game plan rules. The unflinching faith in Danny’s eyes wouldn’t allow him anything else.

“Let him go, and you can get away, Hunter,” Andrew said flatly.

“He’s coming with me, Andrew,” Dylan said around an icy smile. “Do you think I don’t know how well planned this must have been?  I know Michael’s confidence in you, and I also know it’s justified. You wouldn’t risk my escape. Where’s your back-up?  It can’t be that fool who fired inside. You wouldn’t tolerate that kind of stupidity.”

Tell Michael that! Dahle’s anger was reaching murderous levels.

“You won’t get past the steps with a hostage,” Dahle assured the designer. “Unless I give the order to allow it. I won’t do that until you release the boy.”

“You sure as hell won’t do it then!”

Andrew actually smiled at the unmistakable fear he heard in the other man’s voice. He knew they’d reached a veritable stand-off, and the choice now was to let Hunter escape to save MacAvoy’s son or to risk the kid getting in the way when one of his people took out the weapons designer they were after. Somehow, despite his earlier statement about their abilities, he wasn’t truly convinced either sharpshooter had the skill to avoid a possible injury to the young man Hunter was using as a shield. Which meant the decision was his call.

Dahle allowed himself another look at Danny, wondering briefly why he was even remotely concerned. He was the one who had stated categorically that the operation came first, so why was he hesitating?  The answer was one he really didn’t want to acknowledge; Danny MacAvoy reminded him too clearly of things he’d lost so long ago that he was often sure he’d never possessed them. His last encounter with this young man had reopened old wounds he’d long thought healed. The protectiveness he instilled in the people around him was contagious, as well. Andrew had come face to face with Angelo Johnson on that count, more than once. Now he found himself examining the very things that must have swayed so many others; he knew the innocence and the courage, the unyielding faith that was written so clearly in the boy’s face.

Damn you to hell, MacAvoy!

“Go!” he snapped at Hunter. His only concession to Danny’s questioning glance was a barely perceptible nod, but the kid returned the gesture, with a small smile that set Dahle’s teeth on edge.

“Instruct your people not to shoot, Andrew.” As he gave the demand, Hunter was inching toward his car, parked a few yards away from Dahle’s Silver BMW. His hold on Danny hadn’t loosened at all.

Andrew raised the radio to his mouth and issued the order. “Let him get into his car, cancel previous orders.”

He took a step toward the two men, noticing almost absently that the street had cleared of people around the front of the museum. Danny saw the movement; it registered clearly in his eyes. The kid’s going to make a move, Andrew realized, anger reigniting in the time it took for the thought to form. Without consciously thinking about it, Dahle made a desperate grab for Danny at the same instant the young man jerked away from Hunter. The opposing momentum caused them to literally collide with each other and they both went down.

Andrew recovered instantly and pushed the kid’s face down on the sidewalk as he climbed to balance on one knee, his gun drawn. He took aim.

Several shots split the unnatural quiet of the afternoon. Dahle heard them through a haze of disbelief as pain tore into his shoulder and spun him backward. He hit the pavement next to Danny and watched in confusion as a body tumbled down the museum steps.

“How bad is it?” Danny asked, his concern evident in his lack of awareness to what was going on around him.

“Bad enough, kid,” Andrew snapped. He ignored the stabbing pulse of pain that fanned outward from his right shoulder, and he hauled himself back to his feet, with Danny’s unwelcome help.

“What the hell happened?” he shouted, when one of the two snipers came running toward him.

“He got away, but we took out the back-up,” Jason Phillips said, his voice breathless from the frantic dash he’d made from across the street. “She’s the one who got you,” he added, indicating the body sprawled across several steps.

Danny’s eyes widened, and he took an unconscious step backward when Andrew brushed past him to go have a look at the woman.

“Get inside and find out what the hell’s happened to Matthews,” Andrew directed. “If he’s not dead already, he’s going to wish he was before I’m through with him.”

“Shouldn’t we call the medics?”

Andrew didn’t respond. He got a clear look at the face of the woman who’d shot him, just before the darkness swallowed him and took away the shudders of agony that wracked his body.

 DEFECTOR will be on tour with Shades of Rose Media May 5th! 

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Naughty Giveaway Day 2 - Out of Hell #RomFantasy

The Devane Files: Book One

A murder scene is not exactly the place to find romance. But when Inspector Michael Devane is called upon to solve the murder of Robert Bradshaw, he finds a woman who arouses intense passion in his heart. Unfortunately, she’s at the top of his suspect list! Denyse Bridger brings the Victorian Era alive in Book 1 of her romance series The Devane Files.

In 1892 Whitechapel, only a few years after the infamous Ripper murders, Inspector Michael Devane is given the job of investigating the murder of a theatre producer. Devane is a haunted man, driven by the dark demons of his past, the elusive Ripper, and a growing addiction to opium. His brilliance is unquestionable, but his methods are highly unorthodox.

When Devane comes into the home of the victim, an unpleasant man named Robert Bradshaw, he meets Bethany Davenshire-Bradshaw. In Bradshaw’s widow, Michael finds a kindred spirit who defies both the conventions of society, and the trappings of false mourning. As they grow closer, Devane discovers that Beth is a woman of many secrets, but could one of them really be that she is the murderer he’s looking for.

Exclusive excerpt:

“Mrs. Bradshaw,” Devane walked into his modest home and she turned, her face so filled with concern, and relief, that he felt absurdly guilty for his absence when she’d arrived.

“So,” she murmured softly, “we are once again retreating to the safety of formality, my dear Inspector Devane.”

He caught the hint of dry humor in her tone and smiled.

“Of course not, love,” he said gently and closed the door, then joined her in the small sitting room they’d occupied a few nights earlier. “You look beautiful,” he whispered when he was standing only a couple of feet in front of her. He was able to see the shadows beneath her eyes, but the ethereal beauty that was inherent to her spirit still shone in spite of her weariness and sadness. She was dressed in dark jade silk this morning, again with the obligatory black lace trimming the dress, a reminder that she was a widow, and therefore in mourning; whether or not the grief was genuine paid little part in the necessity for her to play the correct role in their present drama, at least to some extent when she ventured out in public.

“Thank you,” she replied with equal softness. “You, Michael, do not, though.” She touched his arm, acutely and overly conscious of the texture of fine material as her fingers absently stroked it, and of the supple strength in the smooth length of muscle and sinew under the jacket. “Is there anything I can get to ease your pain, Michael?” she asked, seeing the dull presence lurking in his dark eyes. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal?” she went on without pause for his response to the first query she’d made.

He laughed quietly, unable to stop the reaction.

“You are fussing like a distressed mother,” he remarked with gentle teasing.

She flushed red and he refused to let her turn away when she attempted to put distance between them in the small room. His hands on her arms caressed unconsciously, and she stared at him, green eyes both curious and confused.

“I only wished to help,” she answered his words, trying desperately not to succumb to the desire to step into his arms and forget everything her life had been before he’d so unexpectedly come into it and awakened her from a nightmare in which she’d grown too complacent. “Let me fix you a meal,” she requested with a smile, “and we can talk again.” 

“I don’t know if there’s anything...” he began, his eyes leaving her to look into his tiny kitchen. He rarely shopped for food. He rarely ate at all. It was all part of the addiction and its way of depleting the body of strength as effectively as it did the mind.

“Then we will go to a very fine café that I am familiar with,” she replied quickly. “The owner is an old friend, and we will be seated where no one can observe,” she added, seeing the doubt rise in his eyes for a moment, then vanish at her assurance of privacy. “I wouldn’t care if we were seen, Michael,” she told him, voice and eyes earnest and truthful. “I could never be ashamed to be at your side. Not as I was with my husband.”

The last statement made his heart ache with its poignancy, and the loss of innocence that nothing could restore to her.

“I would not risk your reputation,” he said, his hand on her chin tilting her head so she would face him directly again. “Not for any price.”

“I know.”

It was flutter of air between them, and Devane felt more than heard the words. He was startled when she stepped back and walked to the small table that was between the kitchen and the sitting room. She looked down at the assortment of bottles that littered the table’s surface, then selected one of them. When she returned to him, she handed him the bottle and he looked down at it, curiously ill at ease with her obvious knowledge of his addiction when he saw that she’d picked up the tonic that Sir William Gull had ‘prescribed’ for him during the Ripper case. Abberline had actually delivered the medicine to Devane after Gull had asked him to remain behind for a private word. Michael had been sent out ahead of his superior. It was to help restore the appetite that was stolen by the opium he smoked. Bethany Bradshaw clearly understood the significance of everything she had found on the table. He met her eyes, and found nothing but warmth and understanding in their deep green depths.

“How is it you understand the deprivations of opium addiction?” He didn’t want to ask. He couldn’t keep the words from pouring forth.

“Someone I loved once suffered greatly from his association with opium,” she replied after an instant of consideration for the query.

When she was disinclined to elaborate further, he nodded. After a brief hesitation, Devane swallowed a healthy dose of the bitter tonic, pocketed the bottle, then held out his arm for her. They left his flat in easy silence.

“My carriage is outside,” she said, “Percy will take us to the Café, if you are willing to be seen with me, Inspector,” she grinned as she spoke, a teasing challenge in her tone.

“I think I’ll risk it, Lady Bradshaw,” he replied, matching her tone.

Once they were underway, he looked across the carriage and saw she was still watching him, a wistful smile softening her features. When she saw he was observing her interest, the expression changed, and became one of polite warmth. He was exceedingly disappointed.

“Why did you want to see me?” he asked, finally coming to the reason for their present meeting.

She opened the small bag she carried and offered him the handkerchief he’d given her in the library of her home, after the torrential storm of her tears had passed and left them bonded much more intimately than was wise for either of them. He accepted the freshly washed and pressed handkerchief, tucked it in his pocket, and waited.

“Bethany?” he prodded when she seemed inclined to remain silent. He leaned forward, and saw the ashen features that had been so animated mere minutes prior to his query. He took her hands in his, felt the chill through her lace gloves, and his chest tightened painfully. “What is it, darling?” he coaxed, sincerely anxious when her agitation grew more evident.

“Last night,” she started, choosing her words with obvious difficulty and care. “Do you believe dreams show us things, Michael?” she asked, attention erratic, switching topics so swiftly, he blinked.

“Yes,” he answered her honestly. How could he not believe in dreams as visions of truth when much of his investigative brilliance was based on the abstract images of dreams and drug-induced vision.

If it was possible, the answer upset her further. He left his seat and settled next to her, keeping her hands held tightly between his.

“What have you seen?” he asked, filtering the probable answers through his brain even before she could reply. When she spoke again, she offered him the one possibility that he would never have guessed.

“Your death,” she murmured, voice heavy with dread. “Last night, in my dreams, I saw you die, Michael! You were alone, lying on a dark street...” She shuddered violently, closed her eyes, and tears slid from beneath the veil she’d hidden behind. “I know it is highly inappropriate, but I cannot help it,” she looked at him again, and finished, “I do not think I could bear your death, dearest.”

Devane was speechless for a few seconds, stunned by the revelation of both her nightmare and the depth of her sincere affection for him. Bethany clearly misinterpreted his silence; she pulled her hands from his grasp and stared at the other side of the carriage wall.

“You must think me a complete fool, Inspector,” she murmured bitterly. “Please accept my apology for the embarrassment I have...”

Devane reacted purely on instinct, cutting off the apology that hit him as an offense, not a deference to his feelings. He touched her cheek, turning her to face him. Before reason could censor his action, he touched his lips with hers, covering her mouth with a tenderness that had been missing from his heart since the early days of his marriage. Back when he and Evelyn had been in love and filled with hope. The kiss had been meant as a brief caress of reassurance, but the tentative touch slowly caught him and held, making him deepen the kiss further, turning it into a sensuous exploration of her mouth. The taste and scent of her filled his awareness and he leaned closer, holding her head, guiding her willing response as she sighed quietly and melted into his embrace.

It was several minutes before he withdrew, and seconds more before he knew what had pulled him out of the erotic languor that had seeped into his very bones. The carriage had stopped moving. He looked at Bethany, and she stared back, her expression a combination of wonder and confusion. He was puzzled by the emotions, but decided not to ask.

“Lady Bradshaw!”

Percival Vaughan’s anxiety laden voice reached them a moment before the carriage door was unceremoniously opened and the footman peered inside. Devane caught his attention instantly and was startled by the burning resentment that sizzled in the other man’s light blue eyes.

“I’m fine, Percy,” she said, sounding slightly breathless. “Really. Thank you for your concern.”

“I told you we was here, ma’am,” he stated quietly. “When you didn’t answer, I thought you’d fainted again.”

She winced at the reminder of the last time she’d ridden in a carriage with Devane, and he tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the smile from curving his lips upward. She pretended not to notice his amusement.

“I’m sorry, Percy,” she apologized, quite unnecessarily. “The Inspector and I were discussing Robert’s death, and I truly didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he bowed his head in deference, and held the door open while Devane stepped from the carriage then turned to assist Bethany.

Devane caught the anger in Vaughan’s eyes again the instant his hand touched hers, but he made no outward appearance of having noted the emotion. Bethany stepped daintily onto the cobble-stoned walk, and asked Percy to return for them in approximately an hour. He nodded, slammed the carriage door shut with needless force, then climbed back into the driver’s seat. Devane felt the prickle of ice at the back of his neck as they approached the door to the café, and he glanced back, long enough to see Vaughan glaring at him with open hostility. The vehemence of the resentment struck Devane like a blow, then he entered the building and turned his attention to Bethany as she spoke quietly to a young man, asking for a private room. He clearly knew her and was happy to accommodate the request.

* * * *

Hours after they’d returned to Devane’s flat, Bethany worked quietly in the small kitchen, preparing a light meal for later in the evening. Devane had finally surrendered to his need for sleep, and periodically she would walk to his bedroom door and watch him. He was like a fragile angel when he slept, she thought, his smooth, angular features relaxed and at peace. The raven’s wing of his hair fell across his forehead, and his pale skin had less of the ash tone on it now. As she went to the door again to look at him, Bethany knew without doubt that she’d fallen deeply in love for the first time in her life. She knew with equal certainty that she would never forget this beautiful man, whatever happened in the coming weeks. He’d shown her kindness, compassion, and respect; all things with which her late husband had had little acquaintance.

Devane had told her to go home, making a half-hearted effort to observe the mandates of society. He had not insisted when she refused to acquiesce. She’d told him to go to bed, and promised she would be here when he woke. Since her presence seemed as much a comfort to him as his was to her, she knew she had been right to stand firm in her decision. She had told him she would cook, and after his initial skepticism had incited a small, if teasing exchange between them, he did go to his bed, and she to the kitchen. Percival had been sent for groceries, then dismissed once he’d delivered them.

She was setting the small table when a sharp banging on the door, it could hardly be called a knock, made her drop the cutlery she’d been placing. It clattered to the floor with a rattle, and she scowled at the door before walking over to open it. She backed up a few steps in automatic retreat when her father’s glowering countenance stared down at her.

“So, it is true!” he snarled, coming into the flat like a hunter stalking hapless prey. “Where is he?”

“Inspector Devane is sleeping, Father,” she said in a furious whisper. “Please keep your voice down, there is no need to shout!”

“No need to shout!” he roared. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Beth? I don’t give a damn if Devane is asleep or not. You, my girl, are leaving this flat at once!”

“I am going nowhere,” she stated quietly.

“What’s going on?”

They turned together when Devane appeared in the bedroom door, wrapped in a heavy robe, his eyes still dreamy with sleep and his hair an unruly rumple. Michael resisted the audacious, “Hello, darling,” that wanted to be tossed in Bethany’s direction, and focused on her outraged father instead.

“Mr. Davenshire,” he nodded in greeting. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

The courtesy was absurd, though the humor wasn’t lost to Bethany, who stifled a smile.

Davenshire puffed up like he would explode at any moment. His face reddened with the effort it took to keep from taking Devane by the throat.

“Are you trying to destroy my daughter’s reputation entirely, Devane?” he managed to grind the question out without shouting, barely. “She is a woman in mourning. A widow for less than a week, man! Where’s your sense of decency?”

Now it was Bethany who looked about ready to erupt with fury, and Devane was a great deal more concerned with her feelings than he’d been about her father’s indignation. He crossed the space in a few steps and shook his head in warning. She met his gaze squarely, and to his surprise, she smiled.

“This is between me and my father, Michael,” she stated softly.

Then, she turned her look to her father, and Devane felt helpless while he watched the mutation of her lovely features as she allowed herself the luxury of speaking freely, at long last. “Decency, father?” she queried, the ice in her voice was painfully cold.

The old man winced and Devane felt a moment of pity for him. His daughter was about to flay him with words and the young Inspector was fairly certain each slash of the verbal knife would be more than justified.

“You dare to speak to Inspector Devane about decency, when you sold me into slavery to Robert and his filthy demands!” She walked past Devane, who looked on in perverse fascination. “If I’d known someone like this man before I’d met Robert, I would have been lucky enough to have some happiness in my life. But,” she hesitated at the pale, shaken features of her father, then her voice softened very slightly, and she chose not to continue as she’d intended, “I can hardly blame you for what he did to me. Still,” she drew herself up straight and laced her fingers together in front of her, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Devane, seeking his strength, and finding it in the smile he offered her, “I will not have you destroy my friendship with the Inspector, Father. He is a good man and a good friend.”

“He’s a police inspector, Bethany!” Davenshire stated, frustrated and edgy in equal measure. “Meant to be investigating the death of your husband.”

“A job I am sure he is doing, Father,” she replied.

The defense angered the old man again, and Devane stepped forward to avert the wrath he knew was about to be unleashed. He needn’t have made the attempt.

“The only job he is doing, Bethany, is the successful enterprise of destroying your standing in society, while a murderer walks free!”

“I think you should leave now, Mr. Davenshire,” Devane interjected before they could say more things that would inflict wounds that might never heal between them.

Davenshire and Devane faced each other, both men measuring the strength in his opponent and discovering they were finely matched. It was Davenshire who broke the intense lock first, though. He turned to his daughter.

“Get your things, Bethany,” he ordered firmly. “We’re leaving.”

“I am...”

“Damn it, girl!” he roared, “do as you’re told or I’ll drag you out of here.” When she hesitated, her eyes going to Devane for guidance, Davenshire’s erratic temper snapped and he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her toward the door.

Bethany broke away and went to Devane’s side.

“Go with him for now, darling,” he advised quietly and kissed her temple, despite the smoldering rage in her father’s eyes.

She nodded, accepted his wisdom, and went to retrieve her cloak from the coat rack by the door. She left the flat ahead of her father, and Devane, who had crossed the room to place her cowled cape on her shoulders, spoke again, this time his hushed voice murmured to Davenshire. “Touch her again, and I’ll see you dead for what you’ve done to her.” It was a whisper of vehement fury. Davenshire actually paled slightly as he stared in open astonishment at the young police inspector. If he doubted Devane, there was no evidence of it in his mute acceptance of the very real threat the inspector had issued. Davenshire turned on his heel and followed his daughter.

Once he’d closed the door, Devane dragged his shaking hands through the thick tangle of his hair and decided to go back to bed for a few hours. The smell of the meal Bethany had prepared was pleasant, but not overly enticing to his temperamental stomach. He twisted the lock on his door and walked silently back to his bedroom.

Dropping his robe, Devane nestled between the still warm sheets of his bed. He fell asleep quickly, but his comfort was short-lived. Dreams invaded his mind again, the same erotic torments that were beginning to plague his subconscious on an almost nightly basis. Bethany Bradshaw’s supple body lured him into a tempest of passion-induced madness and he went to her eagerly, his entire being caught in the throes of hungry desire. Her hands and mouth were everywhere and he lay flat on his back, willing slave to her kisses and caresses...

Michael woke with a gasp, still caught in the tangled remnants of the dream and the twisted sheets that covered him. He flung the bedding aside as his body trembled under the assault of memory and longing. He groaned loudly and closed his eyes. His hand moved of its own volition, strong fingers curled around the pulsing heat of his erection and in his mind, as the motion of his stroking hand increased in momentum, he imagined Bethany sucking the smooth length of his shaft deep into her mouth...

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CONTEST is open only to those 18+ years old!

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Naughty Giveaway Day 1 - Simply The Best #RomFantasy

I thought we'd kick off this wild week with a look back at my very first full-length erotic novel. I've always been a lover of action shows, and thrillers, so when I decided to try my hand at writing 60K or so of sexy romance, this was the genre that presented itself. Max Richmonte is a man of many talents, he's alpha male to the core, military, and has no filter when it comes to giving voice to whatever he wants... something Kaylee Masterson is wholly unprepared for when he storms into her life and sweeps her into his world.


“What are you here for, Mr...” she hesitated when he tossed her a pointed look, then she relented. “Why are you here, Max? I doubt it was to discuss architecture or house design.”

He wasn’t totally certain himself why he’d sought her company. He’d told himself numerous times that it was sexual curiosity, that he wanted to sleep with her, nothing more. But Max wasn’t a man to lie, especially to himself, and he knew there was something about Kaylee Masterson that had gotten under his skin. He wanted her, yes, but it was more than that. He simply hadn’t discovered yet what it was he hoped to find in her. When he’d decided, on impulse, to come over to her house, he sure as hell hadn’t expected to find her draped in gauzy silk and standing in surroundings that made him think even more seriously about seducing her.

“I was going to ask if you’d like to give me a hand with my book-keeping,” he said, grabbing at the first remotely plausible thing that came into his mind.

She peered intently at him, measuring the truth in his words and finding none. Her nerves were screaming at her to get him out of the house before he really knew how deeply attracted to him she was. He suspected, she could feel that much, but he had no way of knowing how much of her time was preoccupied with every aspect of him. She didn’t want him to know.

“How did you find me, Mr. Richmonte?”

There it was again, Max thought, that smooth shift back to formality any time he made the slightest gesture of interest.

“Tommy remembered seeing your address in the notebook,” he offered, dodging the question without thinking. It was possible enough to be the truth, though, and she accepted it as such.

What else had Tommy seen in the book? She wondered, agitation becoming a tangible kind of panicked pain within her.

“I’m not really an accountant,” she offered with a weak smile. “Maybe you’d better consult someone who does know what they’re doing.”

He nodded, his gaze still wandering over the house, and the woman who occupied it.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Richmonte,” she began quietly. “But, if that’s all you wanted, I would like to be alone tonight.”

“Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” he asked, curious about her reaction more than her response. There it was, the near terror in her pale eyes as she considered his invitation, and her desire to accept it. The light grey of her gaze clouded, then the set of her jaw gave him his answer a moment before she politely declined, for the second time.

“What are you afraid of, Kaylee?” he questioned, refusing to be put off this time.

“Nothing,” she returned firmly. “I simply don’t want to see you socially, Max.”

“Because you’re afraid you might actually like me?” He grinned, and one eyebrow rose. “Or is it something a little more basic that’s scaring you?”

“There’s that word again,” she stated, voice little more than a whisper between them. “I am not afraid of you, Max Richmonte,” she asserted. “If you require some kind of proof, feel free to stay for awhile.”

“Thanks,” he grinned. “I’d like to.”

She groaned inwardly, but pasted a smile on her face and showed him fully into the living room. He dropped his tall, lean frame into a comfortable chair and looked up at her, that devastating smile coming into full play over his stunning features.

“How about a movie?”

She shook her head. “Do you like old radio shows?”

Max’s surprise brought a rush of sweet, feminine giggles from her and he watched her cross the room and switch the sound system over to tapes. She popped in a cassette, handed him a huge bowl of popcorn, and poured two glasses of red wine. She handed one to him, then dimmed the lighting again before settling on the couch adjacent to his seat in the armchair.

Max gave the old audio program half his attention, the other half was focused on the woman sitting a couple of feet away. She’d set aside the wine glass and was listening, her eyes closed. Her wrap had fallen open and he was drinking in the view of her breasts encased in the filmy silk and lace bodice of her gown. Her nipples were a dark shadow, and he watched them harden as he stared at her, as though her body was in perfect synch with his desire to touch her.

He left his chair, silent and graceful, and reseated himself next to her on the sofa. Her eyes opened and she looked at him, her breath a soft rush of air between them. Max leaned into her, his lips finding hers as he pulled her close to him. His tongue slipped into the wine-tainted warmth of her mouth, drawing her into the kiss, deepening it to something exquisitely erotic as he tasted and teased her. One hand held her head, the other glided over her until his fingers found the softness of her breast, and he began to stroke and caress, his fingers circling the taut nipple continuously.

Kaylee moaned softly when he began to squeeze her breast, and the sound mutated into a gasp of pleasure when he ended their kiss and both his hands caressed her, and tugged at her sensitive nipples. Max slid the wrap off her shoulders and slowly peeled away the clingy material that covered her skin. When her breasts were bared, he touched her again, shuddering at the intense hunger the feel of her soft tits in his hands was creating. He caught one of her dark buds in his teeth and nibbled, making her tremble and whisper his name. He licked at her nipples repeatedly, first one then the other, sucking intently, then hardly touching her. She was breathing so fast after a few minutes that he wondered if she was going to faint.

“Kaylee? Are you all right, honey?”

She nodded, and her passion bright eyes locked with his. “Why are you here, Max?”

“I want you, baby, isn’t that obvious?” His voice was rough with need, but gentle, too.

“You could have any woman you wanted,” she murmured. “You’re amazing. Why do you want me?”

Max laughed softly at her perplexity in her tone. “When was the last time you really looked at yourself, Kaylee? Jesus, baby! You’re the kind of beautiful most men lust after.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

His smile was indulgent. “Ridiculous? I’ve been called a helluva lot of things, but that one’s a first in this situation.”

“And what, precisely, do you think this situation is?”

“Well.” He smiled, one eyebrow quirked in teasing humor. “I’m hoping this situation is about to evolve into you... me... and all kinds of wonderful...”

To make his point, one hand disappeared under her gown and she tensed slightly, eyes wide with combined anticipation and a shade of uncertainty.

“I don’t think I want this to happen like this, Max.”

Max’s other hand slid behind her back and he eased her toward him. He lifted her and turned, settling into the sofa cushions as he put her astride his hips. Her fingers curled over his shoulders and she looked down at herself, the reaction unconscious. She bit her bottom lip at the sight; her naked breasts dangling before him, his hands barely visible beneath the sheer silk of her gown. He was stroking her thighs now, his caress slow and seductive.

“Tell me what you want, honey.”

She shook her head and he bent to take a nipple between his lips. He opened his mouth wider and she gasped loudly when he began to suck the entire peak of her breast, his tongue flicking furiously at the pebble hard point. Her body convulsed a moment later when the sensation of his mouth on her was overshadowed by the dizzying pleasure of his fingers buried in the tight channel between her legs.

“Tell me what you want, Max,” she repeated his words, and he saw the surge of power and challenge in her eyes when he lifted his head and locked his gaze with hers.

“What I want?” His voice was a textured, gravelly purr of sensuous hunger. “What I want, Kaylee Masterson, is to fuck you until you can’t walk without thinking about what it felt like to have my cock so far inside you that you want to scream.” Passion lit in her eyes and he could see how turned on she was by his words. He let them keep coming. “I want to shove my dick into your dripping little pussy, over and over again, baby.” He was punctuating every syllable with his hand, his fingers moving in and out of her tight heat, the sounds slick and wet, so exciting he wondered if he’d be able to exert any real control over his lust.

“What then?” She was fucking his fingers now, her hips meeting him thrust for thrust. He knew she was close to an amazing, intense orgasm. He also knew that she didn’t give a damn what he said, as long as he kept on talking, probably telling her things no man had ever uttered to her.

“Then,” he let his fingers slip free of her, and began to stroke her wet slit, his thumb slowly caressing her pulsing clit. “I want you to suck me, Kaylee. I want my cock in your mouth, honey, and your finger up my ass. Do you think you can do that for me, baby? Make me so crazy I lose control.”

She shuddered as she came, suddenly and so violently she almost fell off the sofa. Her choking moan muffled as she leaned forward, her head against his, foreheads touching. Max didn’t give her much time to recover, he moved again, sitting her on the sofa cushions. He stood up, unsnapped and unzipped his jeans, and hissed in relief at the easing of the pressure in his crotch. He shed his clothes quickly and smiled at the appreciation in her eyes when she took a long look at him.

“You’re as gorgeous as I knew you’d be, Max,” she told him, voice husky and seductive.

“Spread your legs for me, Kaylee,” he directed, enjoying the sexy image she presented to him, with her silky gown draped around her, her beautiful tits with their jutting peaks begging for his mouth again. She started to stand, no doubt to remove the gown, but he shook his head. “Leave it, honey.” She grinned at him and pulled the material up around her waist like a cloud of shimmering gauze. When she spread her legs wide and parted her folds to his hungry gaze, Max’s hand closed on his cock and he started to stroke his rigid length as he walked toward her. She was caressing herself, her middle finger slipping in and out of the wet tunnel between her thighs, the sound soft and slick, making the head of his cock weep an oozing bead.

Kaylee smiled and pushed herself off the sofa. He stopped and she knelt in front of him. Max’s breath escaped him as a hiss of sound when her tongue licked the swollen head of his cock, flicking rapidly at the tiny slit as it continued to spill droplets of moisture that she eagerly lapped up. She pushed his hands away and his knees shook when she began to massage between his thighs, squeezing carefully, rubbing with precise gentleness. Her wet finger, sticky with her own orgasm, stroked the sensitive strip behind his balls, slowly making her way to the tight hole that was her target zone. Max groaned softly and his hands tangled in her hair, holding her while he pushed his cock deeper into her mouth. She started sucking and his heart pounded so loudly that he wondered if she could actually hear it.

Her finger was probing delicately and Max was sure his legs were going to give out if she penetrated him. He was willing to risk it, he decided, and spread his legs wider, using the shift in position to anchor him to the floor. The pressure of her mouth was an exquisite torture, and her tongue was twirling around the throbbing head of his dick, finding the spots that made him tremble, lingering over them until he was gasping and pushing deeper into her throat. She opened her mouth wider, took him in as far as she could, and sucked harder. Her finger slid into him, the sensation electric as it shot unbelievable pleasure to every nerve ending he possessed. He felt like he was going to explode, not just in her throat but into about a million flames of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

Fighting down the orgasm that was about to burst from him, Max pulled her away. He shivered when her finger slipped free of him and she stared in surprise from her position on the floor.

“I want to be buried to the hilt in your pussy when I come, baby,” he told her, barely recognizing the rasp of his voice.

Before she could reply, the sound of his cellphone ringing brought reality crashing back. The stereo had gone silent without notice, and the sudden stillness in the room was shocking...

CONTEST is open only to those 18+ years old!