Christmas Wishes on Main Street

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Tea with Claudia

 

The room was beyond belief. Claudia had seen pictures of parlours and drawing rooms in stately homes in England, and this surely qualified. The drapes. The furniture. The paintings on the wall. The ornaments and vases. Presumably her subconscious mind had collected various details she had never been consciously aware of and put them together in this dream.

“My mother will be with you shortly, Miss Westerson,” said the tall gorgeous man who had found her wandering in the sumptuous halls and escorted her to this room. He made her feel even more out of place than the room, all plummy vowels and elegantly tailored clothes from an era long gone. His pants hugged his legs tighter than any jeans, and his coat and waistcoat were cut away to show that they were moulded to his — his hips. Lace foamed at his wrists, and his neck was encased in a snowy cravat from the folds of which winked a sapphire that matched his eyes.

Even the maid he had been talking to was better dressed than Claudia. More appropriately, anyway, in an ankle-length frock of blue gingham with apron and cap in crisp white. Claudia’s shorts and tee-shirt were perfectly modest wear for shopping and visiting in her everyday life, but here they were just shy of the dream she used to have when she was competing, where she’d finish a perfect floor exercise and turn to the judges to find them all staring in horror because she was stark naked.

At least the man — Aldridge, he called himself, though whether that was a surname or a first name, she had no idea — at least he wasn’t staring in horror. After one long glance at her legs, more appreciative than insulting, he had looked only at her face. Still, her discomfort must have shown, for he smiled reassuringly as he said, “Do not be concerned, Miss Westerson. Her Grace has visitors from many different places and times, and the household is accustomed.”

“Her Grace?” That was a duchess, wasn’t it? Claudia wasn’t much for historical novels, but she was pretty sure that dukes and duchesses were the only English nobility referred to as graces.

“I am the Duchess of Haverford,” said the woman who entered at that moment. “And you must be Miss Claudia Westerson. I am so pleased to meet you, my dear. I trust my son has made you comfortable?”

Claudia is the heroine of Abbie’s Wish, my novella in Christmas Wishes on Main Street.

Three men. One’s a monster. Can Claudia figure out who before it’s too late?

After too many horrifying experiences, Claudia Westerson has given up on men. She’s done everything possible to exorcise the men in her life, short of changing her name and appearance. They’re unpredictable, controlling and, worst of all, dangerous. Besides, all her energies are devoted to therapy for her daughter, Abbie, who is recovering from a brain injury.

But after Abbie is photographed making a wish for Christmas, Claudia begins receiving anonymous threats, proving her quiet refuge is not nearly hidden enough.

Who can she trust? Three men hope to make her theirs:

  • Jack, the driver from her daughter’s accident
  • Ethan, her daughter’s biological father
  • Rhys, a local school teacher and widower.

They all sound sincere, but which one isn’t?

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Kissing on Sunday

I have three new releases in the next few weeks: House of Thorns on 26 October, Abbie’s Wish in Christmas Wishes on Main Street on 1 November, and Paradise Regained in Follow Your Star Home on 4 November. Here’s a kiss from each.

House of Thorns, with Bear and Rosa

He kissed her again, another butterfly touch of the lips, then put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit on the dresser. Now her face was level with his.

“That is better,” he murmured against her mouth. Then his lips met hers again, not a mere brush this time, but a gentle and inexorable advance, setting her lips tingling and taking her breath. His hands slid behind her, pulling her against his chest, so he stood between her open knees, his body pressed tightly to hers.

No, just one hand hugged her, for the other came up behind her head, and tipped it slightly, holding it in place as his lips moved against hers and his tongue swept the seam of her shut mouth once, twice, and again. He hummed with satisfaction when she parted her lips a little, letting his tongue dart inside, and her whole body hummed with pleasure.

Pelman had subjected her to a kiss once; an awkward, embarrassing thing, with her twisting to escape and him boxing her into a corner and pawing her body while he slobbered on her face. The new Lord Hurley, who had also propositioned her when he first arrived at the Hall, had respected her refusal. In fact, he had rather avoided her, and had left again not long after the will was read.

Pelman laughed when she said ‘no’ and waylaid her when she was alone. It had, until now, been her only experience of the pastime, and she had not seen the appeal.

It was very different being the focus of Bear’s undivided attention, the recipient of his tender passion.

She lost herself in the new feelings, grasping his shoulders to bring herself closer to his body, trying her best to imitate the movements of his mouth and tongue.

He pulled away, and rested his forehead on hers, still holding her close. “We had best stop, Rosabel. You are to be my wife, and worthy of all respect, and I have no intention of tupping you on the kitchen dresser. At least, not until we are wed.”

Rosa reluctantly let him go, and he stepped back a little so he could lift her down to the floor. She was pleased to see he looked almost as dazed as she felt. “Would you call me Rosa?” she asked.

“If you wish, though Rosabel suits you. Beautiful rose. My beautiful Rosa.” He still held her waist, and he leaned forward to drop a kiss on her hair. “I will move to the village this afternoon, Rosa, and will ask the rector to post the banns tomorrow.”

On prerelease at 99c from Amazon

Abbie’s Wish, with Claudia and Ethan

Ethan squeezed Claudia’s hand, trying to lend her his strength. She squeezed back as she answered. “Just Carly and Trent. And their children.”

“Okay.” The voice sounded smug. “Don’t call the police. Just be waiting. Alone. One of your friends can drop you off but they had better be gone by the time I get there, or else. You and I are going to take a little trip.”

“And you’ll let Abbie go?” Claudia asked.

“Abbie will be fine. As long as you follow instructions.”

Beep. He had ended the call. Claudia turned to Ethan, her eyes huge and swimming in a face drained of color, . Her own arms hugging him as if he was the one solid rock in a stormy world reassured him, and he dropped a kiss on her hair.

“We’ll get her back, Claudia,” he vowed.

(Waiting for links. Watch this space.)

Paradise Regained, with James and Mahzad

She was avoiding his eyes, bending over her weapons, putting the arrows neatly away into the quiver and unstringing the bow. “They said you refused to go and that you told your father’s men that you would not leave your wife.” She whirled back to face him, snarling in her turn. “I say little difference if you did, since you are never here anyway and spend no time with me when you are.”

James was reeling from her dozen blows, some of which had got completely under his guard, but this last remark matched so closely to his own feelings about Mahzad that he struck back.

“You’re the one who is always busy and who never has time for me. You are too busy being katan and mother and friend to everyone in the valley. You’ve made it more than clear you don’t need me, and you don’t want me around.” He took a step closer toward her, crowding her against the table. “But this is my valley. They are my children. You are my wife. It’s about time you remembered that.”

He seized her and forced his mouth down on hers, intending a punishing kiss that overwhelmed her defenses and reminded her he was master in this area as in others, but she met his force with her own passion, softening under his invasion, molding her body to his as she clutched his head to pull him closer. His original intent forgotten, he poured all his longing into the kiss, trying to communicate his love and his frustration, losing himself in the touch and smell and sound of this one woman who was to him above all others.

Until she broke the kiss and shoved him away. “I cannot believe you blame me for all this,” she said. “Just like a man.”

And she stalked away, leaving him alone.

Follow Your Star Home, preorder links on the Belle’s website

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Building empathy on WIP Wednesday

You have a dilemma. Your fellow has some problems, or he’s not at all interesting (and the story is over a few paragraphs after it starts). But you want your audience to like him, or at least to feel empathy for him. He needs to do something selfless, or nice, or just plain sweet. Maybe he gives flowers to old ladies or dances with wallflowers or says nice things to our shy heroine or plays ball with children. How about using the comments to show me an excerpt of an empathy scene? Mine is from Abbie’s wish. Ethan remembers rescuing his cat.

Boss was up for a ride. Like all cats, she was territorial, sticking to the place she loved best. Unlike most, her territory comprised the Triumph and Ethan. Had ever since Ethan had rescued her and her brother, two scrawny kittens tossed into a deep drain and left to die. Ethan took them home inside his jacket and stayed up all night feeding them the goat’s milk preparation he’d found on the Internet. The brother didn’t make it. Boss got her name from the pre-emptory demands she was making when Ethan returned inside after removing the frail body of the dead kitten.

Boss thrived on frequent feeds, graduating from an eye dropper to a baby’s bottle and then to tinned kitten food and biscuits. She lived in Ethan’s pocket, or around Ethan’s shoulders, or in the pannier bags of the Triumph as Ethan moved from job to job, getting experience but never finding a place he wanted to settle. Two years on, Boss was a magnificent beast; at least, Ethan thought so. Tucked inside Ethan’s jacket as they cruised the highway out to Valentine Bay, she mostly slept, but poked her nose out from time to time, her eyes shut and her hair and whiskers streaming back in the wind.

 

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Suspense on WIP Wednesday

Sweets to the Sweet by Edmund Blair Leighton  

I am currently working on a romantic suspense. It’s a contemporary, and a novella, for the Authors of Main Street Christmas Wishes volume, due out in November.

Abbie’s Wish has a woman who has retreated to a country town to keep her daughter safe, and three men who’d like to change her mind about letting a man into her life. The tag line says: Abbie’s Christmas wish draws three men to her mother. One is a monster.

How do you create suspense in your story? Give us an example in the comments.

Here’s the second scene from Abbie’s Wish. (The first has Abbie at the fair, making her wish.)

He followed the seller into the garage, which was as filthy, cluttered and disorganised as he’d feared. But the man owned a matching piece to the genuine part he had come to see, and the pair together were worth four times the asking price. Not that he’d let on. Far from it. He had every intention of beating the price down, if only because he was inside this disgusting hole risking septicaemia or worse.

He cast a disgusted look at the sink bench, where car parts, tools, greasy rags, and other bits and pieces lay scattered among plates with congealed food scraps, dirty cups half-filled with cold liquid substances, and a tottering stack of fast-food boxes. He curled his lip at the pinups above the bench — little girls, none of them over ten, the pictures home printed and ornamented with hearts and comments.

Where was the man? He craned to see over a pile of boxes of parts, some labelled, most anonymous but as he did, something about the disturbing montage registered in his mind, and in two short strides he was next to the bench, peering at the little girl with the dark curly hair and the delighted smile.

The same girl was on the next clipping, which had been pinned up first, and half covered so he could see there was someone else in the picture, but not who it was. He checked again to make sure the owner couldn’t see him, then unpinned the top photo. He would have to scrub his hands, but it was worth it. “So that’s where you are,” he murmured to the woman, quickly scanning the paragraph or two of text that went with the image.  He slipped both clippings into his pocket and was back by the doorway by the time the seller had emerged from his search, triumphantly waving the part.

He returned the smile with one of his own. Genuine, indeed. Just what he needed to complete the restoration of his classic motor cycle. A couple of weeks of evenings, and he’d be ready for a road trip. And — he patted the pocket that held the stolen pictures — he now knew just where he wanted to go.