The Wolf has been unleashed

I'm so excited. Read an excerpt after the cut. The blurb:

When Clyde goes into heat, no one else will do but one of his own secretive race, the Wolftons.

Angelica isn't expecting anyone when she hears a shuttle arrive. To her surprise, it's a virile Wolfton, who asks a single question, "Are you a whore?"

Her answer of "yes" plunges her into an erotic fantasy where her every whim is indulged. With Clyde, she takes the role of submissive to new heights.

Clyde knew he'd find sex to ease his urges, but Angelica's more than a willing body. She's his mate. And with his scent all over her, she's never going to be safe from the bounty hunters after his hide. Now this Wolf will have to outrun his pack to Settler's Mine to claim and keep his mate.


Mechele Armstrong aka Lany of Melany Logen
http://www.mechelearmstrong.com/
http://www.melanylogen.com/





Angelica sat on the bench, legs pulled up under herself, looking out the back window. She ran a hand through her hair.

The long-range communicator buzzed from nearby. “Angelica?”

She slowly walked to answer it. Didn’t want to. “Yes, Meta.” If she hadn’t answered it, Meta would’ve kept after her until she did.

“Is everything all right there?”

“Yes, Meta.” Nothing had happened since the woman had left her on her own to travel to a client.

“I…feel as if I’ve forgotten something.” The frustration sounded deep within the confines of her aunt’s voice.

Meta was getting older. Not a good thing for a whore.

Angelica blew out a breath. “Well, I’m sure you can buy anything there on the planet you’re visiting.” Seemed odd to her and Meta both that the Wolfton had asked for the whore to come to him on such short notice. And made it worth her while. More than worth her while. The client had sent someone to pick her up while they’d still been negotiating terms. And he’d given her four times the going rate, according to Meta. She’d had only a few minutes to pack or the deal of a lifetime was off.

“I’m not worried about forgetting things.” The stress on the syllable told Angelica what concerned her. “And I don’t have my scheduler with me to check. I can’t believe I left it home.”

Angelica blinked. Neither could she. “I thought you packed it.” Meta had intended to check it once she’d arrived and make other arrangements for anything she had scheduled. She hadn’t thought anything was pressing and the client had given her a deal she couldn’t refuse even if anything was.

“So did I. But it’s not anywhere. I was in such a hurry…” Meta blew out a breath. “I must have left it there.”

Angelica waited to see if Meta would ask her to look for the book. But she didn’t.

Instead, she continued, “If anyone shows up, you send them packing. I’ve a few…clients that you don’t want to mess with. I don’t think any of them are due…but you never know.”

A shudder raced across Angelica. She could imagine the proclivities of someone using a whore were questionable. And a Wolfton in heat could be demanding.

Meta’s voice softened. “Going to tell me why you’re visiting me yet?”

The words cut across Angelica like ice shards. They froze her soul. And it had been going so well. “Nothing’s wrong.” A lie. That Meta kept asking why she’d come, an indication that Meta knew something had happened.

“Hmmm.” Meta’s knowing voice grated down Angelica’s nerves like a washboard. “I’ll be back in a week.”

A week? It was only supposed to be a few days. The client and Meta must be getting along fabulously. Which meant there were no other women there. Lucky Meta. “I’ll be fine. And here when you get back, Aunt Meta.”

She could almost picture Meta’s mouth turned up into a curl. Oh, how Meta didn’t like being reminded that Angelica was her niece because it reminded her of how old she was. And she didn’t want to get old.

Meta said something under her breath.

“What?” Angelica imagined it was something about Angelica’s parentage. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing. Stay safe.” Meta’s voice dropped. “Later.”

“Later.”

Angelica hung up the comm. If only she could be as satisfied with her lot in life as Meta. Maybe there was a lot to be learned from a whore. Goddess knows, as an unmated Beta or second-status female wolf, she’d sure felt like a prostitute at times.

She went back to scanning the horizon.

What was she watching for? Wasn’t like anyone was coming for her. Not here. Probably not ever.

As if on cue, the approaching shuttle flashed in the sunlight as it crested the horizon, then circled downward, and landed on the circular pad.

Her eyes widened. Maybe she’d thought too soon.

Surely her pack wouldn’t pursue her after the way she’d left. Not after doing what she had. Unless they were here to punish her.

She stared along the expanse of dirt and rock between here and the pad, searching for whoever would get out of the shuttle. Would it be someone she recognized? They’d never send an Alpha after her.

Who else would come?

Bounty hunters? Mercenaries? On a Beta female? Doubtful. Maybe it would be a few of her pack’s hunters.

A man she didn’t know crawled out of the shuttle. A big man. She could tell his size from his being next to the small shuttle. Well, maybe he wasn’t tall. But bulky. He had a hulking appearance like most Wolftons.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t after her. Only that she didn’t know him. But he was as likely to be here after someone else than her. He didn’t look like a bounty hunter.

He pulled a bag from the shuttle and turned toward the simple house.

Her heightened senses took over as she watched him strut up the walk. Her first impressions were accurate. He wasn’t tall, but his body was wide. He had a swagger that told of a rich arrogance of soul. And he was definitely Wolfton. She could tell by his stance. By his proud look and the way he held his shoulders. And a look that said not quite Quatarian. His scent would tell her for sure. But he wasn’t close enough yet, no matter how advanced her nose was. A few more feet and maybe she could scent him. But that would mean he’d be within striking distance. If he was Wolfton…

She swallowed, her body a little shaky. What was he doing here? The pack wouldn’t have sent a strange Wolfton after her.

A part of her cried “Run!” She wanted to run as fast as she could the other way. But if he was after her, others would follow him, even if he didn’t find her. Better to face them now and get over the confrontation than to look behind her for the rest of her miserable life. She didn’t want a life spent on the run.

Not to mention, if he was Wolfton, the running would make him inclined to chase her. Never a good thing with a Wolfton. They liked to chase too much. And once they caught you… Especially a woman, whether the male was in his heat cycle or not.

She opened the door and waited for the man to arrive on the doorstep. She could feel her muscles clenching as she prepared for his arrival. It would be fight or flight. And she geared up for both. Although, a Beta female against a large Wolfton male didn’t sound like a positive thing.

His scent smacked across her with no subtlety whatsoever as the wind shifted to blow her way.

Wolfton.

Not only a Wolfton, but he was in heat. Her nostrils detected that odor about him, that strong musk, coming from him in waves. Her pussy perked up, dampening on cue as she curled her lips, taking in the scent. He smelled too good. Good enough to eat. She licked her lips, nostrils taking in short bursts of his odor. Scrumptious.

Her lips puckered as if in front of his cock about to take him down. Her eyes almost shut with the arousal parking squarely in her chest.

The heat was yet another indication he wasn’t there for her. Her eyes opened wide. He was there for Meta. A few minutes ago, she’d have said he was out of luck with what he was looking for and sent him on his way. Until she scented him. Now her feminine primal side roared to have a taste of the man. One little sip of the long drink that was the approaching Wolfton.

Even with her aunt’s words rattling around in her brain, desire swelled to life in her body. Her pussy lips swelled, as did her nipples. She fought down the reactions, crossing her arms in front of her chest and stepping farther away from the door.

He sauntered up, looking around cautiously. Had he scented her and not Meta, though Meta’s scent would be prevalent in her own home? Was Meta who he was here for? His face shifted at her appearance and answered her silent question. “Where’s Meta?” His voice was little more than a growl. Looked like it was all he could manage. A shudder racked his frame as though speaking was difficult.

He did look for Meta. The only one who’d taken her in from her troubles. He wasn’t after her after all, but after the woman who owned the house.

And he smelled too damn good. And looked even better up close.

Her nostrils caught his scent again. Musky. Wholly masculine. Almost a shame he wasn’t there after her. She wanted to lick a drop of sweat from the skin on his neck. Taste his skin. “She’s not here.” Her pitch lowered. Too much. She sounded almost hoarse. Her instincts were taking over, even as her brain fought against this. She didn’t even know this man.

“Where is she?” His voice deepened into serious growls and she’d never heard anything more authoritative. Or anguished. His eyes grew wild. “I need her. Now. Where is she?” He took a step closer. “Who are you?” His voice sharpened. “Why are you here?”

She took a good look at the large Wolfton standing in front of her. Impressive muscles. Broad chest. Short gray hair. Steel brown eyes that looked more wolf than anything else. Yes, he was an impressive specimen. She wouldn’t look down to between his thighs. Powerful thighs. Her own thighs clenched together. Would he be hard? She was so needy. How could she be this needy for a man she’d never met before?

“She’s gone for a while.” She’d left Angelica to hold down the fort. Of course the fort hadn’t included a big horny Wolfton. Maybe this man was who Meta had forgotten. How had she done that? He seemed too impressive to forget.

He slanted his mouth, nostrils flaring. Taking in her own scent. He smelled her arousal. Somehow that made him all the more alluring, and he didn’t need help. He opened his mouth as though letting the smell of her flow into him. “You’re Wolfton.” His voice evened out as though he was working on something deep within himself. His hands clenched by his sides. All his muscles remained tense.

She nodded, hesitantly. No sense denying what he could already smell. Somehow, she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“A whore?” He wasn’t sure of how she would answer. She could hear the layering of his voice.

Heat moved up her cheeks. In practice, no, she wasn’t. But in truth, she was what he’d termed in the question. “Yes.”

His lip curled up. His face tightened. The look would have melted the paint off a shuttle. Would have fried eggs without a cooker.

He was not only in heat. He was in heat now. A heat that had almost gotten away from him.

His muscles tensed but he didn’t seem able to bring himself under control. The animal was being unleashed. She could see that in his gaze. In the way his throat moved while his teeth gritted together.

The Wolfton was close to the surface. Bulging out.

Which meant he had no mate.

A big strapping Alpha like him without a mate? Without a pack of female wolves to satisfy his every whim and fancy? An Alpha who’d gone so far into his heat, his humanity was almost gone. She’d seen his difficulty speaking. His tortured movements. She’d serviced males in heat before. But never one so…gone as this one. It should scare her. But all she felt was excitement. And anticipation.

He lifted his head and howled.

The sound was raw in the distance. Mournful yet celebratory.

It made her shiver. Made parts she’d never known she had want to answer. Touched something wild deep within her. She backed away a step. Inside the house.

He followed and shut the door behind him, throwing the lock into place. Grabbed his shirt with both hands and pulled it over his head. “With Meta gone, you’ll have to do.”

Happy Holidays!

No matter what holiday you celebrate or even if you don’t celebrate at all, I hope the season finds you well. I hope you have wonderful days filled with family, friends, and fun.

Me? I’m an addict. A Christmas addict.

I went to my oldest’s school the other day and they were playing Christmas trivia. I realized I know more way too much about such things LOL.




Yes, see I’m the one who notices that broadcast television shows various versions of Christmas specials, occasionally leaving out little bits. Like in Rudolph, one year they showed it without the first elf song. I notice when the Muppets’ Family Christmas doesn’t show bits with the turkey and Gonzo or they eliminate songs.

I love this season. I always have.

I can remember when I was younger, lying in front of the Christmas tree and just staring up at it. I love all the lights. I love songs and Christmas specials. I love all the knickknacks that I put out and decorations both on the tree and house. Both have so many memories associated with them. I love getting together with friends and family. I love getting a present where you know thought has gone into it and it’s perfect for you. I love finding that perfect gift. The one you just know they will love.

Yes, I’m the one who irritates you by being so darn cheerful or walking through the store singing carols. I can’t help it. I love the season.

Something that has always irked me to a certain extent is when people say, “It’s all for the children” about the holidays. Because I don’t think it has to be. I think the spirit of the season has as much to do with adults as it does children. One thing quite a few of the Christmas specials I watch have in common is explaining the reason for the season. And it’s not about what you get or about Santa Claus and kids. It’s not about presents at all. It’s about the spirit of the holiday. The one where you give of yourself in ways that touch other people. That connect with other people. And that’s what I love about this holiday. That spirit that takes us all for and for a few moments, joins us.

So excuse me while I head off. I have to see my aunt and visit with other family. Oh, and I haven’t watched Frosty yet!

Mechele Armstrong aka Melany Logen
http://www.mechelearmstrong.com
http://www.melanylogen.com

Cute Young Things

In addition to Gay For You, another common theme in my writing is Cute Young Things. Oh man, I love 'em. There is nothing like an adorable young man--or even not-so-young man--just aching to be molested. In the best way, of course, I'm not talking about child molestation or rape. Please. No, I'm talking about a wide-eyed, smooth-skinned, preferably slim man without a clue in this world and the gorgeous other man who's drawn to teach him a few things.

Strangely enough, my list of CYTs is pretty much my list from my GFY stories. Tyler, Kyle, Aaron and Scott are chief among them. OK, Tyler was in his late twenties in Heaven, but that's still young. Heck, I've got a CYT in the elves books and he was close to 200 years old when we first met him--that would be Jarak, btw. Matt and Noah from my two MLR anthologies fall in the CYT category. Rudy from Leashed definitely qualifies. Hell, Darien and Reese would qualify as well. Tristan from my Sacred Bands story qualifies. Heck, there's a CYT in pretty much all of my m/m stories.

The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks

Coming next Tuesday from Loose Id. My first stand alone full-length mystery novella.

His romantic weekend in ruins, shy twenty-something artist Perry Foster learns that things can always get worse when he returns home from San Francisco to find a dead body in his bathtub. A dead body in a very ugly sportscoat -- and matching socks. The dead man is a stranger to Perry, but that's not much of a comfort; how did a strange dead man get in a locked flat at the isolated Alton Estate in the wilds of the "Northeast Kingdom" of Vermont? Perry turns to help from "tall, dark and hostile" former navy SEAL Nick Reno -- but is Reno all that he seems?

There was a strange man in Perry’s bathtub. He was wearing a sports coat -- a rather ugly sports coat. And he was dead.

Perry, who had just spent the most painful and humiliating twenty-four hours of his life, and had driven over an hour from the airport in blinding rain to reach the relative peace and privacy of the chilly rooms he rented at the old Alston Estate, stood gaping.

His headache vanished. He forgot about being exhausted and starving and soaked to the skin. He forgot about wishing he was dead, because here was someone dead, and it wasn’t pretty.

His fingers still rested on the light switch. He turned the overhead lights off. In the darkness, he heard rain rattling against the window; he heard his breathing, which sounded fast and scared; and from the living room he heard the soft chime of the clock he had bought at the thrift store on Bethlehem Road. Nine slow, silvery chimes. Nine o’clock.

Perry switched the light back on.

The dead man was still in his bathtub.

“It’s not possible,” Perry whispered.

Apparently this didn’t convince the corpse, who continued to stare at him under half-closed eyelids.

The dead man was a stranger; Perry was pretty sure of that. It -- he -- was middle-aged and he needed a shave. His face was sort of greenish-red, the cheeks sunken in as though his features were slipping. His legs stuck out over the side of the tub like a mannequin’s. One shoe had a hole in the sole. His socks were yellow. Goldenrod, actually. They matched the ugly checked jacket.

The stranger was definitely dead. His chest wasn’t moving at all; his mouth was ajar, but no sounds came out. Perry didn’t have to touch him to know for sure he was dead, and besides that, nothing on earth would have made him touch the corpse.
He couldn’t see any signs of violence. There didn’t seem to be any blood. Nor water. The tub was dry and empty -- except for the dead man. It didn’t look like he had been strangled. Maybe he had died of natural causes?

Maybe he’d had a heart attack?

But what was he doing having heart attacks in Perry’s locked apartment?

Perry’s glance lit on the mirror over the sink, and he started, not immediately recognizing the pale-faced, hollow-eyed reflection as his own. His brown eyes were huge and black in his frightened face; his blond hair seemed to be standing on end.
Backing out of the bathroom, Perry closed the door. He stood there trying to work it out through the fog of weariness and bewilderment. Then, eyes still pinned on the closed door, he took another step backward and fell over his suitcase, which was still sitting in the center of the front room floor.

The fall jarred Perry’s thoughts into some kind of order -- or at least action. Scrambling up, he bolted for the apartment door. His fingers scrabbled to undo the deadbolt.

He yanked open the door, but it banged shut as though wrenched away by a ghostly hand, and he realized the chain was still on. Fingers shaking, he unfastened that too and slammed out of the flat.

Across the Bounding...Internet

Rarely a week goes by that an author on one of the various lists I haunt doesn't pop up with a warning of pirates on the horizon. Ebook pirates in this case. Readers offering other readers ebook downloads for free. It sounds harmless enough, doesn't it? Especially to those of us who frequent libraries and used bookstores. What's the big deal if we share books with friends? We share paperbacks and hardcovers, right?

Why not share the love?

I admit I'm a little divided myself on the debate.

I know from my own experience that I discovered many of my favorite authors through loaned books -- whether from the library or from friends and family. I have a limited book budget, so I'll often try out authors "used." I know authors don't make anything from used books -- I'm sensitive to this as there was a time when my entire backlist existed only in used books. But the alternative is I don't try these authors or these books, and I figure that if these writers are anything like me, they look at used and shared books as advertising.

I know that once I decide I like an author, I buy all their work -- or ask for it as a gift.

(The thing that has long puzzled me about ebooks is that printing is disabled on so many of them. If there is a danger of unlawful sharing, I don't think it exists in too many copies being distributed in print. In fact, I think the inability to print ebooks is one of the things that keeps some readers from giving them a try. But that's a whole other debate.)

I think the reason ebook authors get a little rabid about the unauthorized sharing of electronic files is two-fold: first, while our royalties are higher, we sell a lot less books, period. A small print run for a mainstream publishing house is about seven thousand books. An ebook author who moves seven thousand copies is a bestseller -- and a rarity. Ebook authors typically count their sales in hundreds of copies not thousands, and that means every lost sale carries a higher percentage of forfeit income than it would for a writer publishing in mainstream genre fiction. We might only sell thirty copies a month of an older title, so if someone gives away fifteen downloads, that's a lot. You can see how that hurts -- how it directly affects whether someone can pay the electric bill that month or not.

Secondly, the viral nature of ebooks is a concern. If I have a book I want to share with my friends, I have to loan it to one person at a time. They have to read it, and remember to give it back before I can loan it out again. But if I want to share an ebook I can send the file to everyone I know in a matter of seconds. You can see why ebook authors get a little testy about torrent streaming and mass downloads. Hundreds of free copies could be circulating within minutes -- that can get very costly very fast.

On the other hand, I give away a lot of books. I do it to say thank you to loyal readers, I do it as promotion, I do it as advertising. One of the best moves I made was giving away free downloads of my first novel on my website for about six months.





A lot of readers sampled my work who would have otherwise postponed giving me a shot -- and when the book was re-edited and released through Loose Id, a lot of those readers turned around and bought it. So I have no hesitation about giving away books -- but I like having control of how many books I give away.

I understand that a lot of the readers downloading pirated books are readers who wouldn't be otherwise reading my work. So to some extent I chalk up those lost sales as the price of doing business. Maybe they're sales I wouldn't have in any case. Maybe I'll find a new reader or two -- and maybe they'll like my work enough to actually pay for it.

I also would like to believe that a lot of readers who take advantage of pirated books simply don't know better. They aren't thinking in terms of stealing from authors. Especially in M/M fiction, many of these readers are coming from a fan fiction background where stories are shared for free. They're not used to thinking in terms of paying for downloads and web reads. And of course some of them think we authors earn scads of money -- we're authors! Everyone knows authors are rich.

So what do you think? What about ebook piracy? Are ebook pirates mostly innocents or the scum of the seven seas? Is ebook piracy a nuisance or is it a serious problem? Authors, do you spend time tracking unauthorized copies of your work down? Do you think your publisher should? Is ebook piracy even something we can solve given the lack of cooperation from international vendors?

All Boxed Up - a Holiday Kiss from Loose Id

All Boxed Up
Anne Douglas

Genre: Full-figured Heroine Erotic Contemporary
Length: Holiday Kisses


Christmas Eve is not supposed to be celebrated naked, tied up, and locked in a dark cardboard box. But that's exactly where Aimee Small finds herself. Has she been kidnapped by some strange Christmas themed psycho-killer, fascinated with the owner of the local Christmas shop? Or is it something else entirely?

Joseph Christopher was not expecting to come home and find a huge-ass box in his foyer -- especially one that makes noises. When he lifts up the lid, he finds that Santa's come early this year and left him a tasty gift indeed: Aimee, the girl he's been crushing on all year. She's naked, bar some red satin ribbon wrapped, candy cane-style, around her luscious body.

Oh, yeah! Some years it pays to end up on Santa's naughty list...

Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable.

* * * * *

When Loose Id put out a call to their authors about a group of shorts for the holiday season this great little vignette of a woman trapped in a box and the man who finds her popped into my head. It was supposed to be my first real foray in a storyline with BDSM. After all a short story would be perfect for dipping my toe in the pool right?

I've always had this impression that BDSM storylines usually have to be pretty serious - sexy, but serious - due to the nature of the power play (big sweeping generalisation there, I know). So I sat down and wrote this kind of creepy first page or two expecting my hero to come along and 'release' my heroine from her literal and figurative box, and on the story would unfold.

Well that was the plan.

My hero turned into a bit of a clumsy guy - a computer guy with a heart of gold who's really
crushing on the shy-with-guys, but outgoing heroine. Not at all the Alpha with a side of submissive I was going for.

Instead I got pratfalls, and loose dangling ribbons just perfect for tripping over, a computer geek out to show his crush he's just what she needs, and a girl who finally shoves her shyness to the side to grab at what she wants, and sex, hot sex.

A hot sexy comedy comedy. Not serious at all. Bugger.

Oh well, maybe next time!
Read an excerpt after the cut

She was disconcerted, to say the least, by waking up to realize she had no idea where she was.

It was even more distressing to open her eyes to find it dark -- not middle of the night dark, but ohmigod-can’t-see-the-end-of-my-nose-where-the-hell-am-I dark -- and that her hands and feet were bound, and if the goose bumps were a guide, as close to naked as she could get without actually being so.

Aimee shook her head, but the slightly muzzy feeling she’d woken up with still clung at the edges. Am I dreaming?

A pinch on her inner thigh that no doubt left her with a red mark assured her she wasn’t. It stung like hell. Not dreaming then.

The walls were close, much too close; her hands had been bound at the wrist, but not to her body, so she still had some maneuverability and didn’t have to reach far to feel the walls of her cage. There was about a foot either side of where she sat that, once you calculated in the width of her ass, made her cage roughly four foot wide. With her arms stretched right out above her head she could just touch the top, and her fingertips told her the walls were smooth, not unlike the feel of thick paper.

A cardboard box.

But how did she end up naked -- and from what she could gather by touch, wrapped in wide satin ribbon -- and in a damn box? Close to tears, she sniffed to hold them back and caught the slight smell of peppermint -- just like the scent she used in her shop, The Jolly Santa.

Damn it, the sick bastard’s put me in a box that came from my own store!

A tear escaped to trickle down her cheek, only to be soaked up by the ribbon her jailer had used as a gag. The gag wasn’t that tight, but it still made it difficult for her to close her mouth, and with her hands tied together, palm-to-palm in front of her, she couldn’t reach the knot in back.

She sniffed again, but the tears overflowed, there was no holding them back.

Who? Who would do this to her? Why had they done this? She didn’t have any obvious enemies. Well, none that she knew about, at least.

Visions of psycho killers danced in her head; the horrific images of the abducted girls from the movie Hostel -- images only two weeks old -- were especially clear. The bindings around her ankles were tight, but she fought them anyway, her hearing straining as she waited for the whine of a chain saw or the click and hum of an electric cattle prod through. Only the tinny sounds of holiday music made it through the walls of the box.

Oh God. I’ve been abducted by some nut job with a weird Christmas fetish, or maybe a vendetta against Santa for not bringing him a bike when he was eight.

Maybe she should have listened to her mother when she’d told her opening an all year round Christmas decoration shop was a bad idea. But she’d been wrong! The Jolly Santa had been running profitably from the day it opened -- apparently, like sex, Christmas sells.

Aimee froze mid sob as she caught the click-clack of keys bouncing on a door lock. The assembly rattled as it was turned, the locking mechanism horribly loud to her over-stressed hearing, despite the distance. She began to shake as she heard the eerie screech of the door opening. Her abductor was happily singing.

“We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merr -- what the fuck?” Heavy footsteps came through the door and halted, the keys rattled again -- being removed from the lock no doubt. It was strange the way she could rationalize every single little sound.

The door slammed, the reverberations rattling through the floor and to her box, all the way through the soles of her feet and her butt. The steps marched closer, then there was a heavy thud as something substantial was dropped to the floor…some sort of bag, maybe?

It was true what they said, when faced with certain death your life did flash before your eyes. Aimee blinked back the memories and regretted only one thing: that she’d never told Joseph Christopher how she really felt about him.

More steps; around her cage now. She dared not move in case she drew attention to herself. Something scratched around the sides -- fingers? Aimee barely let herself breathe.

“How the hell did this get here?”

Huh?

The box rocked as it was pushed from side. “Heavy, whatever it is.”

Hey! Aimee threw her shoulder into the side of the box the push had come from.

“And it moves. Great.” The man seemed annoyed. “If Darren snuck in here and left me a sheep, I’m going to keep the damn thing, fatten it up, and feed it to him at Easter.” There was scrabbling at the top of the box. “A card, how nice.” The ironic sarcasm was thick.

Something was not right with this situation, not right at all. But who was she to complain if the guy, whoever he was, wasn’t a psychotic mass murder. But it begged the questions: who and why?

“Joseph,” the man read, “you’ve tried so hard this year, but Aimee just couldn’t see it. So we decided it’s time you both got what you really want. You’ll find your gift inside the box. Make the most of it. C&P”

Understanding hit with a flash of disbelief. Her incredulous scream of “No, no, no, no, no!” only came out as a muffled squeal as she tugged against the restraints on her limbs. The box rocked to and fro as she fought; her terrorized emotions screamed at the injustice of it not being a stranger, but the man she’d crushed on for a good five years now slowly lifting up the lid of the box her demented cousins, Candy and Petunia, had trapped her in. They must have drugged her at dinner, stripped her, tied her up, and left her on Joseph’s doorstep like the proverbial pig with an apple in its mouth.

Her cousins had gone much too far this time.

Winter Came A Calling

Sometimes my foresightedness blows me away. Okay, okay, on rare occasions my ability to weather forecasts works out to my advantage. For the better part of a month now, every day has pretty much echoed the one before it which I suspect has driven the weather people crazy. Nothing to talk about. And because I live in ski country, there's a lot of staring at the sky and doing snow dances. It must have worked because the much anticipated storm has hit, and although its only snowing in fits and starts, another storm is on the horizon and my son is out cross country skiing.

Not me. Because I bought out the grocery store on Fri, I have no inclination or need to go anywhere. Yesterday was, in part, devoted to making chili and working on Christmas gifts. More winter type cooking on tap for today along with the Christmas card pile.

Something else is simmering inside me, and that's what's finally getting me to the point of this post--writing. I love summer, adore spring, am invigorated by fall with those tied into outdoor activities. However in winter I all but hybernate. I read and read some more and I write. A LOT. There's something about the lack of distractions (except for Christmas and the economy and a new president about to take on the reins of this faultering country, etc) that takes me deep inside myself where the muse lives.

Not that long ago I was pushing myself trying to come up with story ideas now that I'm nearly finished with a contracted project. Had I hit the wall, I wondered. Was I burned out, a has been? I didn't really believe that because I've been doing this for a long time and trust my imagination. (It's my contact with reality I don't trust). But I felt as if I was pushing myself, forcing enthusiasm for the blip of a plot that I didn't really feel. Then as one quiet day followed another and I actually glimpsed the end of the current project, I felt myself opening up and getting excited.

Its hard to say where my enthusiasm will take me, but all kinds of things intrigue me and whisper "write about me, no me, me!"

Examples:

1. A dear friend who is battling cancer for the third time sent me an email showing a beautiful purple iris and a poem about how all of us have our own struggles and friendships see us through them.

2. On a road I seldom travel, I spotted a decaying building with a large "no trespassing" sign plastered on front. My frist question was, why would anyone want to followed by "what if someone did." What would that person find in there? Experience. Encounter. Learn about themselves.

3. My husband, a huge history fan, was telling me about a program he'd just seen on the history channel about the underground railroad used during the slavery era to spirit runaway slaves to freedom. What if an underground railroad still exists or exists in a world of my making? Who would benefit, what are the dangers, and what will those involved in it or trying to shut it down learn about themsevles?

More nuggets are poking me in the brain and that's exciting. And that, for me, is what the muse is all about.

Vonna

http://www.vonnaharper/.

p.s. My Midnight Soldier has slipped from front and center on the Loose ID site but is still there, hint, hint in case reincarnation's your thing.

p.s.s. Devil Man is waiting for a cover and then will be scheduled for release Now there's a moody, broody protagonist for you.

Interested in a free read?

Check out All Romance eBooks Wildfire that went out today, right at the end there's a super short story from yours truly :)

And while your at ARe, jump on the contest bandwagon:

*****Permission to repost or forward granted*****

Celebrate the Holidays with ARe and you could win your very own iPhone or iTouch!

Every Friday between Thanksgiving and Christmas ARe will be giving away to one customer their choice of a gift certificate for an iPhone or iTouch.

To be eligible for each week's giveaway simply complete the following sentence on your blog, myspace, facebook, etc. and link back to All Romance eBooks, then email us a link to the post at iphone@allromanceebooks.com

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good boy or girl this year. What do I want for the holidays? An iPhone/iTouch so that I can use Stanza to read all the romance I need from all the publishers I love that I buy at All Romance eBooks. You see, Santa, I deserve the iPhone/iTouch because...


And of course, check out the Loose Id listings while you're there!

Monsters: The Dandy versus The Beast

I was drawn into a conversation a few months ago about vampires and the two categories that they often fall in to, which are either ‘The Dandy’ or ‘The Beast.’ The person I was having the discussion with seemed confused, so I explained it thusly:

The Dandy-type of vampire is one who may or may not have an accent, is extremely well-mannered (even if he is truly evil) and he is one whose only indicating feature is his fangs. He can often be found brooding, may have musical talent of some sort and has an air of nobility. Prime examples can be found in: “Interview with the Vampire,” “Twilight,” “Dracula,” and most vampiric tv shows like “Forever Knight,” and “True Blood.”

The Beast-type and my favorite (everyone else’s least it seems) is more animalistic, is less refined, probably won’t win any beauty contests but can occasionally be a gentle soul. Sometimes seen in packs or in lone status, the Beast type is very rarely the love interest in movies, but in some instances can be the noblest thing in a film. For prime examples, check out: “30 Days of Night,” “Blade 2,” “ Underworld 2,” “Dusk til Dawn,” and “Nosferatu.”

Now both types can be extended to cover not just vampires, but shifters, gargoyles, demons and other eccentric paranormal types, but for all intents and purposes paranormal erotica tends to focus more on the Dandy. . It’s easier to imagine oneself being swept away by someone who is hot on the outside, but a cousin to a zombie on the inside. I myself am currently reading a paranormal romance novel where the Vampire Alpha Dandy is the hottest, strongest thing since sliced Viking cheese and while it may seem like he has the narrative-prerequisite flaw, his only real flaw seems to be how he attracts attention. I am reading it and somewhat enjoying it, but it's like chocolate candy, good for a moment then gone too soon.

I remember reading “Phantom of the Opera” when I was a young girl and I also recall watching “Beauty and the Beast” starring Linda Hamilton and Ron Perlman. Both kind of seemed to surpass the fluff of romance and hit upon something much more cerebral: the ability to love the mind more than the body. If the hero more resembled a bat rather than Brad Pitt, would the heroine/hero still be attracted to them? What does the choice to love a beast say about the heroine/hero…something deep and intellectual or something kinky and therapy-worthy? Is this something you would even want to read?

Chime in.

Live Chat With Cover Model Andrei Claude

Mark your calendars everyone! On Thursday, December 4 at 5:30 p.m. (est) my author group, Scribes Unleashed, is hosting a special live chat with cover model and Mr. Romance 2005 Andrei Claude! Despite what you may think about beautiful men, Andrei is just more than just a beautiful wrapper. He's very thoughtful, intelligent (check out his blog Man on Romance) and very unassuming.

So, if any of you are interested in coming out and talking with us and Andrei, or just want to pick up a few free reads from our backlist just send me an email or if you'd like to follow what we're all doing in this topsy turvy world of being an author join our author group and you'll be given the special code to sign into the chat.