Mimi Riser

If Wishes Were Kisses is a "Book of the Week"...

2012-01-23T14:37:00.004-06:00

You can read all about it (including an excerpt and author interview) HERE. And while you're there, please check out the great books by my fellow authors. This is a wonderful new site and well worth a look. Thanks! :)

Sylver demanded a new cover for this story, and here's the result! I hope he's happy now.

2012-01-12T02:26:00.013-06:00

Just released! - ROMANCE Fantasy, Food, and Fortune Telling

2012-01-10T20:58:00.013-06:00

Three different works in one quirky collection--three different roads, but they all lead to romance! Start off with a fantasy love story, then move on to romantic recipes, and finish with a divination “dating game” that beats the heck out of playing doctor.

Within this collection, you’ll find: If Wishes Were Kisses (the merry tale of Maid Tansy and Rowan the Rake), plus Spice Up Your Love Life (Aphrodisiacs from the Kitchen), and The Naughty Girl’s Guide to Divining by the Dots (Fortune telling for fun and romance).

All three titles are also available separately, but by buying them together in one volume, you get 33% OFF the regular price. A great package at a great savings, perfect for Valentine’s Day or any day you need some love and laughter in your life.

Price: $1.99
Available NOW at KINDLE and Smashwords

Coming soon to B&N, Apple, Sony, Kobo, and Diesel...
=======

CHECK IT OUT...

2012-01-10T20:15:00.009-06:00

I discovered a great new site today HERE. It's for readers and authors, and it looks really good, so I'm passing the word. You might want to sign up for their newsletter. I did! :-)

=======

January Contest -- Happy New Year!

2012-01-03T00:21:00.003-06:00

The prize is a beautiful bracelet handcrafted from genuine cultured pearls and Czech crystal. To enter, just send an email to: mimiriser[at]gmail[dot]com telling me what Sylver believes in that Hunter does not. You'll find the answer in the excerpt for White Wolf Christmas HERE on this blog. I'll announce the winner the first week of February. :-)

Celebrate the New Year with a party at TRS

2012-01-02T20:38:00.008-06:00

Lots of authors, excerpts, and prizes - and the grand prize is a NOOK. Join the fun at The Romance Studio party site this week, January 2nd, 3rd, and 4th! :-)

A brand NEW Sylver & Steele story - White Wolf Christmas - M/M romance

2011-12-17T20:06:00.018-06:00

Just released! Holiday magic and mayhem from the Sylver & Steele series...

White Wolf Christmas
Only 99 cents at:
KINDLE, B&N, Smashwords, Apple, Sony, Kobo, and Diesel

A simple rescue mission turns deadly when cross-dressing werewolf Sylver Starr and his cat-shifter mate Hunter Steele teleport to Alaska on Christmas Eve to save a polar bear family from poachers, and get stranded on the ice, with an arctic storm blowing in. No way out, no shelter... no hope. This looks like the end of the line for our heroes. Shapeshifters are tough but not impervious to freezing. Unless a miracle happens, they'll be popsicles soon. Then again, aren't miracles what Christmas is all about?

=======
EXCERPT:

’Tis the night before Christmas,
And all through the house,
Strains of magical music
Clash with laughter from my spouse.

That would be Hunter Steele, multibillionaire, corporate king, and general pain in the ass. The love of my life and bane of my existence, bless his heart.

He’s also the founder and chief of a covert organization called Earth Guardians, Inc., and I’m one of his secret agents. But we won’t discuss that, because it’s the holidays, damn it, and we’re supposed to be on vacation. I’ve declared a moratorium on all business talk until after New Year’s. So there.

Most of all, Hunter is a cat-shifter.

And I’m a werewolf.

So we’re often at odds, being opposite breeds. Still, I can’t imagine what he finds so amusing right now. Certainly not my Sugar Plum Fairy costume. What else should I be wearing while listening to Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker ballet? I mean, you have to expect this sort of thing when you marry a drag queen. Which I am.

In any case, Hunter has seen me in this glitter-frosted tutu before. I wear it every December 24th. It’s one of my Yuletide rituals. Just like hanging our stockings by the chimney with care, and setting out a snack for Santa Claus. When I was little, growing up poor in rural West Texas, sometimes all I could leave him was a graham cracker, but I’ve made up for that scanty fare since then. This year I’ve set out a big plate of lasagna with a nice Chianti on the side.

I hope Santa likes Italian.

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed when it’s still there in the morning...” Hunter almost chokes on his guffaws.

Unfortunately, he recovers.

“...because I don’t intend to eat all that,” he finishes.

Notice, if you will, how he just shamelessly read my mind (yet rarely allows me access to his, I might add). All shapeshifters are natural telepaths, but Hunter abuses the talent, if you ask me--not that he ever does.

I roll my eyes at him. “You’re not supposed to eat it. It’s for Santa Claus.”

Now I need a treat for the reindeer. Mustn’t forget them!

Wafted along by The Nutcracker’s “Waltz of the Flowers,” on the points of my toe shoes, I dance toward the door to the kitchen to see what I can find. Carrots, perhaps? Shredded wheat? Apple strudel?

A hand on my shoulder halts me in mid pirouette. Hunter’s amber eyes gleam into mine. His lips twitch. He’s trying to suppress his laughter. But not very hard.

“Sylver, I hate to be the one to tell you this,” he says, “but you’re a big boy now, and it’s time you faced the truth. There is no Santa Claus.”

“What?”

Such sacrilege! And on Christmas Eve, too. I gasp in horror.

“He’s a myth,” Hunter persists.

“You better not let Santa hear you say that,” I warn. “Do you want coal in your stocking?”

We go through this every year, actually. Hunter thinks it’s way silly of me to believe in Santa Claus, and I think it’s even sillier of him not to. After all, werewolves have been called a myth, too, but I’m pretty sure I exist. So do vampires, fairies, cat-shifters (hint, hint)... Hell, there’s a whole intricate subculture of magical creatures living hidden among humanity.

“But no fat old men who deliver gifts down chimneys. I’m the one who fills our Christmas stockings, you idiot!”

Really? Damn. I guess that explains what I found in my stocking last year. A red and white striped dildo that plays “Jingle Bells.” I had wondered about that one. We all know, of course, that Santa Claus makes toys--but probably not that kind.

Whatever. I still believe in him. Just because Hunter fills our stockings is no proof that Santa doesn’t fill others, right?

“Wrong,” Hunter answers the thought.

I did mention he’s a pain in the ass, didn’t I?

“I thought you liked me in your ass,” he purrs, leaning in close, suddenly going sexy on me. Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Tantalizing, with a face to die for, and a body to match.

“What do you mean ‘suddenly’?” His eyes narrow to smoky slits. A wicked grin curls his lips. “I’m always sexy.”

Um... He has a point, you know. Hunter, even at his worst, can melt your underwear with a single glance. Nearly naked, he’s a heart attack waiting to happen.

I didn’t mention that part, did I, that he’s wearing nothing but red silk boxer shorts?

Very festive.

He also knows we’ve reached a stalemate in the Santa debate, so he’s trying to change the subject to hot holiday humping...

==============

R-excerpt from "Can't Fight the Feeling"...

2011-12-03T22:41:00.007-06:00

From crazy conflicts in outer space to the dangers of a dark fantasy fortress and the splendor of medieval Byzantium, hot-blooded heroes and heroines fight aliens, demons, and each other... but discover no one can fight falling in love.

Can't Fight the Feeling
Published by Amber Quill Press
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-854-7
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber
URL: http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/CantFightFeeling.html

Previously available only in electronic format, these stories of erotic romance have now been combined for a paperback edition. Included are the tales:

Samantha White and the Seven Dwarves
Winner in the Amber Heat Wave Contest

Abducted by aliens and facing sex-training from the deadly delicious Deuce, a lonely woman battles to hang on to her wits and her heart. Little does she realize she and Deuce will soon join forces in the wildest escape plan two naked people tied into one weird chair have ever risked. If they succeed, an even bigger plan awaits them. If not... well, at least they’ll die smiling.

Dungeons & Dirty Dreams
Welcome to the dungeons of Fortress Forlorne, where the action is down and dirty. And so are the desires. Let the games begin...

Jeff Connors is such a dreamer. On the outside, he looks like Khondor the Barbarian. Inside, he wishes he really were the warrior-wizard character he created for the fantasy game he plays with his old friend Lacey. Too old of a friend, Lacey thinks. All she wishes is that Jeff wasn’t nine years her junior. If it weren’t for the age factor, she’d jump his luscious bod and live out a few fantasies of her own. Impossible, of course. Or is it? When a wacky fairy godmother slam-dunks Lacey and Jeff into the dark and dangerous game world they invented, they might get their wishes. Unless, the monsters and demons get them first...

Cymric’s Rose
From Constantinople to Sherwood...sparks fly and passions rage when a Saxon earl tries to tame a strong-willed Byzantine beauty...

Cymric of Hunterdon is no saint, yet he does believe in discretion and discipline--two qualities the wayward “Black Rose” seems not to understand. What noblewoman in her right mind would dare play the harlot at a scandalous orgy, then attack the brave lord who wishes to save her honor? Truly this rose is most fair, but she has wickedly sharp thorns. The lady needs a good pruning. And Cymric is just the man to give it to her...

=========
All three stories are also available singly as ebooks at the below URLs:
http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/SamanthaWhite.html

http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/DungeonsDirtyDreams.html

http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/CymricsRose.html

=========
EXCERPT (from Samantha White & the Seven Dwarves):

...The console hissed and crackled, shooting sparks everywhere.

"Ouch!" Sam leapt back as the glittering spray stung bare flesh. Too much bare flesh. Breasts, stomach, thighs... Gulp. She looked down at herself and blanched. It seemed that when the aliens had beamed her up, they'd neglected to beam her clothes along, too.

"I'm naked!" she screeched.

"Mmm, yes, I noticed."

The murmur came from behind her. A deep husky purr of a voice that stroked over her like crushed velvet, making her skin flush. Choking on her own breath, she spun about to confront it--

And nearly swallowed her tongue.

What the... That couldn't possibly be who it looked like.

The voice came out of Shakespeare's Hamlet. Well, someone dressed like Hamlet, in an all-black medieval-style doublet, shirt and hose, and with sleek black hair capping his head. But he was built like a Greek god, tall, tan and muscular, handsome as the devil and looking infinitely more sinful. A man rippling with power, radiating raw sex.

Sam's mouth went dry. Switch the doublet to a dinner jacket and this guy might have stepped straight out of her wildest fantasies--or her video collection, which amounted to the same thing. She adored old movies and the actors who'd starred in them, and here stood her all-time favorite. All he needed was a martini, a gun, and a mission to save the world.

"Now I know I'm nuts," she rasped out.

The man grinned, sending a hot shiver down her spine.

"Oh, no, not nuts," he corrected, and his gaze lowered to her nipples. "More like fruit, I'd say. Strawberries, in particular."

"Blimey, it's a good thing Notto didn't hear that," one of the aliens muttered.

Why? Who the hell knew?

The man ignored the interruption, all his attention on Sam's chest. "They're such a deep, dusky pink when ripe--one of your planet's great delicacies, I think. So firm yet juicy, strawberries. So tender and sweet." He licked his lips. "One wants to savor them slowly, to roll them around on the tongue and suck and suck and--"

"I get the message!" So did her strawberries, which were now tingling and puckered into hard peaks.

"I doubt it. But you will." He punctuated the promise with another grin, and Sam went damp between the legs.

She knocked her knees together and clutched her arms over her breasts as his gaze raked down her body, then up to her face.

"You've turned out quite nicely," he told her, something in his tone making her back hairs prickle. "A near perfect duplicate. Isn't that right, lads?" He glanced around at the dwarves.

The blue one yawned. "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, guv'na."

"Ain't my type, but what the crap do I know? You're the prince's man. I'm just contract labor," Xotto the green grumbled.

Red Totto and turquoise Vrotto grunted noncommittally. The purple one scratched under his arm and the orange one let out a loud belch. The yellow one seemed to have fallen asleep. He was slouched over his console, snoring.

The hunk in black shook his head and sighed. "Pay them no heed, love. Absolutely clueless, the lot of them--wouldn't know a quality clone if it bit them in the ass."

Sam's stomach knotted. Clone? She didn't like the sound of that.

"Trust me, with the proper schooling, you'll do splendidly," the man added.

Schooling? She liked the sound of that even less. The knot in her stomach tightened and she hugged herself harder.

"What are you talking about? What's going on here?" The demand came out in a dry croak, pathetic. She swallowed and tried again. "Who the hell are you?" That sounded like a mouse with a sore throat. Not much of an improvement, but the best she could manage.

Dreamboy looked nothing but amused. "Ah, yes, how rude of me. My apologies. Allow me to introduce us..." With a fluid flourish, he swept out his arm, indicating the crew one by one. "These are the Harvesters: Jotto, Xotto, Vrotto, Totto, Flotto, Notto, and Bleggh."

"Bleggh?" Sam blinked at the orange haired dwarf. He gave her a big, toothy smile and rumbled out another resonant belch.

"Sorry," the man said. "He does that a lot, I'm afraid."

"It's all them Betelgeuse beans he eats," green Xotto explained (as though anyone cared).

"At least his burps is better'n his farts," Flotto of the pulsating purple hair groused.

"Phewy." Jotto of the blinding blue held his nose. "You can say that again."

"At least his burps is--"

Jotto slapped Flotto in the head. "I didn't mean literally, you bleedin' idiot."

Mystery man heaved a long-suffering sigh. "You see what I have to put up with?" he said to Sam. "But to finish the introductions..." He dipped a short bow from the waist. "I, my lovely one, am Deuce, your trainer."

"T-trainer?" She liked the sound of that the least of all. Panic prickled over her, icy chills mixed with escalating heat. Her thighs quivered with the effort to keep her legs under her. Her voice quivered more. "Trainer for wh-what?"

"Sex," he said. A sudden fire in his eyes almost melted her where she stood.

Oh, God... She did have to ask, didn't she? Her breath whooshed out in a ragged gasp and her knees buckled.

"Careful." Strong hands gripped her waist to hold her upright--hot hands, scorching her skin, while the gleam in his dark eyes sizzled straight into her core. "You're not going to faint, are you?"

Um...she was seriously considering it. "Would it help me any if I did?"

"Probably not." Deuce chuckled. "But I could have all kinds of fun reviving you."

Yeah, that's what she'd figured. Help...

=======

Another new release: The Kitchen Witch Yuletide Book

2011-11-20T21:40:00.004-06:00

A holiday "fruitcake" of facts, fun, and food. Recipes and tales for the Yuletide season. Includes sweet treats and saucy trivia, heartwarming memories and magical lore. Delightful reading and delicious eating for the merriest time of the year.

Available at:
Smashwords - http://smashwords.com/b/105901
and KINDLE - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006963NW6

And only $0.99

Happy Holidays :)

New release (M/M): My Big Fat SX-File Wedding (PG-excerpt)...

2011-11-20T20:52:00.008-06:00

A brand new Sylver & Steele story...
Published by Amber Quill Press
URL: http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/MyBigFatWedding.html

BLURB:
A cross-dressing werewolf and a billionaire cat-shifter. How the heck did such a mismatched pair ever get together in the first place? If you’ve been pondering that question, here’s the answer at last, in naughty and naked detail--the complete, behind-the-scenes story of how werewolf Sylver Starr met and married cat-shifter Hunter Steele! Before the wedding, however, they’ll have to save the world from impending doom. As usual.

If you haven’t yet read a Sylver & Steele story, this is a great one to start with. And if you have been following our heroes’ adventures, you definitely don’t want to miss MY BIG FAT SX-FILE WEDDING!

=========
EXCERPT:

Ever been abducted by aliens?

Me neither--despite what a certain secret agency’s secret files say on the matter. The report in those files was written by one who had reason to fudge the facts. Hunter Steele.

The Hunter Steele.

You’ve heard of him, I’m sure, but I hadn’t until that night. Hunter fudged a lot back then. Celebrities leading a double life often do. And Hunter was more celebrated than most. He also had more to hide--and I don’t mean just the afore mentioned secret agency, Earth Guardians, Inc., which he runs on the sly.

Publicly, Hunter plays the sexy, savvy corporate king ruling a business empire that spans the globe. His conquests have been many, in and out of the boardroom. He radiates power and sensual charm. Super Stud on a gold platter.

Some years ago, as a billionaire bachelor with lethal good looks, he could’ve had any woman he wanted. And did. The problem was he didn’t really want them. So I honestly can’t say I was sorry I ruined his “wolf” image for him. Neither was he. Eventually. In any case, I’m the wolf.

All of which brings me back to my original point.

Hunter was the one who got abducted. I just tagged along for the flying saucer ride, a passenger, not a prisoner. Though in the end, I suppose, I was as trapped as he. Hunter and I were both caught fast by forces beyond our control. But those forces weren’t alien.

The aliens, for the most part, turned out to be okay guys--as opposed to King Hunter who was a royal pain in the ass. He always is, but I wasn’t as used to it then as I am now.

It was our first adventure together, and neither of us guessed where it would lead. All things considered, how could anyone have guessed? Oh yeah, Hunter shocked the world when he burst out of the closet to marry Sylver Starr. A drag queen.

Me.

And here now is the real story of how it happened. File it under SX, for Super and eXtraordinary. Or maybe we should add an “e” between the letters... That would work, too.

Think about it...

=========

Thought for the day...

2011-11-11T22:34:00.003-06:00

"There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.
By being happy we sow anonymous benefits upon the world."

~Robert Louis Stevenson~

** ** **

Quickie "Contest" -- Everyone Wins!

2011-11-10T14:27:00.005-06:00

Well, actually, instead of devising a contest (where some would win, but others would lose, after all), I thought it would be more fun to do an all-out giveaway... So, for one week only, from now until 11/17/11, I'm offering EVERY JACK NEEDS HIS JIL for free to anyone who'd like a copy. It's a full-length comedy romance novel, winner in the P&E Readers Poll and recipient of a FAR "Recommended Read."

To get your free copy, just go to the book's page here:
http://smashwords.com/b/47940
and enter the freebie coupon code: JT84X

Simple, huh? And this way everyone is a winner! :-)

=======
(Please remember that the coupon will expire next week on 11/17/11, so this is a limited time offer.)

=========

PG-excerpt: If Wishes Were Kisses (fantasy romance) $0.99

2011-11-04T15:57:00.006-05:00

If ever there was a fair damsel in distress, it’s not Tansy of Oakwood Manor. Distressed, maybe. She has cares aplenty, but she’s far too indelicate for “fair.” Too tall, too rebellious. Too strange. No man wants a graceless girl of dubious origins. Which is just as well, probably, since Tansy has never yet met a man that she wants, either. Until the day she meets Rowan...

IF WISHES WERE KISSES
Fantasy romance - $0.99
Available now at most online bookstores, including:
Smashwords - http://smashwords.com/b/59257
KINDLE - http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0050JL40Q

Book Cover by Melissa Alvarez:
http://BookCoversGalore.com

=======
EXCERPT:

“Ugly, worthless wench!”

Caught.

Damn.

Tansy of Oakwood Manor flinched as a shadow fell across the kitchen garden gate. Hard fingers bit into her upper arm. A sour odor stung her nose.

Cousin Filbert.

He moved quietly for his pudgy bulk and was always sneaking up on her, spying on her wicked deeds. Tansy was a thief, and she and Filbert both knew it. She never stole for herself, though, nor raided anything greater than the pantry. Crone Caraway didn’t care where her apple tart had come from--or how.

“Quite tasty,” she declared it, and gave Tansy a crooked grin in exchange for the pilfered gift. “Ye grow more like yer mother each day, lassie. Poor Lady Rose, such a kind heart she had.”

And such rotten luck. Disowned by her father, Rose had finished her short life as a ward of her sister’s husband, the current earl of the shire. A misfortune inherited by her child. Lord Burdock was Tansy’s guardian by virtue of having wooed and won her Aunt Violet (as difficult as that was to imagine), an uncle by marriage, not blood. Which made the odious Filbert a cousin only because he, too, called the earl “uncle,” and with more reason. Filbert was Burdock’s bloodline and no birth-kin to Tansy, thank Goddess. She took comfort from that--even if her actual bloodline might be worse.

“Off with you, old witch,” Filbert ordered the crone.

She winked at Tansy. “I’d turn him into a toad for ye, dearie, but I’m afraid someone has already beaten me to it.” Chuckling, she hobbled off down the lane outside the gate.

Filbert glowered as though he’d like to beat her. But he wasn’t that stupid. The last fellow who’d raised hand against Crone Caraway, had ended up with a bad case of boils in a most inconvenient place. The herb woman could hex as shrewdly as she could cure.

Filbert slapped Tansy instead.

Ow.

“She’s been feeding the beggars again,” he called across the yard to Lord Burdock who stood watching from a doorway.

Never mind that those “beggars” were the lord’s own overtaxed subjects.

“Indeed.” The earl’s arched brows pulled together in a scowl. “Then your own plate shall go empty today, niece, to replace the loss to our larder. Out of my sight, you ungrateful chit. And you, nephew, attend me in my study. We shall tally the month’s takings together.”

Oh, goody for Filbert. He loved the clinking of coins as much as their uncle did, and loved to encourage the man’s miserliness. After all, the less Burdock spent now, the more there would be for his apparent heir.

In all fairness, Lord Burdock might have been kinder once--Dame Tulip said so, anyway. But the loss of his older brother years ago, followed by the death of his wife had hardened him, so the story went.

Tansy wondered what Filbert’s excuse was.

He beamed her an evil smirk, then swaggered into the huge house. She stuck out her tongue at his retreating back. As the door shut behind him with a hollow thud, a second story shutter snapped open with a sharp crack.

“I saw that, missy!” a shrill voice hollered.

Of course. Dame Tulip missed nothing, did she?

The housekeeper shoved her ample bosom over the windowsill and leaned out, glaring. “A great, gangly maid like yourself making faces like a common little scalawag. For shame. You’ll never win a man with those manners.”

Aye. A great, gangly old maid of almost five and twenty. Too indelicate to attract a husband. Too tall, too brown from too many hours outside, too poor...

And too strange.

Tansy was noble born, but on the wrong side of the blanket. No one knew her sire, least of all herself, but it was whispered she was the result of an encounter with the fae folk who lived hidden in the earth and preyed on unwary travelers.

Elvin spawned?

A halfling?

Only Tansy’s mother knew the truth of the matter. But Lady Rose had died giving her ill-gotten daughter life, and the truth had died with her.

All Tansy knew was that the marriageable swains of the shire looked at her askance, if they bothered to look at all. No man wanted a graceless orphan of dubious origins, a dowerless bastard with freckles and corkscrew curly red hair.

Which was just as well, probably, since Tansy had never yet met a man that she wanted, either. If she had, perhaps she would’ve tried harder to learn the gentle womanly arts and social graces she lacked--if she could have learned such skills in this humorless household. She existed here as something ’twixt family and servant, having neither the respect of the former nor the paltry perks of the latter.

As though reading Tansy’s thoughts, or maybe just her expression, Dame Tulip hurled a parting shot. “What home would you have if not for the earl? You should show more gratitude, m’girl.”

Slam!

Tansy winced at the noise of the shutter banging closed.

Gratitude for what? Her faded frock? The tiny garret room that was as stuffy in summer as it was cold in winter? The lean meals served with sour looks and bitter words?

Sigh.

Aye, she should be grateful. She was. However difficult her lot, she still lived better than most in this land where the privileged few held the wealth and grew fat off the labor of the ragged many.

And there seemed so little she could do to ease the poor people’s plight. Poor herself, Tansy had nothing of her own to offer them. Naught but kind words, which were free for the saying, a bit of looted food...and a few simple wishing spells gleaned from Crone Caraway.

The spells never worked. (Rather irksome, that. If she was a halfling, wouldn’t you think she might have some magic in her?) But Tansy tried one now, anyway, just for the sheer hell of it. She always preferred forward action to backward brooding, even if the action proved futile. This spell required a rowan tree and a piece of red thread. The first grew by the garden gate. The second...

Hmm, perhaps a red hair would serve?

She plucked one from her head, then peered about to make sure no one spied upon her. When certain that none did, she faced the tree and softly chanted:

“Rowan, rowan, strong and true, if I give you three kisses, will you grant me three wishes?”

A breeze stirred the rowan’s leaves.

Tansy took that for a yes. Quickly, she leaned in and pressed her lips against the cool bark--once, twice, thrice--and wished for...

What?

Food for the hungry?

Rest for the weary?

Aye, those were good things.

And maybe a little love for herself, too, because Goddess knew she needed some.

To seal the spell, she wrapped the strand of hair around one of the tree’s branches and knotted it three times. The final step was to forget all about it, so the charm wouldn’t be hindered by the limits of mortal thought--or something like that--so Crone Caraway had said.

So Tansy did.

Turning her back on the gloom of the manor house, she slipped out the gate and followed the lane east, toward the bright morning sun. A shorts ways down, she came upon Crone Caraway seated on the low stone wall that bordered the path.

The old woman greeted her with a grin. “I’ve been waitin’ for ye.”

Tansy blinked. “You knew I’d be passing this way?”

Crone Caraway chuckled. “I know a great deal, lassie. And ’tis time ye did, too. However, ’tis not my place to tell ye.” She glanced about, a curious twinkle in her eyes. “Ye’ll find out soon enough, I’ll warrant. There be magic in the air this morn. Do ye not feel it?”

“I...I’m not sure.” Tansy rubbed her arms. She did feel a slight prickle of goosebumps. Was that magic?

“Ah well, ye will.” Crone Caraway slid to her feet and shooed Tansy off with a wave of her hand. “Run alang, me dear, and see what ye shall see.”

On that note, the herb woman hobbled off west, toward the village of Greenbriar.

Cryptic Crone Caraway, she did say the oddest things. Tansy watched a moment, then shrugged and continued eastward until the lane opened into green meadow, where wildflowers sparkled like jewels in the grass, and gossamer winged flutter-bys danced on the breeze.

The sunlight and fresh air were free at least, a feast for the senses, and likely the only nourishment she’d get today. Tansy drank deep, filling her lungs and spirit if not her belly, turning her face skyward to soak in the heavenly blue.

The sudden thunder of hooves yanked her gaze back to earth.

What...

There!

Across the field, raced a demon dark steed with a masked rider on its back. A long blade flashed like a shaft of fire in the rider’s hand.

Great Goddess, a highwayman--and a desperate one to attack in broad day.

Or a cowardly one.

His quarry was a lone figure on foot. A soldier by the look of him, and armed with a sword, too, but that was small defense against a mounted charge. The robber’s sword strike had the force of a gallop behind it. With a metallic clang, steel met steel--

Clash!

The soldier parried the blow, but its impact broke his blade and sent him flying. He hit the ground hard, struggled a second to rise, then dropped back and lay motionless, either swooning or...

No!

Tansy’s heart slammed her ribs. Without thinking, she ran forward, waving her arms, shrieking like an avenging fury...

=======

R-excerpt (M/M) w/blurb: The Werewolf In Red (a Sylver & Steele story) -- Happy Howl-o-ween :-)

2011-10-31T18:15:00.010-05:00

Buckle up your seatbelts! Mismatched lovers Sylver Starr and Hunter Steele are back in another adventure, and it’s going to be a very bumpy ride...

For starters, Sylver suspects Hunter is cheating on him. Again. Hunter, you see, is a cat-shifter, and we all know how tomcats are, right? They’re not famous for fidelity. Sylver, on the other hand, is a werewolf, faithful to the core. Wolves mate for life, for better or worse. Still, if it ends up the latter, and the worse gets bad enough... Well, hell, he’s a man, too, isn’t he? If Hunter’s doing him wrong, could anyone really blame Sylver for seeking a little extracurricular comfort? Especially since he knows just where to look for it.

Sylver’s not your average werewolf, after all. When he’s not wearing fur, you can usually find him in a dress. He used to be a professional drag queen, the star attraction of Philadelphia’s Red Banana Revue. Since marrying Hunter, however, Sylver has been a secret agent for Earth Guardians, Inc., Hunter being the founder and chief of that covert corps. But Sylver doesn’t much like playing secret agent. The hours suck, and people are always trying to kill him. It’s an excessively nerve-wracking gig. Given the choice, he’d much rather return to his first love--The Stage.

That’s how Sylver ends up in the “City of Brotherly Love”--without Hunter--for a night of gaudy décor and bawdy entertainment at Philly’s très gay answer to the Moulin Rouge. Maybe he’ll find solace by joining in the club’s grand finale cancan. If Hunter doesn’t find him first.

Meanwhile, there’s a megalomaniac vampire plotting to take over the world, a crazy countess with her own hidden agenda, a Plain Jane Cinderella who needs a fairy godmother (or four), and a basset hound-shifter butler who’s just met his predestined life-mate, but isn’t happy about it. Somehow, Sylver and Hunter must sort out their own problems while helping their friends--and saving the world, of course.

Did you ever have one of those nights?...

=======
THE WEREWOLF IN RED
A "Sylver & Steele" story
Published by Amber Allure
ISBN-13: 978-1-61124-034-4
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber
URL: http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/WerewolfRed.html

Genres: Gay / Dark Fantasy / Werewolf / Vampire / Shapeshifter / Science Fiction / Futuristic / Paranormal / Psychic Phenomena / Action / Adventure / Romantic Comedy / Exhibitionism / Public Places / Series
Heat Level: 3
Length: Extended Novella (30k words)

=========
EXCERPT (adult):

...I feel the touch of his consciousness inside mine. But that’s not where I want his touch. More potent is the physical feel of him. Warm flesh under my palms, hot breath on my face... If I lean forward an inch, I could kiss him.

“The whole planet is in danger, and you’re thinking of sex?” he growls.

“Yeah. Bad me.” I flash him a wolfish grin. “It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact you’re naked, could it?”

And it seems like years since we’ve made love.

“Only a few weeks,” he corrects. But he’s weakening, I see it in his eyes.

“That long?” I stroke my hands down his bare back, and his growl becomes a groan.

“Too long,” he rasps out.

I’m glad we agree on something.

“So...what do you want to do about it?” I ask, my voice going husky.

He groans again. “Nothing. There isn’t time. We have to find Vlad and stop him before he strikes.”

“Bullshit. The kind of seeds he’s planted won’t sprout overnight. You don’t think he’s going to take over anything in the next five minutes, do you?” I punctuate the question by grazing my lips over Hunter’s.

“Um...probably not,” he concedes on a hoarse breath.

“Good, then we have time for a quickie before we go after him.”

“You’re a real pain in the ass,” Hunter grumbles, but doesn’t resist when I push him backward onto the seat and straddle his thighs. “There’s not enough room back here.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. So we’re jammed together like sardines. This is a problem?”

“It is if you want to fuck. I’m too cramped to move. And your skirts are in the way.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of skirts. You just have to lift them to provide easy access to the fun stuff.” I demonstrate by hiking my petticoats to reveal I’m wearing nothing beneath but black stockings and red garters. My erect cock juts forward like the bowsprit of a sailing ship.

Anchors away!

“Sylver, for godssake, this is a public street. Anyone could walk by and look in the windows.”

“In that case, we’d better give ’em a good show, hadn’t we?”

What can I say, I’m an exhibitionist. It’s why I belong on the stage.

“You belong in a cage, you pervert.”

“Or purr-vert? Takes one to know one, pussycat. Keep it up, flattery will get you everywhere.”

Growling, I fall on Hunter like a hungry wolf--which I am, even if outwardly I’m in cancan-clad human form. When desire calls, my inner beast answers. Animal instinct rules the night.

Rowrrr... If I could, I’d start at his hairline and eat my way down to his toenails. But he’s right, there’s not much space to maneuver in here.

Then again, how much space do we need? It occurs to me we’re in a perfect position right now to slick leg it. I bunch my skirts around my waist and grind our groins together--skin to skin, man to man--rub my dick against Hunter’s. Damn, that feels good.

With a guttural moan, he surrenders to rising fever, and that feels even better. He digs a hand between us, fists both rods in one firm grip, and squeezes.

Lightning crackles. The windows steam. If we could bottle him, it would solve the world’s energy woes. Talk about generating electricity. I comb fingers through his silky black hair and attack his lips--kissing, nipping, sucking--ravenous for the taste of him. A little salty, a little sweet, all red-hot spicy...mmm... While Hunter pumps our cocks, I tongue-fuck his mouth.

I’d rather fuck his ass, but I’ll take what I can get. Considering the close quarters--or maybe because of them--we’re doing pretty damn good, I think.

“Better than I expected,” he pants out, dragging his lips off mine. Luminous with lust, his eyes blaze up at me. “If you slide forward a little, I’ll bet I could fuck your ass.”

“Terrific. We’ll try that next. But if you stop the hand action now, I’ll rip your balls out by the roots.” My own balls burn with anticipation. A volcanic pressure fills me. I’m almost ready to erupt...

=======

My very first Halloween costume...

2011-10-29T20:58:00.001-05:00

I was only about three at the time, but I remember it pretty well. My mother made a cute little rabbit costume for me, and a Donald Duck one for my brother. She dressed herself as Zorro, and my father went as a woman (first and only time I've ever seen my dad in drag--he didn't look half bad, LOL). Then we all went trick-or-treating together to the raucous amusement of the entire neighborhood. I ought to explain that my mom was a petite five-foot-two and my dad is six-foot and muscular. So, there was Zorro in "his" mask and cape, dwarfed by this big, busty femme fatale... the two of them herding around a fuzzy blue bunny and a duck in a sailor suit. Memories like that stick with a person. :-)

New release - The Kitchen Witch Halloween Book - $0.99

2011-10-11T19:21:00.003-05:00

New from the "Kitchen Witch Collection"...
A holiday hodge-podge of facts, fun, and food. Recipes and tales for the Halloween season. Includes savory dishes and sweet treats, strange stories and odd lore. Great reading and great eating for a magical night!

Available now at KINDLE and Smashwords.
(and only $0.99)

R-excerpt w/blurb: My Knightly Adventures (fur, fangs, & feys)...

2011-10-03T15:09:00.004-05:00

What I did with this trilogy was, basically, write a novel in three parts. Each story stands on its own as a separate, complete adventure, but together they show the full journey of a magical romance from the first meeting to the final happily-ever-after.

All three stories are available singly as ebooks, or together in one paperback volume:

Publisher: Amber Quill Press
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber
ISBN: 978-1-60272-914-8 (paperback)
URL: http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/MyKnightlyAdventures.html

Genres: Anthology / Dark Fantasy / Werewolf / Vampire / Contemporary
Fantasy / Witchcraft / Magic / Action / Adventure /
Chick Lit / Romantic Comedy / BDSM / Ménage [M/M/F] / Group Sex /
Bisexual [M/M] / Voyeurism / Exhibitionism / Public Places / Series

BLURB:
Magic and mayhem, heroics, humor and heat all add up to the romantic adventure of a lifetime in this three-part fantasy series.

Previously available only in electronic format, these interwoven tales have now been combined for a paperback edition. Included are the stories...

Book I: A Knight To Remember
Romance ignites and sex sizzles when a lusty lady of today and a werewolf knight from ancient Camelot are whirled into a wild fantasyland where danger threatens and desire rules all.
http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/MKA1_KnightToRemember.html

Book II: Just Another Lonely Knight
When a fairytale romance hits the rocks of real life, a bisexual fey-kin offers aid via a love spell that involves a three-way carnal joining with him. But will he be able to guard his own heart if the spell ensnares him, too? This couple isn't the sort to open their relationship to a third member...or are they?
http://amberquill.com/AmberHeat/MKA2_JustAnotherLonelyKnight.html

Book III: In The Heat Of The Knight
A vindictive vampire, an enchanted cat, and scorching sex-magic give soul-mated lovers a run for their money in the surprising finale to My Knightly Adventures...
http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/MKA3_InTheHeatOfTheKnight.html

=============
EXCERPT (adult) from Book I, A Knight to Remember:

"Have a care, lady. You know naught what manner of man I am."

"I know you're no coward. Quite the opposite. I think you're wonderfully courageous to stick to your ideals. You must suffer a lot of ridicule for it, but know this--you're a better and braver man than those who call you `worthless.'"

"I'm worse than worthless!"

His arms clench around me, and in one swift move, he twists and swings us to the side. Suddenly I'm on my back, trapped between soft moss and hard man--caught breathless and burning in the smoky blue scorch of a wildfire stare.

"I'm cursed," he hisses. "You should flee from me. A beast blackens my soul."

No, shit? The gallant Sir Jekyll has a Hyde side, after all?

Oh, be still, my beating heart!

And, no, I'm not thinking clearly. Who could think, period, at a time like this? Electric shivers course through me. Every nerve ending thrums with excitement. He's just said the magic word.

"Beast? I love beasts. Let's free yours now." Growling like a hungry lioness, I reverse our positions--shove, roll, and pin him to the ground. The hell with dainty and feminine. Sometimes being a tall, muscular woman pays off. He can overpower me, I'm sure, but I want him to prove it. Even more, I want him to want to prove it. Showing him my strength will challenge him to display his own...I hope. A wrestling match makes for thrilling foreplay.

Especially if we wrestle in the raw--hot, naked skin to skin.

Rowrrr... I kneel over him, straddling his thighs.

"Aren't you uncomfortable in these wet clothes? They'll dry faster if we spread them out on the grass. C'mon," I urge. "I'll help you undress if you help me."

Wolfred grapples for my hands as I hike up his mail shirt and tunic. "Only the round face of the moon frees my beast, lady. And believe me, you do not want to meet him."

"Oh, yes, I do." I let out a low, naughty laugh. Surely he's jesting. "Moon? What are you, a werewolf?"

I stop short, stunned and staring at what I've just uncovered. A beast indeed. Wow. I do adore medieval garments. He's wearing the early style hose. Similar to tights they stretch from toe to waist, but in two separate pieces, without a crotch seam to join them. Hence, one of the best erections I've ever seen is aimed at me, like a bazooka.

No, make that the best. A steel club cased in smooth silk, long and hard and thick as my wrist. More than a beast, a monster. Moby Dick, the denizen of the deep. And me, who's always been a seafood fanatic--I see food, I eat it. Salivating, I lean forward, determined to discover if Moby tastes and feels as good as he looks.

"Aye," Wolfred says on a harsh breath.

He might be answering my question. Except I can't remember what I've just asked him, so I'm going to assume he's giving me permission to wrap my lips around his scrumptious cock and suck his brains out, lick him to the edge of ecstasy--then sit on him and ride him over the brink. My vaginal muscles spasm at the prospect, and slick cream pools in my panties. Which reminds me...

My tights aren't the medieval kind. Shit. How fast can I strip?

"Hold that pose," I tell him, quickly, while fumbling with my belt buckle. "Don't move! I'll only be a sec."

My belt pops open, and I fling it aside, then yank my tunic up and over my head. This leaves me in a red sports bra, the green tights, and ankle boots. I suspect I look like some kind of depraved and demented, overgrown Christmas elf with a glandular problem.

Wolfred's jaw drops in shock. I wriggle out of my bra, and he makes a strangling noise in his throat.

I hope this means he enjoys the view. My tits are one of my few attractive features--firm and full, not girlie mag centerfold quality, but not bad. I steal a moment to rub my hands over them and squeeze, stirring my nipples into tight peaks. Moby Dick jumps in response like a stallion straining at the bit, and a deep, guttural groan rumbles out of the man to which it's attached. Music to my ears.

"You can touch me, too," I promise Wolfred in my sultriest whisper. "You can do anything you want with me. Just let me ditch these damn tights and my body is all yours, noble knight."

"A noble piece of shit, you mean. Don't waste it on him, babe. Not with me here."

My spine stiffens.

Uh-oh... Who said that?

Clutching my arms over my breasts, I peer about in all directions, but I can't see anyone except Wolfred, whom I'm still straddling, and who looks as spooked as I feel.

Wary-eyed, he grabs me by the waist, hoists me off to the side, and leaps to his feet, wincing a bit in the process. It must hurt to move so fast with a big boner bobbing between one's legs. I snatch my tunic off the ground, struggle into it--crap, I think I just put it on backward--and scramble upright to stand beside him.

"Where are you? Show yourself!" he demands.

"Who are you?" I add.

Malicious laughter answers us.

"They call me Wicked," a voice like ice hisses close to my ear. "I'm your kinkiest dreams come true"...

=======

Why I write comedy...

2011-09-26T14:11:00.002-05:00

For starters, because that's the way my warped mind works. :-) I can't keep the comedy out of a story even when I try. But an equally big reason is because I view humor as kind of a mission. I’ve always been a big fan of the classic screwball comedies of the 1930s and '40s (all those old movies with actors like Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn), and I want to capture that same sort of spirit on the page. The interesting thing is that those movies were made during the Great Depression, and a little later during World War II, very stressful times. But those old comedies were courageous and sweet and always so uplifting. They were successful because they helped people forget their problems for a while and gave them hope for a brighter tomorrow. There’s something very healing about laughter. I think there’s even more need for it today. Once again we live in very stressful times with a lot of uncertainty. By writing comedy I’m trying to give people a break from the tensions we all face. There’s enough anger and tears in the world already. We need to find more reasons to smile.

=======

Excerpt w/blurb: The Cowboys & The Courtesan (M/M/F, Old West)

2011-08-29T10:10:00.003-05:00

Passions collide and secrets crack open when two lonely mavericks tango with “Salome, the Courtesan of Kings!” The dancer’s plea for protection proves more than the cowboys can resist, but not as irresistible as what's uncovered in their host's dressing room...

As a man who’s seen too much evil, Isaac Strong doesn’t believe in love. Joey Parker does, but considers love a lost cause for a young wrangler living a lie. The sultry Sal, a performer in more ways than one, believes in instant attraction and Romeo and Juliet style grand romance--or maybe not. Is “true love” really true for Sal, or merely a game of seduction to be played and won before moving on to the next conquest? Once the action hits a bed big enough for three, no one, not even Sal, is sure.

Move over, Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty! The Wild West has never been wilder, and Dodge City will never seem the same...

THE COWBOYS & THE COURTESAN
An Amber Quill Press best-seller
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber
URL: http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/CowboysCourtesan.html

Genres: Historical / The Old West / Ménage (M/M/F) / Group Sex /
Bisexual (M/M) / Interracial / Multicultural

Review snips:
"...stunningly passionate and intense...full of surprises and secrets that capture the imagination and leave readers in awe of the author's storytelling abilities." ~Chrissy Dionne, for Romance Junkies
http://romancejunkiesreviews.com/artman/publish/historical/The_Cowboys_and_the_Courtesan.shtml

"Ms. Riser certainly knows her way around a blazing hot ménage scene. Add a few crazy twists and a generous helping of delightful absurdity and what you have is a frivolously playful tale bursting with wild, wild west kink. Yipee-ki-yay!" ~Patrice F., for Joyfully Reviewed
http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Sep09/thecowboysandthecourtesan.MR.html

=========
EXCERPT (this is how the story begins):

Dodge City, 1883...

Isaac Strong wrinkled his nose. God knew he was no stranger to stink, but out in the open air of the range ugly odors dissipated faster and seemed easier to stomach. Here in the confines of town the combined smells of animal and man were enough to stagger an ox.

Whew.

Dodge reeked to its rafters from the cattle filled stockyards near the train tracks. Inside the Silver Whistle Saloon on the south side of the tracks--the wrong side for the unwary, unwise, or unarmed--it stank even worse from the crush of unwashed cowboys and the pungent perfume of the whores bent on relieving them of their wages. Booted feet stomped time to the off-key tinkle of an upright piano while lamplight cast a garish glow over figures clad in dusty denims and gaudy gowns. Hoots, hollers, and loud laughter added to the sensory assault.

A few of the cowboys were Isaac’s trail mates who’d ridden in with him that day after grueling weeks in the saddle driving three thousand head of longhorns up from deep in Texas. The rest had arrived earlier with other herds. All were thirsty for hard drink and ravenous for rowdy fun.

Except Isaac. He’d already had his day’s fun buying fresh clothes, then visiting a bathhouse and a barber. Trimmed, pressed, and polished, he now wanted only a solid meal and a soft bed, and he’d been told he might find both at the Silver Whistle. The back of the saloon doubled as a restaurant and the upstairs offered rooms for rent.

The big question was whether or not any of those rooms were open to the son of a slave. Trail dirt scrubbed off but not the rich bronze color of his skin. For thirty years, since infancy, he’d been free--technically--though not always in practice. To many people his skin still labeled him “inferior,” perhaps dangerous. Definitely unfit for polite society.

Which was why he had such high hopes for the Silver Whistle. There was nothing polite about this place. Provided his money was the right color, he doubted anyone here would care what the rest of him looked like.

He was wrong.

Grumbles began the moment he started toward the bar to inquire about food and a bed--foulmouthed mutterings calling him an ape and much worse. The problem, Isaac surmised by the tone of the taunts and the accents of those who uttered them, was that some of the crowd were former Confederates, men who’d lost everything in the war and blamed him and his breed as part of the cause.

On the one hand, as aggravating as he found their politics, Isaac understood their grief. He’d lost family and friends in the war, too. However, he kept his other hand in easy reach of the pearl handle sticking out of his hip holster. He always tried to be kind and forgiving, but he wasn’t stupid.

Besides, the idiots were all drunk as skunks and far less predictable. Maybe they wanted blood and maybe they just wanted to scare him. Not that they’d succeed in either case. If put to the test, he felt confident he could mop up the floor with the lot of them. Strong wasn’t his birth name; he’d earned the title, and it meant exactly what it said. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to demonstrate that, though. He’d hate to dirty his new suit.

Sweaty bodies pressed in close as the crowd thickened near the bar. The rude grumbles grew louder. Too late Isaac realized the hecklers had surrounded him.

“Show us yer tail,” someone hollered. “Ain’t all monkeys got tails?”

“Yeah, but stud monkeys like him wear their tails in front,” came another shout over a chorus of guffaws.

Isaac’s chest heaved with a sigh. Hell, he might have to fight his way out of here, after all. There went his crisp, clean clothes--not to mention his supper and a good night’s sleep.

“Them’s purty fancy duds fer a darkie, boy.” With a nasty smirk, a pockmarked fellow swept up an arm and knocked Isaac’s broad brimmed hat onto the floor. A soft crunch sounded as a boot heel crushed the crown.

That did it. Isaac’s hands fisted in preparation for smashing out the man’s tobacco stained teeth.

Klunk! The ugly coot dropped like a stone before Isaac threw a single punch.

“Well, dang. Poor ol’ Hank musta had a mite too much liquor,” a bright, young voice drawled.

Or a mite too much gun butt applied to the back of his head.

Isaac glanced at the unconscious form crumpled by his feet, then raised his gaze to meet a pair of big blue eyes sparkling with devilment--eyes he recognized since they belonged to his trail team’s wrangler, the slender and blond haired Joey Parker. Soot smudges marred the lad’s friendly face, but then, they always did. Joey and soap had a longstanding feud it seemed.

Nevertheless, he’d been a stalwart companion on the drive up from Texas, accepting Isaac easier and faster than the rest of the team had. If Joey didn’t mind Isaac’s brown skin, Isaac could overlook Joey’s grime. God forbid the wrangler suffer on his account.

He suppressed a groan while Joey discreetly re-holstered his six-shooter. Fortunately, no one else noticed the move.

“Stand clear. You’re going to get yourself in a heap of trouble,” Isaac warned in a whisper.

“Nope, I’m keepin’ you out of trouble.” Joey’s full lips stretched into a wide grin as he brandished a handful of silver dollars in the air. “Belly up to the bar, boys! Drinks are on me!”

Yeehaw. The whole herd of cowboys stampeded, forgetting Isaac and everything else in a mad dash for free booze. Floorboards thundered and whoops shook the rafters. Still dead to the world, ol’ Hank would have been trampled into mush if Isaac hadn’t made a lightning snatch, hoisted him by his belt, hauled him backward and propped him up in a chair against the wall.

Beside the chair stood a low platform with a crimson curtain behind it, creating a makeshift stage, and on the drapery was pinned a theatrical poster proclaiming in bold letters: Salome, the Courtesan of Kings! Interesting. But there was no time to study the picture that went with the caption.

Dirty and disgusted, Joey stomped forward with Isaac’s squashed hat. “What the heck did you do that for? He deserved to be thumped.”

“No doubt. But the gesture demonstrated speed, strength, and a rare generosity of spirit. Your friend is obviously as broad minded as he is broad shouldered,” a sultry tone answered. “Soft heart and hard muscles. I find both qualities most attractive in a man.”

Joey’s posture stiffened. “And just who the dickens are you?”

“One who has been enjoying the view. And your new employer, I hope. Would you two be interested in a temporary job?”

Would they? Lord have mercy...

Isaac’s breath snagged in his throat as a tall, elegant figure swathed in an exotic robe and veil stepped out from behind the curtain and sashayed to the edge of the platform to gaze down at him through mysterious sloe eyes outlined in kohl.

Salome?

The lower half of her face was hidden by a square of saffron silk, but Isaac didn’t need to see her whole face to know she was a beauty--one fit for kings all right. An Oriental queen, that’s what she looked like, sensuous as a summer breeze and hot as the desert sun. Sweet Jesus, she almost blinded him.

An elbow jab in the ribs brought him back to reality.

“You’re starin’ like a moonstruck calf,” Joey hissed, his brow wrinkled by a frown--remarkably unimpressed by feminine glamour, it appeared. Or maybe too young to appreciate it?

Hell, the boy wasn’t that young.

“Who put a burr under your saddle?” Isaac muttered.

Joey ignored the jibe. Crossing his arms over his chest, he aimed a suspicious glare at the woman. “About that job offer... What’re you payin’ and for what sorta work? If it ain’t legal, we ain’t interested.”

Hey now, that was no way to talk to a lady.

Isaac opened his mouth to protest.

Salome silenced him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, it’s honest labor, and quite simple. I merely desire a couple of trustworthy souls to guard this mockery of a stage while I perform my ‘Dance of the Seven Veils.’ A highly artistic exhibition, I assure you.”

She peered over his head at the raucous mob by the bar, disdain evident in her expressive eyes. “You see, I have only arrived here today. This is but a brief stop in a tour I am making across the country. When I was hired for this engagement, I was led to believe the Silver Whistle was a respectable establishment. Now that I know otherwise, however, I hesitate to expose myself to such an uncouth audience without some modicum of protection. Will you help me?”

Expose herself? Lordy, the images that conjured. Isaac was gut wrenchingly certain Salome’s dance was artistic indeed.

He melted inside as her gaze returned to his. In that moment, he’d have walked over hot coals for her. “Ma’am, we’ll do whatever we can, and no charge for the service. It’ll be our extreme pleasure to help.”

“Speak for yourself,” Joey groused. “Oof!” he added when a heavy arm slung around his shoulders crushed the air out of him.

“He’s just joshing,” Isaac said, tightening his grip when Joey squirmed.

“But of course.” Salome chuckled, a delicious, smoky sound that made Isaac’s pulse jump.

A surge of raw heat struck his loins. Oddly enough, the struggles of the firm, young body locked against his side aggravated the sensation. Pure imagination--it had to be--but unnerving. He wasn’t the kind of man who lusted after boys, for godssake. His hold broke, and Joey stumbled free, gasping and flushed, as though he’d felt a physical spark, too--and not so imaginary.

Good God. Joey’s apparent immunity to female charms suddenly took on a whole new, disturbing possibility. Isaac slanted a wary, sideways look at him.

Blushing scarlet, Joey stared everywhere but at Isaac.

Which meant what?

Salome chuckled again--for no good reason that Isaac could see. The dancer seemed to be enjoying some obscure, private joke. With willowy grace and the rustle of silk, she turned and pulled aside the curtain, revealing an open door that led into a dim hallway.

“Come up to my suite, gentlemen, and we shall discuss the details of our liaison.”

Liaison?

Isaac tensed. As a well-schooled man--and, yes, his education both surprised and frightened those of a bigoted mindset--he knew the term, but Miss Salome probably meant a liaison of the business sort as opposed to the sexual. Not that he’d refuse the latter if she offered it. The shock he’d just experienced with Joey had given him a powerful hankering to prove his masculinity with a woman--which the exquisite Salome most definitely was. All woman. His heart hammered against his ribs as she paused in the doorway to glance over her shoulder at him.

“I forgot to ask your names, gentlemen.”

And Isaac couldn’t tell her because for a mortifying moment he forgot what he was called. Those hypnotic eyes of hers sucked all coherent thought out of his head. While he did a quick, mental scramble to rake his wits back together, Joey answered for them both.

“This here’s Isaac Strong and I’m Joey Parker. ’Cept I’m no gentleman,” the young wrangler declared.

“Ah, but we shall make you one.” Salome’s gaze narrowed in speculation. “In my dressing room there should be by now a large tub of hot water that I ordered from the kitchen a short time ago. However, I believe you need a bath more than I do, my friend.”

Understatement of the year. But Isaac approved the idea. “That’s mighty generous of you, ma’am. We thank you.”

“Oh, no, we don’t!” An expression of pure panic on his smudged face, Joey bolted for the saloon’s rear exit.

Isaac caught him by the back of his shirt, dragged him up onto the platform and through the door in Salome’s wake. “Oh, yes, we do. A little soap won’t hurt you, son. I’ve been wondering for weeks what you look like under all that dirt.”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know,” Joey moaned.

=============
=========

Note: "The Cowboys & The Courtesan" is also available in the paperback anthology PIRATES & OTHER WICKED PLEASURES at:
http://www.amberquill.com/AmberHeat/PiratesWickedPleasures.html

R-excerpt w/blurb: Sherwood Charade (time-travel romance)

2011-08-15T11:05:00.002-05:00

Some are born to greatness. Others have it thrust upon them. Marian Allanson would prefer to avoid it, period. Emotionally scarred, and haunted by nightly dreams of the mythical Robin Hood, Marian is just limping through life till a mysterious quirk of fate tosses her and twelve-year-old street kid Orlando Konstantinos centuries into the past.

Now she's on a full-scale run through medieval Sherwood, threatened by the Sheriff of Nottingham, and discovering there may be truth to the myth, after all. A forest phantom appears out of the shadows to rescue her from death, then disappears again, leaving her to a different danger in the form of a forced marriage to Lord Roland of Hunterdon, a man hot enough to melt a maid's skivvies (despite the fact underwear hasn't been invented yet). To make matters worse, when the old sheriff is murdered, Roland steps into the job with plans to kill Robin Hood, unless Marian can stop him. Or will Roland be the one to die?

With the questions striking deeper than Robin's arrows, and a sudden uncertainty as to who's the villain and who's the hero, "Maid Marian" has much more to worry about than her missing unmentionables. And speaking of missing, where the devil is Orlando? Before the secrets crack open and the dust clears, an unlikely heroine will rise from her own ashes, a legend will be rewritten, and a love will be forged strong enough to conquer time...

SHERWOOD CHARADE
Robin Hood time-travel romance
EPPIE Finalist
PNR Reviewers Top Pick
---
Published by Amber Quill Press
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber
---
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-201-9 (electronic)
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-952-0 (paperback)
URL: http://amberquill.com/SherwoodCharade.html

Review snips:
"You'll be swept back in time with the author's vivid descriptions of the era, while being immersed in the magic of legend itself. A must read!" ~Karen Michelle Nutt, for PNR
http://www.paranormalromance.org/reviews/review.php?id=27512

"When the final secrets are revealed (and there is more than one!) this story of love, romance and fantasy will have you smiling incessantly... Sherwood Charade is a real keeper." ~by Donna for ARR
http://www.aromancereview.com/reviews/index.php?app_state=show_event&bookid=14064

"It captures your attention from the beginning. Twists and turns keep you hanging on until the last word. Ms. Riser sends you on a thrilling mind vacation that you will not soon forget." ~Matilda, for CTR
http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookReviews/Sherwoodcharade.html

=============
EXCERPT:

“Bloody hell--” Robin grabbed for the reins as the mare reared high. Too late. He toppled backward and landed with a grunt on the ground. “Oof.”

“Oh!” Maid Marian landed face-first flat on top of him.

Both lay panting as their transport disappeared down the path.

“Thank you,” Marian called after her.

“Wench.” Robin rolled them over, pinning her beneath him. “Are you happy now?” His whisper reverberated in the darkness.

Marian peered into the shadows of his hood, trying to guess where his mouth was. “I’ll be happier when you kiss me. How about it?”

He made a noise between a groan and a growl.

Was that a yes or a no?

She felt his breath on her face. So close... Her arms snaked around his neck and pulled him closer.

“Never mind, I’ll kiss you instead,” she said, and joined him in his hood. Her mouth found his on the first try.

He tensed, jerked back--then caved in completely, pressed her hard into the ground.

Lips parted. Limbs tangled. Time stopped.

Electric. The kiss struck her like lightning, burned clear through to her core, sliced her open and left her quivering, bleeding, dying for more. Hot need pulsed deep inside, a hungry ache between her thighs--

“Lady...please...” Robin pulled back, panting.

No, no, no--don’t stop! She grabbed his hood with both hands, yanked him down, and dove straight back in. Her mouth plundered his, licking, nipping, sucking...

A crazy woman. Crazy for Robin. Mmmm... She wanted to eat him alive.

He stiffened against her, his whole body rigid--one part of him especially. A steel rod dug into her abdomen.

Robin groaned, dragged his lips away from her. “Marian...” His breath came ragged. “We have to stop this... Now... There’s something I have to tell you--”

“Later. I’m busy now.” She locked her legs behind his knees when he tried to push away. One hand pulled him back by his hood, the other raked down his back...made a marvelous discovery.

“You’re not wearing anything under your tunic,” she murmured against his mouth.

A shudder racked through him as her hand touched his buttocks. “My ap-pologies,” he choked out. “I had...no time for the niceties of braes or hose today.”

“I’m not complaining. I don’t seem to be wearing any panties, either.” She’d just noticed that, in fact. How historically accurate. And how convenient. “Want to see?”

“No!”

Too bad.

She stroked his bare flesh. Smooth, warm, firm... Goodness, he had a great ass. She dug in her fingers and squeezed--then gasped as he bucked free from her legs and heaved back. Clinging to his hood, she went with him. He landed on his great ass. She landed on her stomach with her face in his lap.

Oh my. He had a great erection, too.

Marian let go of one head to examine another. She lifted his tunic and stared at the shadowy monster hiding beneath. Her eyes went wide in the darkness. Good God, he was huge. Had he ever been this big before? Her breath hitched. How had she fit him inside? She had a flicker of panic wondering if he’d fit now.

Oy... Only one way to find out. Trembling but determined, she rose to her knees and hoisted her gown.

“W-wait!” Robin’s voice cracked. “What are you doing?”

Stupid question.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Wriggling forward, she advanced on him.

“Oh no--” There was a frantic crunching of twigs as he scrambled to his feet.

Marian’s hand shot out and closed around his shaft. “Oh yes.”

“Arrgggh!”

Why did he sound like he was strangling? She wasn’t tugging that hard. “This is my dream, and if I say we make love, we make love, damn it. Use it or lose it, big boy.”

“Will you please listen to me-- Uhhh.” His rump reconnected with earth as he lost the tug-of-war. “This is no dream,” he finished weakly.

“How the heck would you know? You’re part of it. Now shut up and sit still. I don’t know what you’re so worried about. You’ve got the easy part.” Without loosening her hold on his erection, she braced her free hand on his shoulder and climbed aboard his lap, straddling him. His breath rasped out as she positioned him at her opening and locked her legs around his waist.

“Easy?” He grabbed onto her hips.

Marian couldn’t tell if he was trying to push her away or pull her closer. Perhaps he couldn’t decide, either.

“Lady, you are making this most hard for me.”

“Good. It’s supposed to be hard. There’s not much we can do with it otherwise"...

=========
=======

Read another excerpt at:
http://amberquill.com/SherwoodCharade.html

R-excerpt w/blurb (M/M): Thunderball (a Sylver & Steele story)

2011-08-15T10:44:00.003-05:00

Sylver Starr is a werewolf by birth, a cross-dresser by desire, and a secret agent for Earth Guardians, Inc.--although that last is beginning to wear a bit thin. Take tonight, for instance. Posing as participants, Sylver and his partner infiltrate the brutal blood-sport of dog fighting. Their mission is to rescue a kidnapping victim. Unfortunately, the victim is a giant mastiff who shows no sign of cooperating. Abused by his captors and trained to kill, he seems more interested in ripping Sylver to shreds. Understandable, but painful nonetheless. To Sylver, who knows the dog's history, the situation is infuriating and heartbreaking.

And Sylver's partner adds to the stress by being...well, himself. Sexy and aggravating in the same breath. He's the great Hunter Steele--founder and chief of Earth Guardians, Inc.--a billionaire cat-shifter with a serious James Bond complex. Hunter cooks up these plots, and Sylver gets stuck with the dirty dishes. Always. For a werewolf, it's not easy taking orders from a cat. Put it all together and Sylver's had a bellyful. After this mission, there won't be another. It'll be bye-bye EG.

And hello Hunter's rage, because no one quits his team--especially not Sylver. They're not just work partners. In shifter terminology, the canine-feline pair are each other's divinely appointed life-mates. Go figure. If this is a match made in heaven, someone up there has a lot of explaining to do. It's difficult enough being married to your polar opposite, but when your spouse is also your boss, nerves will be rubbed raw--along with fevered flesh, because neither man is above using seduction to get his way. And both have their own brand of sizzle. In fact, if the two live long enough for this battle of wills to reach the bedroom, it's anyone's guess who will emerge on top. Then again, maybe it doesn't matter. This is one sport, after all, where the winner may take all, but the "loser" still gets a big prize...

THUNDERBALL
A "Sylver & Steele" story
Published by Amber Quill Press
URL: http://amberquill.com/AmberAllure/Thunderball.html

Genres: Gay / Dark Fantasy / Werewolf / Shapeshifter / Science Fiction / Futuristic / Paranormal / Psychic Phenomena / Action / Adventure / BDSM (Light) / Romantic Comedy / Series
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-646-8
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber

Review snips:
"OMG! I could not believe how hard and long I laughed... The rolling dialog between Sylver and Hunter was just too funny, and still showed just how much they loved each other... Thunderball is a must read and a definite keeper just for their relationship alone." ~by Jo for Joyfully Reviewed
http://www.joyfullyreviewed.com/reviews/Apr10/thunderball.mr.html

"Thunderball has a lot of action, suspense and hot sex and you’re in for a fun ride if you buy this book. Recommended." ~by Jessewave, for Reviews by Jessewave
http://www.reviewsbyjessewave.com/?p=18518#more-18518

=============
EXCERPT (adult):

...Evil intent in his gaze, he starts inching toward me, sliding around the inner circumference of the circular sunken tub--a manmade fishpond, actually, but we relocated the fish, installed faucets and drains, and use it for bathing. Very chic. Beautiful blue marble with gold trim. The sumptuous centerpiece of an Arabian Nights style garden in the courtyard of Hunter’s billion-dollar “beach bungalow” on the Massachusetts coast.

A crystalline geodesic dome protects the garden from the New England weather. Feathery snowflakes fall outside, painting the world white, but we’re warm and toasty in here--too warm, I’m afraid--surrounded by fragrant blossoms and green fronds. Exotic splendor, lavish and lascivious. Sultry elegance, rich with the promise of fleshy delights.

“Thanks, I try,” Hunter says, a smug tilt to his lips.

My eyes narrow. “I was thinking of the courtyard, damn it.”

“Whatever.” The grin waxes wicked. “Wanna play Ottoman Empire? I’ll be the sultan and you can be my harem.”

Hmm, I do have a great belly-dancer costume...

He reaches for me, and I shimmy to the side.

Uh-uh... No touching! I refuse to succumb to his lethal seductive force until I gain a few concessions. Mind you, refusing sex--especially Hunter’s brand--isn’t something I’m famous for, but the headache helps. If I focus on that, maybe I can forget the other ache lower down.

Neck deep in hot water--in more ways than one--I scoot my endangered ass to the right as Hunter advances from the left.

“Keep it up,” he taunts. “I love a challenge.”

So do I, but not this kind. Unfortunately for me, it’s been “up” since he invaded my bath, shortly after I’d settled my bruised body--and ego--into the bubbles.

“I know. I can sense your arousal.”

Which increases his. And with it, his speed. To maintain my distance, I’m forced to match his pace.

Advance and retreat, around and around... I don’t know why I thought a bath would relax me. Soon we’ve made two full circuits and begun a third, moving faster and faster but always opposite each other, neither of us gaining or losing ground.

Cripes, this is making me dizzy. The chase whips up additional lather. Perfumed froth, lacy white and lush with the earthy aroma of patchouli, sloshes over the marble rim. *Glub.* I just swallowed some. The stuff smells a lot better than it tastes. Yuck.

“Here, try a mouthful of this instead.”

Without warning, Hunter stops. I hit my own brakes just in time to avoid slamming into him. For a breathless moment, I freeze, trapped in a high-beam amber glare. Then, like Poseidon rising out of the sea foam, Hunter stands and looms over me in an upright straddle stance.

Real upright.

I’m nose to nose with a mesmerizing erection.

Um...if cocks had noses, I mean. My eyes cross studying it.

How about nose to plum-sized swollen head? A big plum, purple tinted, ripe and juicy, satin smooth and slick with suds. Glistening with the diamond sparkle of water droplets... Smelling of patchouli and male musk...

Yes, I’m rambling. Who wouldn’t be with a delicious dick like this staring them in the face? The *helpful* headache melts away in the heat of the moment--softens and dulls as something else grows harder. It can’t compete with the sharper ache. All I feel is the pressure and burn as my own dick gains painful new proportions. All my awareness now centers on imminent sex. My nostrils flare and I lick my lips, inhaling the heady scent of desire...the scent of Hunter.

I’m so in trouble.

My breath quickens, and my pulse speeds right along with it.

Lord, have mercy... Help me, Herne, the Horned God of animals and shifters. Except Herne is pretty lusty, as most pagan deities are. He’d probably be on Hunter’s side... Hey, what about the Horned Goddess, Hathor?

“She’d agree with me, too.” A sinister chuckle underscores the words. “And you’re still rambling.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a defense mechanism, okay?”

“How’s it working?”

Like crap. As if he didn’t know. Hah. While I stare, fixated, an iridescent pearl of pre-cum appears at the end of his shaft. Suddenly, I’m salivating. I can almost taste Hunter’s succulent flavor, salty and rich, on my tongue...

=======

Close door, Open window!

2011-07-30T11:06:00.003-05:00

I like to think everything happens for a reason - hopefully a good one. What happened to me this past week was that I lost my website hosting service...and with it my website. All of it. And all without a word of warning, I might add. Was I surprised!

Ah well, I probably needed a new site anyway...

The thing is, I don't have time to build a whole new site right now. I do, however, have this lovely blog, which you'll notice hasn't been used much, so it's almost like new. So, for the moment, I'll be using this location as my "new site." Cool idea, huh? :-)

Granted, there's not much here - yet - but know I'll be adding more in the days to come. In the meantime, for those interested in my books, just click the title links in the sidebar.

Onward and upward!

Just released: Wicked Comes The Beast

2009-04-28T00:30:00.010-05:00

Dear friends, allow me to present to you our cast. We have here: Claire Crawford, Victorian virgin, prone to fainting fits from a too-tight corset and burdened by her own innocence. Sean Henry, an intense Irish doctor who’d be happy to relieve her of her virginity were he not tormented by a dark, dirty secret. And Edgar Chadwick and Arthur Kent, a promiscuous valet and the desperate man who’d do anything to win back his love.

They all have a battle on their hands. Demon lust stalks the London night and no one is safe from its evil appetite. Some don’t even want to be. There could be worse things, after all, than being...eaten.

Be chilled or be thrilled, but be ready. Wicked comes the beast. And he’s very hungry.

=============
Available now from Amber Heat and Amber Allure.

Genre: Gothic historical erotic-romance
Rating: NC-17 (for adults only)
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-507-2
Cover by Trace Edward Zaber
=============

The book itself is erotic, but the following excerpt is PG. This is how the story starts:

“Claire...”

Brittle as the autumn leaves that littered the garden, the call came. With it, a withered hand lifted from shaky repose on the bedclothes, reaching for a granddaughter’s devotion, and finding reassurance in a gentle grip. Anyone who’d known Sir Thaddeus Crawford in his robust prime would have wept to see and hear him now, his body decimated by disease, eyes dim, voice hoarse and thin.

His only living relative, orphaned in infancy and raised by him, blinked back tears as she tried to warm his icy fingers in hers. Good breeding and training kept her tone level. Claire Crawford wore composure like a veil, hiding emotion behind a modesty that was more habit than inclination.

“I’m here, sir, right beside you.”

Where else? Right by his bed, in the chair where she’d rocked and read and watched over him these past weeks while her hopes for a recovery died a sure death, and so, too, would Sir Thaddeus. Fear mingled with grief at the prospect. However would she manage alone? No parents, no siblings, no uncles, aunts or cousins...and soon no grandfather. No family and few friends, none to protect and guide her as Thaddeus had.

Always she’d stayed close by him, neither encouraged nor daring to fly far from the nest. While a peaceful existence, calm and orderly, it had left her ill prepared to face a world that she’d been warned was fraught with wickedness beyond the safe walls of their London townhouse. Adventure, if any, she found in books--the brave tales of Sir Walter Scott, the breathless romances of Mrs. Radcliffe, even an occasional penny dreadful--a frivolous indulgence, but one her grandfather allowed since he enjoyed melodramas himself and cared little who knew it.

“Just so long as you don’t mistake such fancies for fact,” he’d cautioned. “There are villains aplenty, m’girl, but not the sort one reads about in novels.”

No, of course not. Even if there were, they wouldn’t threaten Claire, who was too shy and too plain to attract any man’s notice, good or bad. No such luck. The spine-tingling dark devils of literature preferred far prettier prey. As did the real rogues, apparently, the fortune hunters Thaddeus had expected ever since Claire came of age. That none had yet appeared, he attributed to his own staunch vigilance on her behalf.

Feminine pride hoped he was right. So much easier to blame her lack of suitors on him than the plump figure, carroty corkscrew curls and freckled face she saw in her looking glass. But common sense counseled otherwise. When she gazed in the mirror these days, an old maid stared back.

“Too old for marriage,” she muttered to herself. “Twenty-eight and never been wooed, not even in deceit. No one wants my inheritance if they have to take me with it.”

“No one but a fool would refuse either prize. And twenty-eight is hardly old. Wait till you’re my age.”

“Damn,” Claire cursed. She hadn’t meant her distress to be heard. Self-pity was a weakness and not to be surrendered to. For that matter, she hadn’t meant to swear. Fatigue made her lax on both counts. Although a “damn” was tame in this house, Thaddeus being ex-navy with the vocabulary to prove it.

“If you don’t want me to hear something, child, don’t say it. I’m half blind, not deaf.”

“Ah, but you still see through your sorry granddaughter well enough.” A small sigh escaped her, wry and tender. “Silence avails me nothing, sir, when you seem always to read my thoughts.”

“Only when my thoughts are the same, m’girl.” With surprising strength, his hand tightened on hers. “I’ve done you a grave disservice, Claire, keeping you so cloistered.”

What? He might be correct, but she couldn’t let him think it.

“No, never! You’ve taught me and cherished me and--”

“Don’t argue. I know bloody damned well what I’ve done. Thank God I also know damned well what to do about it. Send for Dr. Sean Henry!”

A damned smart idea under the circumstances—fetching a doctor, that was. The outburst had given her grandfather a wheezing fit. But Dr. Henry, their new neighbor? Why?

Frankly, Sean Henry was a strange bird, a member of the landed aristocracy who preferred his earned title of doctor to his hereditary one of baron. He owned an estate near Galway, but had rented the house next to the Crawfords’ and been introduced to them by his landlord the day he moved in, which was shortly before Thaddeus became ill. They’d had no contact with him since, despite his proximity. He kept odd hours, saw few patients, and employed only two servants. It was rumored his fortune was small and his debts large, yet he seemed to do nothing to increase the former or diminish the latter.

“I prefer the laboratory to the surgery,” he’d mentioned during their single encounter.

Which meant what? A cryptic man, Dr. Henry, in more ways than one. A mountain of a man, his features too rugged to be termed handsome, but somehow compelling. Magnetic. He drew your gaze and held it--tall and brawny and dark as a gypsy--the roughhewn look of a common laborer with the impeccable manners and dress of a lord. An enigma with the flash of lightning in storm-gray eyes and the music of Ireland in his speech. The mere memory of him made Claire itch in places respectable women weren’t supposed to scratch.

A very disturbing man.

She hesitated, her heart suddenly pounding like a steam engine. “F-forgive me, sir, but is this wise? Why not summon your own physician? Dr. Henry’s ability is unknown. We’ve met him only once.”

“Perhaps. But sometimes once is enough. I liked his looks...and so did you,” Thaddeus labored out. “Don’t try to deny it. I saw how you blushed under his gaze... I’ll wager he liked your looks as well.”

Impossible. There’s nothing to like.

“He was merely being polite,” she sputtered. “In any case, it’s utterly beside the point. I was questioning his medical abilities, not his appearance.”

“Bilge water! I hear tell he’s doctored your latest favorite author...that Robert Louis Stevenson chap...so he must be good. Plus, he’s convenient...and young...and unattached--” The old fellow broke off in a spasm of coughing.

Claire almost joined him, almost fainted--just like one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s heroines. How preposterous. It must be her corset. Nellie the maid had laced her in too tight.

“Unattached?” she squeaked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Thaddeus was too busy battling for air to answer. Waving his hand, he shooed her away. Go, go, hurry, the gesture said.

So Claire did--as fast as she could, though not as fast as she wanted. Blasted knees. They wobbled under her like jelly. Thaddeus regained his voice as she stumbled out of the bedroom and into the hall.

“Send for my lawyer, too.” He drew a ragged breath. “I wish to adjust my will.”

Will!

The word pierced her like an ice pick. It could mean only one thing--which also explained why he needed the nearest doctor. The end loomed closer than expected. He was dying. Not soon, but now.

Dear God, I’m not ready for this.

Pausing but a second to gather up her skirts, Claire ran the length of the hall and down the servants’ stairs, rallying the staff, calling for Giles the butler to send someone next door for Dr. Henry, and to go himself, in a cab, for Mr. Butterson the lawyer.

“Quickly!” she shouted--most unladylike, but this was no time for decorum. Then she collapsed, dizzy and spent, into her maid’s startled arms. She wanted to race back to Thaddeus, but her body refused. Exhaustion, shock, and the corset from hell all conspired against her. The room reeled, thick fog filled her head, and she heard sounds as though from a long way off. The bang of a door...hurried footsteps...the murmur of voices, but they might have been speaking gibberish for all she understood what they said. Nellie’s words were the first to penetrate the fog.

“Oh, my poor Miss Claire. She’s scarce slept for days, what with nursing the master. It’ll be a wonder if she’s not made herself sick. Here, Doctor, this is her room. Thank you for carrying her. Should I do anything now besides putting the dear lass to bed? Spoon a bit of laudanum or tea into her, perhaps?”

Doctor? Claire struggled without luck to open her eyes; her lids seemed to weigh ten stone each. Bloody hell, I must have fainted. And still wasn’t quite recovered.

Even worse, she was trapped in a hot granite embrace--but relishing it, in a shameful, flushed fashion. Clutched in two burly arms and crushed against a massive chest, swamped by a solid sea of muscle, more male anatomy than Claire had ever before experienced on a one-to-one basis. It was almost...intimate?

A giddy thrill shot through her. She felt damp and feverish, all a quiver. Scandalous. Nor did knowing that the male was a doctor, innocently offering medical aid, soothe her flustered nerves. Because she also knew the doctor was Sean Henry. No other could kindle such a burn. Besides, she doubted he was very innocent. Honestly, did he have to hold her this close? The whole situation so mortified Claire, she did what any self-respecting, compromised virgin would do.

She fainted again....