I’m heading off to join a writers’ retreat! I’ll be away Saturday to Saturday, but have no fear! I have guests lined up who will keep you entertained while I’m away! I’ll poke my head in now and then—I can’t help myself. However, the focus for the next week will be WRITING, something that has taken a backseat over the last months, what with all the turmoil (my father’s loss, illnesses in the family, etc.) in my personal life and my heavy editing schedule.

I’ll be working on a SEAL book, writing my little stubby fingers into stubbier little nubs. I’ll post a puzzle, a contest, just to keep you coming back, but remember, I’ll have guests! Make sure they feel welcome, y’all!

I’ll be joined this week by my sister, Elle James, Cynthia D’Alba, Parker Kinkade, and Mandy Harbin. I’m sure there will be lots of great food, a few drinks, and tons of brainstorming! My MacAir will get a workout!

So, here’s me bidding you adieu, but not for long! Wish me luck with the words!

How can a writer cope when her publisher closes? Over a span of fewer than four years, three long-running publishers have folded under me. Fortunately, I found an excellent new home for one batch of horror, fantasy, and paranormal romance novels (plus my nonfiction monograph Different Blood: The Vampire as Alien) with Writers Exchange E-Publishing. They don’t handle erotic romance, though, so what to do with the stories, novellas, and one erotic paranormal romance novel originally released by Ellora’s Cave? That’s where the Kindle self-publishing program came to the rescue, and I found it surprisingly easy to navigate, even for a non-techie person. I’ve sometimes used the Amazon cover creator and sometimes covers designed for me by a friend, with free stock images.

Publisher closure has at least one advantage to offset the negatives: The opportunity to edit older material to correct small errors, update obsolete references (if desired—in some cases, I’ve thought it better to keep a story set in its original time period), and make any other needed adjustments. For instance, I’m revising my erotic paranormal romances to tone down the level of graphic sexuality from erotic to spicy or steamy. Also, I’m deleting words that used to be labeled “unprintable” (in my youth, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth), many of which I didn’t care for anyway, but the publisher assured me readers of erotic romance expected them. Addressing a different type of issue, I realized that the portrayal of a walk-on character in one of my early vampire novels was rather cringe-worthy, and I was thankful for the chance to fix the problem. A scene in another vampire novel contained elements that might have seemed physically implausible, which I tweaked in accordance with research I’ve done since the original writing.

In addition to publishers going out of business, I’ve been hit by online magazines shutting down and anthologies going out of print, venues where I’d expected my works—given the long life of electronic media—to remain available into the indefinite future. So I’ve compiled two collections of my stories from the webzines Sorcerous Signals and Lorelei Signal and the Marion Zimmer Bradley estate’s “Sword and Sorceress” anthologies.

Harvest of Magic:
https://www.tinyurl.com/HarvestofMagic

Perilous Magic:
https://www.tinyurl.com/PerilousMagic

Wanting to present those two volumes as sort of companion books, I used the same Amazon stock cover image for both.

Another thing I’m free to do with stories and novellas now under my control is to combine related or similar works into themed collections. For example, Vampire Heat bundles two novellas in my “Vanishing Breed” vampire series that focus on characters from the novels Dark Changeling and Child of Twilight—although these novellas can easily be read on their own with no knowledge of the novels—along with a third, stand-alone story in the same universe.

https://www.tinyurl.com/VampireHeat

Earlier this year, in a completely unexpected move, the publisher of my first vampire novel, Dark Changeling, and its direct sequel, Child of Twilight (which had taken over the books from their original publisher, Hard Shell Word Factory), announced its closing. After light editing to correct some flaws in those older books, I combined them in a two-novel omnibus called Twilight’s Changelings:

https://www.tinyurl.com/TwilightsChangelings

My one full-length erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave, Love Unleashed, was a paranormal novel about a man cursed into the shape of a Saint Bernard, aside from a few hours in human form each night. I toned down the explicitness of the sex scenes a bit but otherwise left the book substantially the same. It was published recently enough that the technology mentioned in the story wasn’t blatantly outdated. I enjoyed being able to include a new cover, because I wasn’t really satisfied with the original one. My husband and I have owned several Saint Bernards, and the dog the artist chose for the EC cover wasn’t a particularly good-looking specimen of the breed. I like the image on the current cover much better. Also, I changed the title. It’s mind-boggling how many books listed on Amazon have the title Love Unleashed! My novel is now called Enchantment Unleashed, which, as far as I could discover, is unique.

https://www.tinyurl.com/EnchantmentUnleashed

My next self-publishing Kindle project will be a themed collection of former Ellora’s Cave novellas, all featuring heroes who are shapeshifters or otherwise a blend of animal and human. Since “Beauty and the Beast” is my favorite fairy tale, and a couple of those stories actually follow the plot pattern of that tale, I plan to title the compilation Beasts and Their Beauties.

Although losing a publisher is often a severe blow, preparing older works for re-release can actually be rather fun.

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter’s Crypt: https://www.margaretlcarter.com

All over the U.S. we will be enjoying various kinds of fireworks displays on July 4^th.

Fireworks were not unknown during the Georgian/Regency eras, and were used for grand effect in public celebrations in London.

Green Park was readied for a grand fireworks display in 1763 to celebrate the Treaty of Paris, which ended the French and Indian War in North America. Green Park was also used for a national park in 1746 to celebrate the end of the War of Hanoverian. The royal family arranged a great fireworks display and commissioned the composer, Handel, to write music for the Royal Fireworks. A vast Temple of Peace was built in the park to store the fireworks. But early on a stray rocket hit the temple. Three people died and 10,000 fireworks were destroyed in the fire that followed.

Another cause for creating massive fireworks was the long reign of George III. How spectacular these illuminations must have seemed extravagent to people at a time when candlelight was rare and expensive.

When the Napoleonic Wars came to an end, famed rope walker, Madame Saqui, could finally cross the English Channel in 1816 to perform at Vauxhall Gardens for the first time. 

‘In the midst of a great burst of fireworks, Bengal lights glimmering faintly in the clouds of smoke, Madame Saqui stands on a rope, sixty feet up, and follows a narrow and difficult path to the end of her journey. Sometimes she is completely hidden from all eyes by the billowing waves, but from the way she walks, so self-assured, one would think an Immortal was walking peacefully towards her celestial home.’

HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA!

To Gamble on an Earl 

The Men of Waterloo Series – Book Two

Evan, the Earl of Foxington, had only one mistress, Lady Luck. When she deserted him at the Battle of Hougomont he was left scarred in more ways than one.

Lady Phoebe Collins has loved Foxington since she and her best friend, his sister, dogged his footsteps as children. When she received a request from him for a tryst at a ball, what seemed to be the answer to her dreams turned out to be a nightmare.

Will Foxington be able to overcome the thrill of gambling to earn Phoebe’s trust? Will Phoebe ever learn to feel safe enough to love again?

Get your copy here!

Excerpt

Lady Phoebe Collins backed into the alcove, stopping when she bumped against the floral wallpaper. She was safely hidden in the shadows, away from the ballroom and its dancing couples. She took the note from her reticule and her heart skipped a beat as she read the words written in a strong hand, “Meet me in the sitting room, two doors beyond the stairs, at half past eleven. —Fox.”

Putting the note back into her reticule, she smiled at the familiar form of address in the signature and moved down the hall to the specified room. Why did Foxington want to meet her? Was he having regrets about what had happened when they’d been snowed in on Christmas Eve? Or was he planning to continue what they’d started on that magical night? His nickname, “The Fox” implied an intimate relationship, and her pulse fluttered again at the thought. She walked down the hall, her mind going over every detail of the night they were trapped together by a snowstorm one year earlier.

Foxington approached offering to escort her home after a dinner party where Ravenstone had surprised everyone by asking Lady Lettice Durham, Foxington’s sister to marry him. The trip home had gone terribly wrong, an unexpected storm piling so much snow on the road that they’d had to unhitch the horses and finish the journey to Elkhorn Hall on horseback.

            Foxington had taken her up behind him, and the intimacy of the situation had encompassed them, lingering after they’d arrived and been cared for by the intrepid housekeeper, Mrs. Brown. Food and dry clothing had been provided for everyone, including Foxington’s aunt, who had also been in the carriage as chaperone.  

            After Foxington’s aunt departed the room, Phoebe walked around the space, picking up pillows from the sofa and fluffing them, only to put one down before picking up another.

            “I would say this evening was a success in regards to Lady Lettice and Lord Ravenstone. You accomplished what you set out to do. Your sister is now betrothed, and to a fine gentleman.” Phoebe looked up at Foxington with a smile.

            The earl moved swiftly toward Phoebe, reached for the pillow she was holding to her chest, and threw it back onto the sofa before placing one arm around her waist. He cupped her cheek, bent down, and kissed her.

            The urgency in his kiss surprised them both, and for a moment she didn’t react. Then, as if giving in to some inner debate her body relaxed against his, she returned the pressure of his lips, and her legs moved against the confines of her gown to arch slightly against him.

            He paused slightly, then kissed her once more, gently. He set her back from him with his arms stiff and his breathing ragged.

            “Phoebe?” he asked softly, his deep voice thick. With concern, she’d thought.

             She stared at him, realizing he was just as shocked as she at their encounter.

            “You—you kissed me,” she whispered.

            “I certainly did.” A devilish grin quirked at his lips. “And by all accounts you kissed me back. Care for another one?”

From The Author

I have been reading romance novels since the age of fourteen and never turned back. I have my Mom to thank for my interest in romance novels and my Dad for my love of history.

When I am not reading (or writing the stories which dance around in my head) I enjoy the joyful moments with my growing family, the ballet, long walks, travel and romantic movies.

Writing has always been a great passion of mine and I am glad to be doing what I like best. Connecting with readers is a bright spot and always a happy moment for me knowing my books touched someone and they took the time to let me know. Each and every reader is the reason I continue to write Regency Historical romances and you are the ones who keep me at it.

Visit Me At:
Website: https://dianedario.wordpress.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DianeDarioRegency/
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Diane-Dario/e/B0157G6A5A?ref=dbs_p_ebk_r00_abau_000000
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14253284.Diane_Dario
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/dianedario/

Something special for you patriotic puzzlers…

My latest book, Colton’s Mistaken Identity, is Book 7 in the Coltons of Roaring Springs series from Harlequin Romantic Suspense. While each book in the series is standalone, meaning you don’t have to read any of the previous, it’s a richer read when you have. My heroine is an identical twin and poses as her (missing? kidnapped?) twin during a film festival in the idyllic setting of Roaring Springs, Colorado. Phoebe works at her parent’s Chateau resort, giving the setting a very Aspen/French Alps feel. Phoebe is attracted to the bigtime movie star Prescott Reynolds, but can’t even contemplate a sexy rendezvous or two, not with her sister’s mysterious disappearance and the festival to run. Of course, lots of scary suspense and life-threatening action ensues, along with intimate, intense sexy times. It’s why it’s called romantic suspense. What keeps me happily writing Harlequin Romantic Suspense is the depth of characters and the emotional honesty of their relationships. I hope you’ll enjoy them, too.

Colton’s Mistaken Identity

The wrong twin…or the right one?
A Coltons of Roaring Springs romance

Marketing exec Skye Colton suddenly disappears, putting the Roaring Springs Film Festival in jeopardy. Enter Skye’s identical twin, Phoebe, who poses as her sister. In her starring role, Phoebe catches the eye of A-list actor Prescott Reynolds, and she can’t deny the electricity that erupts between them. With Skye still missing and a stalker at large, this is the worst time to fall in love, especially with danger racing toward them…

Excerpt

A flash of red, the distinct shade he’d first laid eyes on this morning in the copse of aspen trees, caught his attention. The same woman he’d seen on the trail walked past him and began to climb the stairs to the grand ballroom. He knew where the impressive stairs led, as he’d already memorized the layout of the hotel. His privacy had necessitated he know every nook and cranny to escape to if the paparazzi became rabid.

She wasn’t in running clothes any longer, and her hair was styled to show off the unique hue. From her profile he saw that she was wearing makeup, a little much for his taste, but he was used to being around women who enjoyed dolling themselves up. It was all part of being an actor.

This woman intrigued him when she shouldn’t. And yet as she’d walked by, oblivious to him, he’d caught a whiff of floral perfume that captured him like a trout in a net. The sight of her profile again, this time with makeup on and offset by the backdrop of the luxurious resort, struck a chord deep inside him. Prescott wasn’t a stranger to immediate attraction but this took it to a new place for him. Besides the obvious physical pull of her beauty, he sensed the potential for something deeper, more meaningful, between them.

What the heck was going on with him?

She wasn’t wearing anything exciting, and her business suit didn’t show off her curves as well as her workout clothing had. Still, in the view he had of her backside, there was no denying her very feminine shape under the jacket and dress pants. Insta-lust made him pause, not wanting to get an erection in public.

You’ve been alone too long.

After what he’d been through with his ex, he knew better than to even look twice at this stunning woman. But he couldn’t help himself. Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Nor how relieved he’d felt when he’d realized she wasn’t trailing him. It was always in the back of his mind that Ariella could show up again, and her penchant for ugliness wasn’t something he relished. He’d been drawn to Ariella’s intelligence and quick wit. And it had worked for a while, until her true nature of career-climbing at the expense of the men in her life reappeared. Or maybe he’d simply come out of his denial about her dark side. Either way, it had been a rough go of it for his dating life ever since.

But the redhead… His gut told him to go after her.

He didn’t entertain the rational side of his brain that told him he was out of his league. That not everyone was impressed by actors, not that he ever consciously used his job or status to seduce a woman. He believed more in allowing an attraction to grow organically.

This inexplicable urge to talk to the stranger, the only redhead he’d seen at The Chateau, was definitely organic on his part. But would she think he was odd?
What if she wasn’t available? Preston stopped midway up the staircase. He hadn’t even considered that she might be with someone already. Hell, she could even be married.

Chill, dude.

Prescott hadn’t had to go after a woman in years. And he missed it. The constant attention from the opposite sex had been heady when he’d arrived in Hollywood and been cast in his first roles ten, twelve years ago. But it quickly grew old, and he didn’t want to spend time with someone who only saw him as an actor. The redhead clearly worked here or had a role to play in the film fest, so she was probably used to celebrities. Would she see past the Caribbean-blue eyes that had become his trademark? Not that he’d ever expected to be known for his eyes. His dream wasn’t even so much to be recognized for his acting as to be give the opportunities to bring meaningful roles to life. He wasn’t a fan of the celebrity culture that came with it but he understood it was all part of the gig.

Except when he wanted a woman to see him as more than a contender for a tabloid’s annual sexiest man.

He walked through open, massive carved oak doors and into the hotel’s pièce de résistance—the grand ballroom. The floor was entirely parquet but covered with a huge red carpet that ran into its center, where the area delineated for dancing remained clear. Hundreds if not a full thousand round tables framed the open area, the crystal chandeliers catching the fading sunlight, their bulbs still dim. Soon they’d be bright and the room a cacophony of press, actors, studio executives and the teams of people it took to make it all happen.

It was that rare quiet moment before a major event launched. Right now it was hushed as workers rapidly set tables and moved last-minute lighting equipment into place. A DJ set up in a far corner of the room, her control panel as large as any he’d ever seen in a concert. But in another hour and a half, it would burst to life with an entirely different personality.

Prescott liked the quiet anticipation before an event. As much as he enjoyed the slow build of desire as he met and wooed a woman into his bed.

The redhead stood alone in the middle of the room, silently moving her lips as she read from her phone. Her running clothes were gone but she hadn’t upgraded her look that much, wearing easy black pants and a simple pale pink silk shell. Her skin was dewy, and as he’d already noticed she liked her makeup heavy, but on her stunning features it only emphasized her beauty.

His running shoes, silent on the plush carpet, hit the parquet floor, and a loud squeak sounded. The woman gasped as she startled and dropped her phone onto the carpet. Her caramel-brown eyes lasered in on him, and he knew how a bug felt under a magnifying glass. But it was more like an ant under a sunbeam as heat immediately flared in his chest, rushing toward his groin. The woman was so damned beautiful, from her glorious red hair to her full lush lips, down to her full breasts and hips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so smitten, from the get-go.

Because you never have been.

He held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He bent down and retrieved her phone, on which he saw notes displayed before he handed it back to her.

“I-I’m not…scared.” She cleared her throat, and he had to consciously force his gaze from the creamy skin of her neck to her eyes. He swore he already knew what she’d taste like, how her soft skin would give under the pressure of his lips.

“What can I do for you?” She’d been surprised by his appearance but recovered quickly. The immediate shock in her brown eyes was already replaced by cool assessment. Yup, definitely someone used to working with celebrities. And not easily impressed, he’d guess.

“I’m Prescott—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Reynolds. Is there something you need before tonight’s premiere?” Her tone burst with brusque efficiency, but all he could see was the way her pink-glossed lips formed the words.

“You didn’t notice, but this morning we were both on the hiking trail.”

“You mean the running path?” She bit her lower lip, and her cheeks flushed under the makeup. Why did she have an expression of guilt on her feminine features? “Sorry, but I’m not a runner. You must have seen my twin sister, Phoebe. She, ah, goes for a few miles every morning. I’m more of a night owl. Did you enjoy your time on the property?”

“Yes, of course.” He waved his hand around, motioning at the room. “This entire place is amazing. It’s easy to feel like I’m in the middle of Normandy or Burgundy while I’m here.” Too late he realized what a snob he sounded like. His global travel was a direct privilege of his celebrity status, and the Iowa farm boy inside him cringed at his careless mention of a destination so few ever afforded.

“Thank you. I’ll pass that on to my parents. Is there something else?” There was an air of impatience, no, make that desperation about her as she repeated her question. Maybe she had to practice red carpet introductions, or there had been some last-minute disruptions to the festival’s launch gala.

“Actually, it’s me who’d like to do something for you. What did you say your name was?”

Most women were impressed enough by this point to at least show a spark of appreciation in their gaze. But not this woman. She actually hesitated before she answered, as if reluctant to let him know anything so personal. Talk about the tables being turned.

The warmth in his center from her nearness exploded into something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Joy.

Prescott realized that he’d sorely missed having a woman turn him on his head. Maybe this film festival wasn’t going to be the laborious weeklong junket that he’d resigned himself to.

“I’m Skye Colton, the resort’s marketing director.” She held out a slim hand, and he took it. As they shook he was again distracted, this time by the silky softness of her skin that contrasted sharply with the firmness of her grip. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Not as pleased as I am. Call me Prescott, please.” He loved how she grasped his hand like a boss. She’d be incredible in bed, he instinctively knew. But what stunned him was that he wasn’t interested in that, not right now. Well, maybe he was completely enthralled by how seductive her mere presence was, but he was feeling something very different from first-meet attraction. Something more palpable.

All Prescott wanted was to get to know Skye Colton better. Suddenly his seven-day junket in Roaring Springs felt as if it was already half over. There would never be enough time to know this woman the way he wanted to.

But damned if he wouldn’t give it his best shot.

*
Phoebe knew she gripped Prescott’s hand too tightly, but to his credit the man didn’t even wince. She’d had no choice, as there was no other way to hide her nervousness. Thank goodness she’d wiped her palm on her pants before she’d shaken his. Otherwise he’d have known how rattled she was.

The photos and films didn’t do this man justice. Not even close. She’d never had a zing of awareness when she’d seen him on the big screen, nor had she grown wet with pure feminine need as she’d watched his performances. Standing so near to him, it was a shock to her that his star status wasn’t at play. She felt as she would with a non-celebrity man she was attracted to. Except her reaction was so far over the top. Between his deep voice, his words that made her feel like she was the only woman in the room, and the confidence in his posture and body language that hinted at his athleticism, her knees felt like her mother’s pepper jelly. All wobbly but with heat washing over her skin, making her want to run away before she did what her hormones were begging for: to kiss Prescott Reynolds right here in the ballroom and tell him to follow her to her room.

This must be what groupies feel like, and why they go after movie and rock stars.

This had to be some kind of sexual overreaction due to the morning’s upheaval caused by Skye’s disappearance.

Prescott flashed his familiar white-toothed I-leave-hearts-crushed-with-every-footstep grin that she recognized from his film promos and it snapped it out of her sexual trance.

It was nothing like the smile she’d witnessed in her favorite work of his—an historical period piece where he’d played a struggling artist amid the French Revolution. While his smile was part of his trademark good looks, as he looked at her, she was aware that there was more to this man than his celebrity. And he knew how to turn it on and off, not a virtue of many people she’d met who lived in the spotlight.

“Okay, then. Nice to meet you, Prescott.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Skye.” Phoebe didn’t like lying, ever, yet as she stood in the middle of the grand ballroom, her hair and makeup perfectly done in Skye’s signature style, it was surprisingly easy to fall into the role. Save for Skye’s effervescent presence. And extreme comfort around attractive, powerful men.

“You must be very excited for tonight. I’ll be announcing each of you, I mean the VIPs, as you arrive.” She’d watched from the sidelines as her twin had handled actors over the past three years since they’d both left college. Skye made it look so easy, but Phoebe was drained at the mere thought of having to play “happy to meet you” with countless actors.

He shrugged, his tall, muscular frame formidable in measure but his energy anything but. He made her feel as though she were the only person he wanted to be with. No doubt all part of his practiced Hollywood charm.

“It’s a thrill to know the world’s going to finally see something I worked so hard on, but to be frank, I left this film’s set almost a year ago. My mind is on other…projects.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, his flirting was so obvious. “I’ll bet it is.” It seemed silly, but she went ahead and batted her eyes anyway. And immediately felt like Skye. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t really her twin, please forgive her, and would he call her Phoebe?

But she couldn’t. So she smiled, content to soak up his aura of good cheer as pseudo-Skye.

He smiled back, but it wasn’t the predatory grin of a man on the prowl. She’d watched plenty of actors behave poorly over the years, and this wasn’t it. Prescott seemed relaxed, and there was a special light in his eyes that she couldn’t attribute to the chandeliers, as they weren’t fully lit yet. She didn’t know the man, but if she had to name it, she’d say he was happy. A man in his element. Exactly where he wanted to be.

Buy links: https://gerikrotow.com/books/coltons-mistaken-identity/#order

About the Author

Geri Krotow is the bestselling author of the Silver Valley PD series for Harlequin Romantic Suspense, and the Bayou Bachelors series with Kensington Lyrical Caress. A U.S. Naval Academy graduate and Intelligence Officer, Geri left her Navy career to pursue writing. Geri enjoys creating sexy contemporary romances and tingling suspense.

Geri loves to connect with readers!

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UPDATE: The winners is…Booklady!
*~*~*

Click on the covers to learn more about these stories!

Have you read the books in my Beaux Rêve Coven series? The covers are gorgeous, aren’t they? (Thanks, sis!) If you love witches and trolls and werewolves and vampires, and…well, all those lovely beings who inhabit paranormal worlds, you won’t want to miss these stories. I have two more books planned in the series, and hope to get them both out before the end of the year. In the meantime, enjoy an excerpt from Wolf Moon Rising, and comment below for a chance to win a copy of one of the BRC books!

Wolf Moon Rising

In Jefferson Parish, deep in the bayou, is a place called Bonne Nuit. Off the beaten path, isolated by swamp and connected to the sea, there the Beaux Rêve Coven thrives.

Five witches…Too many demons to count…

Aoife is the flightiest of the sister witches, and she has a secret, one her mother warned her to keep close to her heart. Her father was a fairy—which explains her quirkiness and her affinity for flowers. She lives in a cabin on stilts that juts into the bayou, and one of her demon guardians is a werewolf. She’s attracted, but how would he feel if he married her, fathered a child, and that child disappeared into the land of the fae? Desperate to find a solution to her dilemma, she flees her guardian’s protection. Her last hope is to enlist her father’s help. Plead her case. Her happiness, and that of her one true love, Sigurd, depends on whether she can escape this fairy curse.

Excerpt

For Sigurd, acting as guardian to the witch, Aoife, was both a blessing and curse. A blessing, because he’d never known anyone as innocent and pure, and a woman who truly didn’t know her own allure. A curse, because he had to guard her against his own lustful nature.

And again, he was thankful two other demons were assigned the protection detail, because more than anything, he wanted her kept safe. However, he was equally annoyed at having two competitors for her affection.

Of course, many more among the demons living around Bonne Nuit aspired to hear the “echo” of their bonding with a witch. Such a bonding brought power to the lucky demon—and demons were greedy about that sort of thing. They frequented Aoife’s small cabin poised on long stilts above the bayou on the flimsiest of excuses. One needed a fragrant oil to help him sleep. Another needed a healing balm to soothe a bruise. And they were constantly underfoot in her garden and her workshop, interfering more than helping—at least, to his mind.

However, Aoife appeared blissfully unaware of the males’ attempts at garnering her exclusive attention. Her radiant smile flashed indiscriminately upon her pursuers, never mind their unsuitability as possible mates. And despite the fact they’d done nothing to earn the right to call her wife.

Unlike Sigurd, who suffered her proximity and who stood ready to serve her in any way she pleased. Who quietly stood guard over her while she slept, losing his sleep and his pride because she slumbered so soundly, completely unaware of his constant state of arousal.

Sigurd wasn’t naturally a patient man, but he had withstood the torture of being close day in and out for seven months. He was nearing his breaking point. If something didn’t happen soon, he would press their leader, Ethan, to ask his pretty wife for help. Bryn liked him well enough, always turning to give him a wink when “family” dinners took place, and one of Aoife’s admirers fought for the privilege of sitting at her side. Sigurd preferred to sit across from her at the table anyway—the better to glower at his competition. And perhaps raise a lip in a menacing snarl.

Bryn seemed to be in his corner. Perhaps she would be eager to see her sister witch settled. If something didn’t change soon, he’d speak with her.

On this evening, Sigurd wore his wolfskin and lay curled on the wooden floor beside Aoife’s bed. Just before she’d begun softly snoring, she’d reached down and scratched behind his ears. Probably not an act she was even aware of doing. She was kind to all creatures and seemed especially fond of his wolf form, sometimes taking a brush to his fur or giving him a bath in the large metal tub on the porch. He lived for those moments.

He shook his head in disgust. What a sorry excuse for a wolf he was. Wolves weren’t pets. They were pack animals who needed to belong to a family and a mate. A male needed to dominate his bitch, but he didn’t think Aoife would ever agree to be his bitch.

However, the thought did stretch his wolf’s mouth into a feral grin. He laid his head atop his paws and settled with a disgruntled whine.

Minutes passed, and he was nearly drifting off to sleep when the bed creaked and feet softly lowered to the floor. He perked his ears and pushed up to peer over the mattress, just in time to see Aoife slip through her bedroom door.

He followed, freezing when her steps paused, ducking behind corners when she glanced around. Something was afoot, and his hackles rose when she reached for her cloak and a small bag from the hook beside the front door.

Was she meeting a lover? Or were the witches gathering in secret? Somehow, he doubted the latter because Bryn was very pregnant and couldn’t slide gracefully from Ethan’s bed. And Miren would have to escape three mates, and that could never happen. Which reminded him, where the hell were the other two guards?

When Aoife opened the door and crept outside, closing it behind her, he drew up short. He hadn’t considered how he would exit the house, so he quickly shook free of his wolfskin and strode onto the porch. His glance went to the steps at the side of the porch, but then a sound, a soft splash, pulled his gaze to the canal flowing past her porch. She’d taken a boat. The fact she was already on the water meant she’d been in a hurry.

What the fuck?

Footsteps sounded from inside the house. A door creaked open then slammed shut. So much for stealth. Hamdir, also a wolf, walked to his side, scratching his chest. “Where’s the witch? I was sleeping on the couch. Thought you were watching her.”

“I was.” I watched her escape. “Go back to bed. I have this handled.”

“Sure about that?” Hamdir yawned. “Don’t know how you aren’t dead on your feet. You really ought to let us have turns inside her bedroom.” His large hand patted Sigurd’s shoulder. “Driving to New Orleans in the mornin’, or I’d join you on this hunt,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

His gaze followed Hamdir as he stepped back inside. Their group had grown complacent since Ethan defeated the council’s champion in battle and no retribution had been settled upon their unbanded group. Most presumed the mere presence of so many demons, concentrated in their small town, was deterrent enough to rogue demons seeking to steal a witch for a mate.

Sigurd was reminded he’d have to enlist another guard from among the bachelor demons during Hamdir’s absence.

A cool wind wafted against his skin, raising chill bumps. Early Winter in the bayou was mild, but he couldn’t easily follow Aoife on foot. Instead, Sigurd shifted again and fell to his paws. With a single quick yelp, he leapt past the stairs to the bank. Lifting his nose to the breeze, he followed Aoife’s delicious witch’s scent through the murky, shadowed bayou. If he startled a gator, the bastard better move out of his way.

Aoife drew her paddle into the pirogue and stepped out onto the bank. She hadn’t rowed far, but she worried that her guardians would notice she’d eluded their watch. And that couldn’t happen. Tonight, she needed privacy to commune with the moon, and perhaps, coax a stubborn door to open.

As she stepped into the thick forest, she drew deep, calming breaths. She crushed the carnation she’d secreted into the bag inside the pocket of her cloak and whispered a quick, ineloquent spell.

“Goddess, though I walk alone,
your moon’s rays light my way.
Let nature’s bounty, your gift to us but still your own,
do no harm or deter me along my way.”

Despite her prayer, she glanced around the deepening darkness and hoped she’d recognize the tree when she saw it. The canopy above her allowed only dapples of moonlight through to the forest floor. She’d found the oak only days ago when she’d been searching for moss for a fairy house she was constructing to sell online. No one else would have noted it. The tree was old. Its bark thick and rugged. Although shorter and squatter than the lovely old oak in the open field the witches used for their rituals, this one appeared ancient—much more suited to her task. When she’d rapped on its bark to awaken its spirit, she’d felt the old oak shiver its branches and sensed its anger at her intrusion. Only a grouchy old oak would serve her purpose.

With the picture of the squat oak in her mind, she reached into her right pocket and crushed the dried honeysuckle there, letting its sweet aroma rise around her, and sought the oak with her other sight.

When she again opened her eyes, moonlight gleamed brighter straight ahead. She plunged forward but didn’t note the vine on the forest floor. Her foot snagged and sent her toppling to the ground. As she pushed upright, she thought she heard something rustling in the bushes. Not a small animal. Suspicious, she narrowed her gaze and stared in the direction of the sound, sure a certain wolf with better night vision than she had stared right back.

She waited, listening, but when no other sounds intruded, other than the rustling of dried leaves above, she continued her way. If Sigurd were trailing her, he would already have made his presence known. He was forever standing in her path, forcing her to raise her gaze to his. In those moments, she felt as though her lungs constricted, and her voice got very small. She wasn’t exactly intimidated, because she knew he’d never harm her, but his size and steady, all-seeing gaze looked right through her. Like he could read her mind. Which was impossible. Still, she found deceiving him very hard, which was why she’d decided to sneak away in the dead of night. As soon as he’d fallen asleep, she’d crept from the house. Yes, she’d heard the slam of a door in the distance, but she’d been well around the bend in the canal. No, he couldn’t have tracked her so quickly to this part of the woods. If she was successful, he wouldn’t arrive at her destination until it was already too late.

It was well past time she should have had this conversation, and secrecy was of the utmost importance. This situation wasn’t something she could talk to her sisters about. They’d be hurt, because she’d never divulged the truth in all their long acquaintance, despite their shared travails. This secret burned a hole in her belly and made her lose sleep. Worse, it kept her from Sigurd. She could never agree to be his mate—and she knew he wanted that—not until her problem was resolved. Inside her pocket, she crossed her fingers and hoped she’d found the right tree.

The golden light beckoned, growing stronger the deeper into the woods she went, until she entered a clearing. Light from a golden gibbous moon gleamed through the branches of the canopy above. Fireflies, out of season, hovered around the trunk, blinking out and on. Something about the air had changed. It smelled sweeter, and felt…thinner…warmer.

This was the place. It had to be. She’d felt this same trembling excitement the one time her mother led her into the woods to greet an ancient oak and attempted what Aoife had to accomplish tonight.

Closing her eyes, she reached out and laid a hand against the rugged trunk.

“Come fae and fair,
No need beware,
A daughter comes to greet you.
One knock you hear,
Two draws you near,
The third opens the door to meet you.”

Taking a deep breath, she rapped three times. Then she waited.

The wind picked up, dragging back her hood. Light gleamed between the edges of the bark, up and down the tree.

She stepped backward. Her breaths came faster, and then the glowing edges formed a rectangle, wider than an arm span. The dark bark at its center melted away.

Revealed inside the doorway was a tunnel formed by intertwining gold and green vines. She swept up the edges of her cloak and bent to step inside the door. As soon as her feet touched soft moss on the other side, she heard a crackling sound from behind and a long, lonely howl.

I’m a big person of “living in the time”. It’s July 1st, and I want my Facebook timeline to flood with fun in the sun ideas, 4th of July recipes, and sexy guys in swimsuits with surf boards. I don’t want Halloween countdowns (I’m big into Halloween — in October) or the remaining days until Christmas.

I want to enjoy strawberry shortcake while watching the fireworks, not wonder what to get my grandson for Christmas.

Now, if you are — the person who has their Christmas shopping done by August 4th — have your Halloween decorations ready in April — know your exact Thanksgiving menu on March 23rd — do the entire year of birthday cards on January 1st — you are amazing in my book! The major reason I live in the moment is it stresses (like non-stop binge-eating doughnuts stress) me out to worry about Christmas presents in April.

As a rule, I live pretty much in the moment in all aspects of my life. I’ve been known to wake up and decide to take a 400-hundred-mile road trip. My husband has come home (he’s an over-the-road truck driver) and I’ve redone our bedroom — a couple of times.

This carries over into my writing. I sit down with a basic idea: people will die and there will be steamy sex. And go!

The thought of planning out an entire book makes me want to find doughnuts and vodka. A lot of both!

So, with all this being said that’s why I’m sharing my favorite July 4th drink twist and treat today…for those planners to maybe add it to next year’s 4th celebration!

Drink Recipe!

For a drink that “explodes” like fire works in your mouth – rim the glass with pop rocks 😀 This can be done with adult drinks, ohhhh say, raspberry vodka and lemonade. And kids – they love it! (Of course, I’m not giving them the vodka).

It’s Fireworks in a Cake.

What do you need:

1 (15.25-ounce) box white cake mix
1 (3.4-ounce) box vanilla instant pudding
4 eggs
3/4 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cup milk
1 (3-ounce) strawberry and blue raspberry jello
1 32 ounce whip topping
3 packages of pop rocks

What you do:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spray a 9X13-inch pan with cooking spray.
2. Using an electric mixer, mix together cake mix, pudding mix, eggs, vegetable oil, and milk until well mixed, about 2 minutes. Pour into pan and bake for 40 minutes.
3. Let cool for 20-30 minutes.
4. Using a serving fork or straw, poke holes all over cake.
5. In a medium bowl, mix Jell-O and pour mixture slowly over cake so that it sinks down in holes. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate at least 3 hours.
6. Spread whipped topping on top of cake and top with pop rocks.

The things that makes the world so amazing is that there are planners and fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pantsers, and then, those in the middle. Which are you?