What a phenomenal man Martin Luther King Jr. was. Each time I read his essays and sermons and speeches written fifty to sixty years ago, I marvel at his prescience, his forethought, his ability to inspire as well as be inspired. Asked to find a reading for my church’s 2020 MLK Jr. service, Dr. King’s sermon, “Birth of A New Nation”, called to me.

By the end of 1956 Dr. King had gained national attention because of the success of the Montgomery Bus boycott. In 1957 he, his wife Coretta Scott King and a number of prominent African Americans were invited to witness the independence ceremony of Ghana from Great Britain in March 1957. Moved to tears and joy by the experience, Dr. King went back to his congregation — the Dexter Avenue Baptist church — and in a sermon entitled “Birth of a New Nation”, told the history of Ghana’s struggle for independence and the personal history of its first prime minister, Kwame Nkrumah. Dr. King shared how Ghana’s non-violent ousting of the British intersected with their own fight against segregation. He told his congregation, “Ghana reminds us that freedom never comes on a silver platter.” He warned them to be ready to be spoken about badly, to possibly have their homes and their churches bombed because “freedom never comes easy. It comes through hard labor and it comes through toil” while also reminding them that the aftermath of nonviolence is the beloved community and redemption and reconciliation.

Reading as well as listening to this sermon provided a critique to my mind of many MLK Jr. services I’ve attended over the past thirty-seven years. So many gloss over the hardships Dr. King and those in the civil rights struggle endured but chose to face, so the world could be a better and more just place. Very few acknowledge, as Dr. King did, the connection shared by all struggles against oppression and the importance of making alliances, of fighting not only for your rights but the rights of others. Too often these services focus on the dream portion of his 1963 speech, but not on the bounced check that motivates the fight to make the dream come true.

I hope the portion of this sermon that I chose to share will inspire those attending our MLK Jr. service as the examples of Ghana and Kwame Nkrumah shared by Dr. King inspired the members of the Dexter Avenue congregation. I hope after hearing his words and the songs we sing and the reflections shared, we’ll leave this year’s service with “We Shall Overcome” ringing in our ears, not as a wistful prayer but as a declaration to fight against the injustice anywhere that is a threat to justice everywhere.

May you all have an inspiring MLK Jr. Day, too.

Better To Marry Than To Burn

Freed Man seeking woman to partner in marriage for at least two years in the black township of Douglass, Texas. Must be willing and able to help establish a legacy. Marital relations as necessary. Love neither required nor sought.

Excerpt:

She sidled up to him, cupped his erection and fondled his balls.

“Ready for bed or ready to bed me?”

He moaned, placed his hand atop hers and increased the pressure. Already hard, he hadn’t imagined he could get any harder.

“Is that beautiful brass bed new?”

He gulped. “Ye—yes. Bought it—bought it for the honeymoon.”

“I’m ready to be bedded now,” she whispered. “Or is that something we must negotiate?”

All thoughts of dinner vanished.

“No,” he rasped, leaning forward, as hungry for her lips as he was to be inside her.

“Good.” She stepped back, out of reach. “But, let’s be clear…” She bent over, so her butt protruded toward him. She massaged each buttock so her crack parted invitingly. “Tonight it’s the Greek way or no way.”

He blinked, stunned by this demand to be taken anally. His master had had books filled with drawings, depicting naked Greeks wrestling. Those pen and ink depictions flashed before him now. Arms constrained by arms, legs entwined with legs, butts and groins enmeshed in snug contortions. He’d love to take Queen that way, experience first- hand the erotic intimacy etched in the men’s struggle-laden features.

He took one step toward her then stopped. No. One day, he would…but not tonight. Not their first time. Their first time would be the nose-to-nose, chest-to-breast, cock-to-vagina coupling he’d hungered five years for.

Buy link: https://amzn.to/2KTaGPH
Website: www.michalscott.webs.com
Twitter: @mscottauthor1

UPDATE: CONTEST CLOSED! All commenters will receive the prize!
*~*~*

I think it’s important to write about what you know. I’ve had a varied background, living in different locations, doing various jobs, and I’ve read many books where the author writes about something they know nothing about. It is disappointing, and draws the reader right out of the story. My best advice is—Do your homework or write what you know.

I was born in southern British Columbia and have lived most of my life here, but when I was eleven, my family moved to the North Peace River area to a place east of Fort St John, BC. We homesteaded, which means we claimed a piece of land and built a small log house on it.

The local school had two rooms, and went to grade 8, so by the time I was thirteen I was doing home schooling, but my older sister and I took turns walking our younger sister the two miles down the dirt road to the bus stop as she was attending the two-room school.

It snowed a lot. One day, I had walked my sister to the bus stop with our dog Captain as company. Captain liked to chase rabbits, and I could always tell because he yipped his way through the woods as he ran.

The road had been ploughed, so the snowbank was a good eight feet high. I got my sister onto the bus and turned to head home, calling for Captain who had disappeared partway down the road chasing rabbits. I could hear him yipping as he drew nearer and nearer, then he barreled out of the trees and up the snowbank. I called him, thinking he would come to me and accompany me on the road home, but he kept going, down the bank and across the road as fast as he could run, into the trees on the other side.

I soon realized why. Over the snowbank behind him came two timber wolves. They paused at the top of the bank, eying me on the road below.

I thought I was dead. So I raised my arms above my head and waved at them, yelling as loudly as I could as I ran toward them. They loped down the bank across the road into the trees after Captain.

What I noticed was Captain running flat out, but the timber wolves loped. They have much longer legs than a regular dog. I didn’t think I would ever see my dog again. I walked the two miles home, and Captain arrived about noon. Totally exhausted, he slept on the floor in front of the fire for the rest of the day.

This was not the first time I had seen wolves, there were lots of them up there, beautiful creatures. They hung around our house because we had animals, a cow and calf, chickens, pigs, geese and dogs. We knew they were there from the howling that could be heard most nights. But it was the closest I had been to them while alone.

I used this encounter in my book, False Confession. The rock band travels north to play for a friend’s wedding, and some of the band members encounter a wolf on their return journey.

False Confession

Did Glory fall for the wrong man, or is someone lying?

Music teacher Glory has given up on men, with good reason. Then she meets the handsome lead guitar player in the band she has just joined.

Alex, body builder and construction foreman, is determinedly single because he’s given up on women. But that’s before he meets the keyboard player who just joined his brother’s rock band. Suddenly his interest is revived and he goes on a crusade to gain Glory’s attention.

But when Alex disappears and the police claim they have a confession giving damning evidence against him, Glory must make a decision. Can she trust the man she’s fallen for, or has she been fooled into believing a lie?

Find False Confession on Amazon & Books2Read

~ * ~

Contest

Comment for a chance to win an ebook copy of False Confession – 5 winners! 

Author Profile

Sylvie Grayson loves to write about suspense, romance and attempted murder, in both contemporary and science fiction/fantasy. She has lived most of her life in British Columbia, Canada in spots ranging from Vancouver Island on the west coast to the North Peace River country and the Kootenays in the beautiful interior. She spent a one-year sojourn in Tokyo Japan.

She has been an English language instructor, a nightclub manager, an autoshop bookkeeper and a lawyer. Now she works part time as the owner of a small company and writes when she finds the time.

She is a wife and mother and still loves to travel, having recently completed a trip to Singapore, Thailand, Viet Nam and Hong Kong. She lives on the coast of the Pacific Ocean with her husband on a small patch of land near the sea that they call home.

Sylvie loves to hear from her readers. You can visit her at her website – www.sylviegrayson.com, find her on Facebook and Twitter, or follow her on BookBub, Goodreads, and Amazon.

Excerpt – False Confession by Sylvie Grayson

“What’s she doing here?” Alex Vecchio glared around the dim upstairs storage room, which was theirs one night a week for band practice. The bar had cases of wine and hard liquor stacked against the far wall. Barrels of beer had been lugged in and placed near the elevator. A single light bulb illuminated the space, the walls dingy with age and the floor boards bare and unpainted.

He spotted his brother’s shaggy head. “Ryan? What’s going on?” His voice was low and fierce. “What’s she doing here?”

Ryan grinned as he pulled his drums from the case. “Hey, Alex. Have you met Glory?” His sandy bangs fell forward as he motioned toward the young woman on the other side of the room. She was bent over a keyboard, unfolding the legs and snapping the braces into place.

Alex lowered his brows and kept his face turned toward his younger brother, his voice a growl. “What’s going on? Why is she here?”

“Glory!” As she straightened, Ryan waved the young woman over. “This is my brother, Alex. He plays lead.”

Alex turned toward her. “Hi,” was all he managed, his body stiff with outrage. Her smile was sunny as she beamed up at him.

“Hi, Alex. Nice to meet you.” She thrust her hand out, and he was forced to give it a reluctant shake. “I didn’t know you were his brother. What a coincidence!” She was still smiling as she turned to Ryan. “Alex lives right next door at the townhouse complex. I’ve seen him a few times when I go off to work in the morning.”

Alex filed that comment away for further scrutiny. She’d been going off to work? In that getup? At five in the morning, her hair was up in a messy pony tail. She wore purple stretch shorts and a little pink tube top. He’d thought she was leaving fresh from the new neighbour’s bed. It was how her hair was kind of all every which way that had put that thought into his head. Well, and the time of day.

He was suddenly irritated by the idea that he’d rushed to judgement without much prompting. Grunting, he slung his guitar case to the floor and went down on one knee to unsnap the buckles.

“So,” Ryan continued blithely, “Glory is going to try out with the band tonight, she’s thinking of joining us.”

Alex’s head snapped up. “Joining us?” he barked, then felt his face flush. That sounded just a touch unfriendly, even to his own ears.

“Yeah,” said Ryan. “We need a keyboard. Pete plays sometimes but his strength is in the strings. This should round us out the way I’ve imagined the band sounding. I thought we’d give it a try tonight and find a few songs to work on that we can all play.” He waved at the other band members who were busy setting up. Pete nodded distractedly at their new member as he pulled his fiddle from the case and began to tune it.

Alex looked over at Glory. She was chatting with Eddie and laughing at something he’d said. That didn’t surprise him. Eddie loved women, all women. No wonder Corrie had left him. Again.

This woman was trouble. As she moved back to her keyboard, Eddie’s dark eyes followed, focused tightly on her ass clad in a snug pair of jeans.

She positioned her bench so she could see the other band members and settled down to play a few scales.

Alex noted the skinny legs on her pants and the high heels of her strappy shoes. Nothing but trouble. He shook his head and walked over to plug in. The air resounded with strings being tuned and keys pounded. He heard the thud of Ryan’s big drum as he snapped it into place in the harness.

His brother thumped a few drum rolls and silence fell. “Guys,” he said, “I thought we’d try a few suggestions from Glory. She’s got a sheet of numbers she likes to play, and we can just follow along to see how we sound.”

Glory nodded and immediately began the intro to one of Adelle’s old songs, “Rolling in the Deep.” Alex groaned silently. Not a bunch of chick songs! He so did not want to…

But as she played and the others joined in, the song began to hang together. They worked their way to the finale and she struck a chord to finish. Then she started the song again. This time she sang. Alex watched and listened, eyes narrowed as she got to the chorus. We could have had it all, she sang, then finished with— You played it, you played it to the beat.

When they stopped, the other guys clapped enthusiastically and he saw the pink flush on her cheeks as she laughed and waved them away.

Alex didn’t clap, but suddenly he felt like it. She was good, he’d give her that. He looked over at Ryan and saw him flash a smile. Little bugger, he was always trying to put something together, something bigger, something better. He just might have done it this time.

Ah, those early years of thrilling sexual exploration and tearful heartaches! All of us have those experiences. Many of us consider spilling the whole story in a memoir.

So it is with this new release by Jessica Hardy. Only she didn’t know how to write a book, so she called on her old friend, Liz Ashworth, to help her put the story together. The result is an up close and personal view of a woman’s journey from adolescence to adulthood and of the times she lived in.

My work on Jessica’s story left me with many questions. Does love last a lifetime? Do we ever forgive ourselves for our mistakes? Is there any absolution in baring your soul to the world?

Jessica will find out as her true life story hits the bookstores and readers decide for themselves.

Once in a Lifetime Opportunity

In the mid-20^th century, an entire generation of women found themselves caught up in a revolution. Young women tossed aside society’s rules that had governed women with an iron hand for hundreds of years. Suddenly women had agency, the right to their own identity. And their own sexual adventures.

The story of Jessica Hardy and her seven-year marriage to Parker Grant brings that enormous cultural shift down to the personal level. As she enters college in 1966, Jessica is desperate to break out of her strict upbringing. Parker is her salvation, a graduating senior who becomes the love of her life. Newly married, they immerse in Parker’s duties as an air force officer and a world of their own making—nights in Las Vegas, windy Pacific beaches, and long summer days in the Philippine Islands. Slowly, with Parker’s encouragement, Jessica gains self-confidence and a sense of herself.

But Jessica has a problem. She wants more. More knowledge, more experience, autonomy. Leaving no stone unturned, Jess breaks one rule after another—abortion before Roe v Wade, experimenting with marijuana then LSD, one man then another, even time in jail. It all culminates in an unexpected spiritual awakening that opens the door to the rest of her life.

Once in a Lifetime Opportunity reveals this tumultuous time in a gut-wrenching portrayal of a woman determined to find her own way and the man who loved her.

Get your copy here!

Excerpt:

Hartman became ever more distant. I had been conquered, leaving him to pursue new prey. Exhibiting my need only pushed him further away, but then when I regained my balance and ignored him, he needed me.  One night when I had spurned him successfully for over a week and had taken the phone off the hook, he woke me up at one a.m. shouting at my bedroom window.

“Jessica, goddamn it, wake up!”

Groggy, I heard him yell for several minutes before I actually woke up.

“Jessica,” he shouted, slapping the bedroom window screens.

I staggered down the hall and jerked open the carport door. He careened up the steps and stood glaring at me in the dark dining room.

“What the hell, Hartman? I was asleep.”

“Fucking mud all over my boots,” he slurred, obviously drunk. He sat heavily in one of the dining room chairs and tugged at the boots, pulling off one then the other of those precious handmade alligator cowboy boots.

“Wanted to see you,” he said, leering at me.

I huffed and headed down the hallway, climbing into bed as he shucked off his clothes and crawled in on the other side, still complaining about the mud.

“You didn’t have to walk in my yard,” I pointed out, turning off the lamp and trying to get warm. “You knew it was muddy.”

“Hell, I knocked a fucking hour.”

“You did not.”

“Yes, I did.” He snugged up against my body, sucking heat into his cold limbs.

“You’re fucking worthless, Hartman.”

“You love me anyway, Jessica.”

—

Thanks Delilah!

Lizzie Ashworth
Author of Edgy Fiction
Visit my website at www.lizzieashworth.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorLizzieAshworth?ref=hl
Read * Laugh * Love * Live

Thank you, Delilah, for hosting me and my new romance Karma’s Slow Burn.

I’m about half way through my pre-release journey and boy, I can’t tell you how long this seems. But, I did and still do need this time to get a lot of balls balancing in the air in beautiful harmony. And I still hope (fingers crossed) one of those balls won’t come crashing down on me.

I’ve received three good reviews from as many ARC readers. It is not nearly enough to get my book on reputed-maybe too hyped?-advertisers sites. All of them require at least five four-star reviews. Which is understandable due to the over-whelming numbers of books being released. Which is a downer for an indie author like me. I have to keep working to find those choice spots so my book does not fade into oblivion even before it is released!

Then there are the shenanigans with Amazon about getting those two reviews on my book’s page. The only place to put a review not posted by an Amazon buyer (they can’t because my book in not yet available) is to get in touch with Amazon. Days 1,2. Then they send me a link I can use to send them the reviews, which they will enter on my book page for me. The email they sent is invalid and my email bounces right back. I again send them yet another email, through KDP, Author Central or Customer Service? Aargh! Too many choices. Day 3. They send me the right one but meanwhile I can’t schedule any actual promotion because my book details are not current. Double aargh!

Now that the issue has been resolved, I heave a tiny sigh of relief. Now I have to see how I can get those precious reviews on Smashwords. I will need a barrel of luck as it does not look good.

Karma’s Slow Burn

Karma’s Slow Burn, promo price of $1.99 on pre-order until date of release on 1 Feb 2020
Buy Links:
www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07ZJSZD5X
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/957769

Sportswriter Karma Huntington is going to hit Rafael Henley, star pitcher for the Sliders, hard to avenge her husband’s death. Rafael cannot ignore the chemistry between them and decides a one-night stand is in order. Karma agrees. Just to get that itch off. But once they get into each other’s pants, things get complicated. Revenge and guilt take a back seat with sizzling chemistry in control. Rafael likes willowy blondes and women who don’t look to him as their protector. Yet here is, lusting after the complete opposite: petite, raven-haired, Karma with a rose tat running up her neck. Can Rafael overcome the dark secret he hides and give in to what his heart wants? Will Karma finally admit she needs Rafael?

Excerpt from Karma’s Slow Burn:

As Karma drove home, the large orange globe of a full moon hung before her eyes, bathing the countryside in its silver glow. The deserted road stretched in front of her, turned and disappeared between the trees. It was a magical and beautiful night. The scent of lilacs wafted from the back seat of her electric car. Trudie had cut her some lilac sprigs. He had three different colors growing in the yard.

Karma listened to Linus Radisson’s music. She waited for the part where Radisson’s voice became husky and slithered all over her. She waited for the part where it cracked at just the right spot. He had a very sexy voice and she sighed, her shoulders falling and her arms dropping from the wheel, carried away by the rhythm in the ballad. There was a jolt and her butt lifted up from the seat. As it sunk back, there was a loud thud. She felt the car pulling to the right.
Dammit! A bloody pothole! A flat. Immediately, there was a ping. Her overly environmentally friendly car had just run out of juice.

Double fudge!

She eased her smart vehicle slowly to the grassy side where it stopped of its own volition. She got out and inspected the damage. In the light of the moon, she could see the right front wheel sagging. Karma opened her trunk, got out the jack and began the intricate process of changing the flat.

*****

Rafael Henley started his Harley Street Glide and eased out onto the open road from his home in the country. Lush woods surrounded the ten plus acres. Hidden deep in the greenery, a stream trickled down ancient rocks. It was a good place to raise Ali.

He’d left an exhausted Ali asleep, with Rosita close by, after an afternoon of splashing in the pool, leaving him a bit of time to indulge in his passion. It was something only Linus knew about. Helmet donned and he could be anybody.

It was a beautiful evening, the sun leaving pink streaks in the darkening sky. The sliver of the moon turned round and yellow. Soon, he would be alone with the wind in his hair. It was another secret he kept: out on the road with nothing in sight, he took off his helmet and was one with the countryside.

It happened half an hour into his ride. He saw her illuminated in the pale glow of the twilight just as he was coming out of a bend. It couldn’t be anyone else but Karma. Not with those long, black waves rippling down her back. Not with his senses all on alert. There was a tiny something-could be called a car-parked by the side. She was at work at one of the tires. She paused, made a movement with her hands and there was no more hair rippling down her back. Her almost naked back. Her dress glistened in the glow of the moon. It was pale, strapless and the back dipped in a sumptuous V. He could make out the way it hugged her curves.

Fuck!

It was enough to make him hard. What was it about this woman? She was not good for his sanity. She brought up bad memories. But his cock didn’t know any better. It wanted what it wanted. And it wanted her.

As he killed his engine and walked toward her, he untucked his T-shirt. It fell below his fly and he was grateful to be able to hide the evidence of his arousal. She was kneeling on a rolled up blanket, a pair of pale shoes by her side. In the glow of the portable light by her side, he saw her arms move. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes.

*****

Karma was almost done with the last bolt when she heard the crunch of gravel behind her. A sleek road hog pulled up beside her. She put the wrench down and sank down on the grass. Of all the people to run into, it had to be him.

“Need help? A ride?” The familiar voice rubbed into her skin and seeped in like the lavender lotion she loved.

Just his voice gave her goose bumps. Karma turned to look at him. Moonlight glinted off the chrome on his motorcycle.

“Nope, Henley, I’m all done. Thanks for stopping, anyway.”

“Mind if I keep you company?”

Karma hesitated for a brief moment before she said, “No.”

She got her phone out to call her father. And a tow truck. He got off the magnificent machine and stood by her with his hands in his pockets.

“Lovely night,” he sniffed the air. “Fresh air.”

“Yep.”

“You don’t live around here.” A statement not a question.

“Nope don’t. Visiting my father. Thought you lived in the city. In a penthouse.”

“Yep. But I also have place in the country. Not far from here.”

“Ah.”

He came down on his haunches beside her. He was wearing a pale colored T-shirt: either blue or white and jeans. Dark hair, in sexy disarray from the bike ride, fell over his eyes. There was a faint aroma of something smoky. It was seductive. She took a deep whiff of it.

“What are you doing with a flat at a time like this?” She caught a flash of his smile in the night.

“Well,” Karma began slowly. “I had no choice. It chose me.”

“That can happen,” he laughed softly.

She stuck the phone back in her pocket and gave the bolt a final twist. Then she stretched her arms over her head, leaned them back on the soft grass and looked at the sky.

“I can’t believe it. Just a couple of months ago all this was under snow.” She looked around her.

“It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? That the cycle goes on and on seemingly forever?”

When she was done, he got to his feet and gave her his hand. He pulled her up. She made sure not to get too close to him. She put the wrench away and he handed over the rest of her stuff.

“Who’re you calling?” he butted in when she began her second call.

“My father. Need a ride home. My zero emission wonder is out of juice.”

“I can give you a ride. No need to disturb your father.”

Karma debated. On the one hand she’d promised herself she’d focus on her plan. On the other, the Harley was hot and she wanted to feel it beneath her. It was no contest at all. Prudence lost by a mile. But they still had to wait for the tow truck.

She pressed her phone and soon Linus Radisson’s voice flowed through the moonlit countryside.

*****

“Are you still in touch with Linus?” With those words she opened the can of worms.

Any desire he had for her screeched like a banshee and made for the hills. “Yes, we’ve stayed friends.”

“That’s nice. Like Kim and I.”

“Unhuh.”

He was damned sure it was not the same. What he had with Linus was way beyond simple friendship. It was karma. They were brothers in every way except blood, drawn to each other from the moment they met. They were two kindred souls who’d found each other in an ocean of souls. They were two sides of the same coin, each unique and distinct.

“He has the most amazing voice. And the guitar….it rips me apart.”

His sentiments exactly, though he didn’t say it out loud. His grunt should have been agreement enough. Linus’s music was the balm to his wounds. It took him places. He never needed anything else to keep him soaring, always lifting him up when he was down. And when he felt like wallowing, Linus was there too with his dark lyrics and brooding harmonics.

“Isn’t he up for a Grammy?”

“Or more, I wouldn’t be surprised. His latest album packs quite a punch, both lyrical and musical.”

“How’s your daughter?”

He knew what she was doing. She was controlling the conversation. The thing was, he couldn’t have cared less. He was content to sit by her side in the moonlight, let her fragrance soak into him, knowing something was about to change.

She plopped down on the grass again and he followed suit, his hands braced behind him. She hitched the dress up to her thighs and sat cross-legged, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She didn’t seem to notice when a breeze picked up strands and blew them across his body, the silky fingers whispering around his biceps. He snagged a wayward strand. It curled around his finger as if it had a life of its own. He resisted the impulse to rake his fingers through her hair. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and wrap them around her to make her disappear in them like he’d done outside Josh’s.

And he was back where he’d started. As desire for her surged in him, he beat it down with an iron fist even as his dick thickened and hardened to wood. He shook his head to empty them of lustful thoughts and focused on what she was saying.

Recipe from Karma’s Slow Burn.

Karma’s Axle Grease Smoothie

-1 ripe banana
-1 ball frozen spinach
-handful blueberries
-10 raw cashews
-2 dates
-1/2” piece of ginger root, peeled
-1 tsp each of hemp flour, nutritional yeast and flax seed powder
-up to 2 cups liquid (water, almond or soy milk) for desired consistency

Buzz in a high speed blender. Pour into tall glasses and enjoy.

Fireflies in the Night

Literary Fiction, winner of the 2017 Next Generation Indie Book Award; Best Books of 2016 by Kirkus Reviews; Starred Kirkus Review; Finalist Foreword Reviews Indie Fiction Award. A historical, coming-of-age novel.

Buy Link:
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01HZS28CW

About the author

Nalini Warriar dreamed of being a writer then forgot the dream for a bit as she went on to garner a Ph.D in Molecular Biology. While in her lab, the dream came back and hit her on the head and she’s never looked back writing through her years as a scientist. After more than a decade in cancer research, Nalini returned to the creative part of her soul and now devotes her time to dreaming up the perfect alpha male and feisty woman to appear in her books. Her novel, Fireflies in the Night, was a Foreword Reviews Fab Award finalist and won the Next Generation Indie Book Award in 2017. Kirkus Reviews awarded Fireflies in the Night a starred review and named it Best Books of 2016. Karma’s Slow Burn, a contemporary romance will be released in February 2020. She’s working on her next romance, a Crenshaw Brothers book, to be released in 2020. She lives in Ontario, Canada.

Author Links:
www.facebook.com/authornaliniwarriar
www.amazon.com/author/naliniwarriar
Twitter: @nwarriar

Turn to someone and say, “‘Tis the season…” and that person will smile back at you and probably say, “To be jolly.” Then the two of you might laugh and sing “Fa la la la la la la la la.” The season of Advent revolves around the themes of peace, hope, joy and love reflected in the song “Deck The Halls”. On successive Sundays congregations light three purple or blue and one pink candles in their Advent wreaths and recite a prayer anticipating the hope, peace, joy and love that the coming of the Christ child will bring. The assumption is this is the most wonderful time of the year. But what if your time isn’t wonderful, putting you at odds with the majority of the people around you?

Loss at any time is painful, but experiencing loss when everyone else is smiling, laughing and giving good cheer can be doubly painful. A sense of isolation — or worse a sense of having no right to your feelings — can set in. The pressure to stiff-upper-lip-it is great. Sometimes greater than people can bear. This is why as minister for pastoral care, I developed a “Blue Christmas” service for First Presbyterian Church in Jamaica, NY (FPCJ) as a way to affirm loss and offer comfort to those for whom crying makes more sense than caroling.

Often held on the longest day of the year, Blue Christmas services let people who are mourning know that they are not alone, that they are not forgotten, that they have a right to what they’re feeling. Hymns and songs are usually sung in a minor key. Prayers shared acknowledge the sorrow and pain of loss with dignity. Works from authors like Ann Weems, who write meditations based in their own experience of suffering, are read. Old Testament scriptures point to people journeying from darkness to light. Psalms chosen are often ones of lament like Psalm 22 or ones looking for help like Psalm 121. New Testament readings focus on a hope that is always there, even when you can’t feel it. Candle lighting is coupled with litanies that banish as much as possible feelings of shame or blame. In the service I designed for FPCJ, attendees were invited to come forward and light candles as an act of agency showing that even when we feel most helpless we always have power. As a reverse offering, attendees were invited to take a scripture stone (glass stones with scriptures on them) from the offering plates to take home as reminders that help from the word of God is always within reach.

Here are two sample services so you can see what I mean: https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/resources/blue-christmas-a-service-of-reflection-for-the-longest-night, https://youngclergywomen.org/blue-christmas-service-when-christmas-hurts/.

If you’ve never attended one, find a community near you that’s offering one then consider going. FPCJ’s Blue Christmas services were some of the most life affirming events I had the honor to participate in.

If this season is a dark night of the soul for you or someone you know, I hope this blogpost can serve as a reminder that there is comfort and strength for you in this time of loss, that there are people who care and that — as the old Negro spiritual proclaims — “trouble don’t last always.”

One Breath Away

Sentenced to hang for a crime she didn’t commit, former slave Mary Hamilton was exonerated at literally the last gasp. She returns to Safe Haven, broken and resigned to live alone. She’s never been courted, cuddled or spooned, and now no man could want her, not when sexual satisfaction comes only with the thought of asphyxiation. But then the handsome stranger who saved her shows up, stealing her breath from across the room and promising so much more.

Wealthy, freeborn-Black, Eban Thurman followed Mary to Safe Haven, believing the mysteriously exotic woman is his mate foretold by the stars. He must marry her to reclaim his family farm. But first he must help her heal, and to do that means revealing his own predilection for edgier sex.

Hope ignites along with lust until the past threatens to keep them one breath away from love…

Excerpt:

His smile turned up the heat in his gaze. Mary frowned, painfully aware the smell of her passion lingered in the air, despite the woolen barrier of her skirt.

He stepped forward so his hand-stitched boots stood toe-to-toe with Mary’s second-hand shoes. “Eban Thurman, at your service, Miss Hamilton. May I get you something to drink?”

At her service? The air congealed. Mary gasped, trying to suck in air too solid to inflate her lungs.

“No—no, thank you. I’m not thirsty.” Her stutter mimicked the tremor between her thighs. She clasped her hands and planted them hard against her lap.

“It’s a really hot night.” He turned his hand palm up in a silent plea. “Perhaps you’d find a waltz more cooling.” He eased his fingers into her clenched hands.

“May I beg the honor of this dance?”

“Beg?”

“Yes, Miss Hamilton.” He tilted his head, slanting his smile to the right. “Beg.”

“You don’t strike me as the begging type, Mr. Thurman.”

“To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven.” He tongue-swiped his full lips as if he’d just tasted something he wanted to taste again. “I know when it’s time to beg.”

She pursed her lips into a frown, fought back the urge to grovel and won. Barely.

The fingers around hers, clean and huge and strangely slender, hadn’t moved, hadn’t trembled. Their stillness aroused her. His stillness aroused her. Her lips quivered. She inhaled deeply against the surrender summoned by that tiny tremor.

Resist the devil and he will flee.

Silently she called upon the truth in this scripture for rescue. The devil waited. She stared at the hand on hers, helpless against the appeal, the allure of temptation.

She swallowed hard, opened her mouth to say no, but her tongue refused to cooperate. She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “I—I can’t. I don’t know how to waltz.”

“Well, you’re in luck.” His lips bowed in a smile, full, broad, and hypnotizing. “I’m an excellent teacher and I bet you’re a fast learner.” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “Shall we?”

He really wanted to dance with her. She blinked, speechless. A warning voice protested.

Resist.

Her heart countered.

Surrender.

She firmed her lips, heaved a sigh then accepted his invitation. Felicity’s sputtered shock and Widow Hawthorne’s happy cackle accompanied them to the middle of the dance floor.

He placed his fingertips respectfully but firmly above the rise of her buttocks and held her in place against him. A tickle invaded the wool of her skirt where the tip of his middle finger rested at the head of her crack. Pleasure tripped up her spine and trickled between her thighs. But, from the recesses of remembered experience, a voice of caution persisted.

He wants something, Mary. Beware.

“Why—why do you want to dance with me?”

He smiled with the serpent slyness that probably charmed Eve. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you.”

“I might.”

He turned his head slightly. “Really? Your practiced calm says otherwise.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Practiced calm?”

“The face you present to the world until something touches your heart.” He gestured to his right. “Like when that baby there cried. Your expression changed to one of concern, then changed to one of contentment when his mother satisfied his hunger.”

Mary blew a breath through her mouth. This man was studying her. Really studying her. Should she be flattered or worried?

The one-two-three, one-two-three magic of the waltz began. He guided her in its dips and glides, through its rises and falls. The awkwardness attributed to her by past dance partners didn’t raise its ugly head. Her spirit lightened then soared until that still, small voice sounded the alarm.

You were fooled by another man and his fancy manners. Don’t be fooled by this one.

Hints of bay rum mingled with a manly scent against whose lure she struggled then lost. Once again her toilet water failed to hide the salty scent of her arousal.
Eban pinned her with a not-so-casual scrutiny. Could he smell her too? She tried but failed to read him. Dare she hope the ease in his smile meant he found it pleasing?

The other couples held their partners off with discreet and proper holds. Not Eban. Warmth radiated from the hand holding the small of her back hostage. The heat spread across her buttocks then seeped into places more private. He bent his elbow and gentled her forward so only their clasped hands separated them.

“Why, Miss Hamilton, I do believe you’re blushing.” His fingers held hers with a teasing yet possessive grip.

“I am not.” Her words shot out with a force she hadn’t intended. “I mean I don’t blush.”

“No?” A cheeky boyishness winked at her from eyes as dark as chocolate. He leaned down so his breath tickled her earlobe. “Not even if I kissed you behind your ear?”

She shrank back then stared up into the gaze showering her with attention. Her heart beat beneath her breast with a prisoner’s unease. An unease she knew well having once been a prisoner.

“You—you wouldn’t.”

His smile widened into a grin. “Only because I don’t want to embarrass you.”

The amusement in his voice coaxed forth a wet response that Mary clenched her vaginal muscles to stem. She swallowed repeatedly until she found her voice.

“You still haven’t answered me, sir. Of all the women here, why did you pick me?”

“Why not you?”

She blinked. Why not her? The answers swirled through her mind as easily as she and Eban swirled in this waltz.

Why not her?

Because she remained planted among the wallflowers by the time the musicians played the last song at every Safe Haven dance.

Because she learned to hang back at the call of “Ladies’ Choice,” forewarned of rejection by the grimaces caused by her approach.

Because unlike desperate-for-a-man Felicity, Mary refused to dance on her back in some dark field just so she wouldn’t be a woman who ain’t been asked.

Ain’t been asked to court. Ain’t been asked to spoon. Ain’t been asked to the altar. And never would be.

That’s why not her.

His calloused fingertips proved he worked manually for the wealth that purchased his custom-made attire. But, he didn’t speak like a field hand or common laborer. His speech testified to a level of education far above that of her Freedman’s Bureau learning.

“Why not you, Mary?”

“Because someone like you only looks at someone like me out of pity.”

Of course. His aunt put him up to this. Anger warmed Mary’s ears.

“Let me go.” She made to pull away. “I want to sit.”

“Please. Not before the music stops.” He timed his plea to the rhythm of the waltz. “I’ve waited all week for this moment.”

Mary gritted her teeth. Heart hurt joined her injured pride. She needed no one’s charity.

“That was cruel of you, sir. No one counts the days until they can ask me for a dance.” Tears pooled behind her closed eyelids. “Anyone in town could tell you that.”

The grip on her hand tightened, forcing her eyes open. The light in his gaze darkened. “Anyone who’d lie to me like that would be taking their life in their hands.” He leaned in so his mouth nuzzled her ear again. “And if you use that I’m-not-worthy tone of voice again, I’ll be forced to prove you wrong with a kiss.”

Alarm shuddered up Mary’s back. “Is—is that a threat?”

“A certainty.” He winked.

A chilly thrill replaced the alarm. She blew out a breath to steady herself. Threat or certainty, both treated her to a delicious revelation—she wanted that kiss.

She eyed his lips, imagined their soft yet demanding press against hers. Once more the voice of caution repeated its warning.

Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Oh, to be forced to flee from such a devil as he. She sighed. What a wonderful problem to have.
*~*~*

Book links: Amazon: https://amzn.to/2QfEOZd

Social media links: Twitter – @mscottauthor1
Website: https://www.michalscott.webs.com

In the eyes of many, my husband Jack and I have it easy for the holidays. First, we don’t have children or grandchildren. Second, due to weather and work schedules, and the fact that we are the outliers not living in the Midwest, we don’t travel to family for the holidays and because the distance is great, they don’t travel here either. Third, we’re very easy to please when it comes to eating, and with two of us, big, time-consuming meals are not on our agenda. We have had black bean soup for Thanksgiving, and pizza for Christmas, so tradition on the dinner table is not a big concern.

So, no muss or fuss, no massive events in the kitchen, no hurried rushes to stand in airport lines.

But…

No family gatherings with laughter and hugs, no luscious smells coming from the oven, no getting up early to hurry to the tree to see if Santa came. No midnight Mass with its music and joyful feelings as the baby Jesus lies in the manger that has been empty at the front of the church for weeks. No well, specialness that comes with being with those you might see infrequently, no one to get excited with over that new pair of snow boots, no real reason to jump out of bed.

I’ve always been excited over Christmas, and for more than the gifts. It was the decorations, the carols, the sparkle. I mean, the season starts with Thanksgiving and a parade—or it used to, back in the day when stores didn’t put up Christmas decorations before Halloween—and ends with a holiday and a parade on New Year’s Day. A fitting, happy time before the dark days of winter enveloped us ‘til spring. Even when I was in college and went home, I asked my mom to put out something under the tree I could look at before she and my dad got up on Christmas morning. We got home from Mass by 1:30 and I was usually up by 6:00. I would wrap an afghan around my shoulders, turn on the tree lights, and bask in the beauty of it all.

When Jack and I were married, he groused every year when I would wake him at the butt-crack of dawn, whispering, “I hear sleigh bells!” “Go back to sleep, Dee! It’s the butt-crack of dawn!” Spoil sport.

Anyway, you see how I was and still am. Though now I have to admit, I’ve mellowed. It seems like too much to put up even a small tree. There’s no garland at our house, there will be no ham or turkey, no jumping out of bed to the sound of thrilled grandchildren rushing to see what Santa brought, no bundling up for Mass (I can’t stay awake for midnight Mass anymore!). But there will be happy phone calls to those far away, a pleasant meal of some sort, one or two heartfelt gifts (this year it’s a heartfelt bathroom renovation!), and a quiet day spent with the man I’ve loved for 53 years. Sure, there’s a bit of the ideal Christmas missing, but when it comes down to it, can Christmas be much better? The rest is all trappings. We all know that the true meaning of the day is love.

Wishing you a blessed and happy Christmas or Hanukkah!

One Woman Only

One Woman Only takes place in that time between Thanksgiving and New Year. It’s Book 2 in the Good Man series (Only a Good Man Will Do is Book 1). I hope you enjoy Jonah and Kelly’s story!

As one of a set of triplets, Jonah always feels the need to make his individuality known. So where his brother Daniel is serious and completely focused, Jonah shuns commitment. Where his genius brother Mark is hailed in the scientific world, Jonah hides beneath a car, tinkering. Thing is, being different isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It takes a woman—the right woman—to make him see that a “good man” can always be a better man.

Buy link: Kindle Unlimited, mybook.to/OneWomanOnly

Excerpt:

He left the car under the cover in front of the door and strode into the lobby. A petite brunette stood at the registration desk. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like a room.”

“For tonight?”

“Yes.” Jonah dug his wallet out of his back pocket and removed his VISA.

“One king or two queens?”

“One king.”

The girl typed furiously and then looked up. “We only have two queen rooms.”

“Then that will do.” He didn’t give a flying fuck how many beds were in the room as long as it had one as a minimum.

Jonah tapped his card on the counter and then walked to the door to look out at Kelly sitting in the car. He wasn’t dreaming. That really was Kelly Shepherd sitting in his car and they really were checking into the Family Inn.

“Just one person?”

Oh yeah. He hadn’t actually checked in yet. “Two.”

“Oh.” What the fuck? Did that sweet young thing just frown in judgement?

“Luggage?”

“No.” There was that frown again. He glanced down at his clothing, looking a little wilted now after the wedding and imagined what it looked like, his checking in with someone, obviously coming from a party of some sort. But again, what the fuck? She worked in a no-tell motel. Lots of people probably checked in here in for a quickie.

That thought shocked him. Kelly Shepherd was no quickie. If anything, she was the love of his life, the one he’d never forgotten but never felt he deserved. The rich girl whose daddy owned more than half the town and rented most of the rest. And he was…

For the first time, he saw himself as Daniel had seen the three of them since childhood. Well-loved and well cared for bastards. Yeah, no kids had ever had better parents but that didn’t change his parentage. Who was he to hold Kelly Shepherd in his arms?

Just as he started to turn toward the door to leave, the desk clerk asked, “First floor or second?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but just pick out a vacant room, tell me how much it is, run my credit card, and give me the key. My bride has been waiting in the car long enough.”

Her eyes widened. “Your…your bride? Why didn’t you say so?” Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She took his VISA and gave it back after a few seconds. “Park right out there in front of the light pole and you can come in through the front doors. Take the elevators to the third floor and go all the way to the end. That whole wing is empty so you and your wife can have some privacy.”

“Thank you, uh”—Jonah looked at her nametag—”Ms. Clark. I appreciate it.” Without waiting for more conversation, He dashed back to the car. Minutes later, holding Kelly’s hand tightly, he walked quickly back through the lobby.

“Congratu— Oh!” Little Miss Desk Clerk exclaimed. “You didn’t wear white.”

“What?” Kelly asked, slowing Jonah down with a tug on his hand.

“I said, you didn’t wear white. To the wedding.”

Shit. After almost talking himself out of taking Kelly up to the room, now interfering Ms. Clark was going to do the trick for him.

“No. That would have been inappropriate.”

Jonah saw Ms. Clark’s eyes widen again as he realized the spin her mind put on Kelly’s words. Then that damn frown returned. Jonah wrapped his arm around Kelly’s shoulders. “Come on, sweetheart. Our room is ready.”

“Okay,” Kelly said, gazing into his eyes with the love a real bride would have for her new husband. No, wait. That was a look of confusion. No matter. He pulled Kelly to the elevators and punched the button with his index finger. Once inside, he took her in his arms and kissed her with all the heat that had been building in him all night. To his relief, Kelly responded in kind, pushing her fingers through his hair and holding his head to hers.

When the elevator slowed and then stopped, they stepped into the hallway. Jonah checked the room number on the key card holder and turned them to the left. In her heels, Kelly had a hard time keeping up, so he swept her into his arms.

At their room, she took the key card from him and opened the door. Once inside, Jonah was certain his heart would burst from needing, from wanting, from years of unfulfilled dreams, all about to come true.

“What did that girl mean?”

“What girl?” Jonah took he shawl from her shoulders and folded it loosely on the dresser.

“The girl at the front desk. What did she mean about my not wearing white?”

“Oh, that.” He emptied his pockets onto the dresser, and deftly removed a condom from his wallet. “I told her we’d just been married.”

“What? Why would you do that?” Kelly moved away from his fingers that were trying to find how to unwrap her wraparound dress.

“Because she kept making judgmental noises and frowning. She made me feel guilty for bringing you here.”

“So, when she noted that I wasn’t wearing white she assumed that I wasn’t a virgin?”

“Probably.” Jonah took a step back and gazed at her. “Does that bother you? Because it damn sure bothers me that she dared make any assumptions about us.”

Kelly smiled. “You of all people know that I’m not a virgin.”

Jonah groaned. “Can we please not talk about that night again? And especially not now?”

Kelly smiled. “Sure, we can do that. And do I care what that little girl downstairs thinks? Not a whit. I just care what you think, Jonah. Here and now.” With a flick of her wrist, the tie came loose and the dress flowed to the floor. There, standing before him in all her glory wearing only a lacy bra and little satin short-short things, was the woman of his desires.

About the Author

A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. Writing was so much fun Dee decided to keep at it. That’s how she spends her days. Her nights? Well, she’s lucky that her dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy, and nights are their secret. For romance ranging from sweet to historical, contemporary to paranormal and more join Dee on Nomad Authors. Contact Dee at dsknight@deesknight.com.

Author links:
Website: https://nomadauthors.com
Blog: https://nomadauthors.com/blog
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DeeSKnight
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DeeSKnight2018
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/265222.Dee_S_Knight
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B079BGZNDN
Newsletter: https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/h8t2y6
LinkedIn: https://linkedin.com/in/dee-s-knight-0500749

I am so excited to be guest blogger on Delilah Devlin’s blog today. Thanks to you, Delilah, for all the time and work you exert to promote other authors’ work. It’s really fun to be here right now, during the holidays. I hope all of you are enjoying the preparations for celebrating your traditions.

Speaking of holidays, when I was a little girl, one of the most beloved traditions in our house was the way in which we were awakened on Christmas Day. It didn’t take me long to learn that my Daddy was the biggest kid of all. As long as I can remember, he always woke up first on Christmas Day. He’d put the coffee on, but when he’d start cooking breakfast, which he did every morning so my Mom could sleep a little longer, he’d suddenly have trouble. Pots and pans would rattle, cabinet doors would bang, and plates and cups would sound as though they were about to break. He was trying to wake us up so we could all run into the den together to see what Santa Claus had brought us.

Now, my brothers and I have our own families and our own holiday traditions, but sometimes I wake up early on Christmas morning and I think I can hear Daddy rattling pots and pans, hoping to wake my brothers and me, so we can enjoy finding what Santa Claus brought us—and he can enjoy watching us.

I have never lost that excitement I got from my dad, about Christmas morning. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday. I love everything about it, from the glitter and sparkle, to the spirituality. So naturally, I love Christmas stories, both reading and writing them, and by the way, Christmas movies too.

This year, I’m excited to have a new indie Christmas novella in 23,000 words, Christmas Bodyguard. I wrote it using my favorite Christmas theme—no room at the inn. The story is about a police detective who hates Christmas and a young pregnant widow who’s about to give birth and is determined to give Christmas to her brand new baby.

Christmas Bodyguard

Detective Trevor Atkins has good reason to hate Christmas. On Christmas Eve four years ago, his pregnant wife fell and lost their baby. Now divorced, Trevor deals with Christmas the only way he can, by ignoring it. When he is assigned to guard a widow who is the only surviving victim of a suspected serial killer, he expects just another assignment. But when Trevor arrives, he is stunned. This may be the hardest assignment he’s ever faced. The widow is kind, beautiful and very, very pregnant. And she’s putting up Christmas decorations all over the safe house.

Merry Randolph takes her joy where she can find it. She lost her new husband in a tragic helicopter crash only weeks into her pregnancy, and then she survived an attack from the notorious Widow Killer. Merry is determined to have a real Christmas for her family—herself and her unborn child—even if her stubbornly sexy police bodyguard doesn’t want any part of it.

When an ice storm hits and Merry’s contractions start, they are forced to leave the safe house and enter a tightening web of danger. Trevor must face his heartbreak and loss, and Merry must trust her life to a stranger who is only doing his job if she wants to survive to see her baby born on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Bodyguard Excerpt:

Police Detective Trevor Atkins jabbed at another button on the radio, muttering curses under his breath. It was Christmas Eve. Even the rock station was playing Christmas music. He switched it off. He was nearly at his destination anyway.

He exited the interstate two hours north of Atlanta, onto a two-lane road, headed toward the precinct’s safe house. His eyes skimmed over a couple of houses sporting Christmas decorations and lights, trying to ignore the rising rhythm of his pulse and the worm of sadness that gnawed at his heart.

Damn, he hated Christmas.

Ten minutes later, he turned onto the street where the safe house was located. It was an isolated neighborhood, perfect for safely hiding a witness away from someone who might harm her. The street looked as though the developer had gone bankrupt in the middle of the project. There were only a few other houses completed, and those appeared deserted. They still had stickers on the windows and fill dirt where the lawns should have been. The only sign of life was a Randolph and Ducharmes delivery truck that passed him going the opposite direction. He eyed it in his rearview mirror. That could hardly be a coincidence.

The witness’s family owned the upscale department stores. He reached for his cell phone and called his boss.

“Captain, what’s up? An R&D delivery truck just passed me, coming from the safe house.”

The captain sighed. “The perils of babysitting the rich and famous. Apparently, Mrs. Randolph needed a few things. Don’t worry, Trevor. Sims rode shotgun. The delivery was legit.”

“Legit? Maybe, but it was also very visible.”

“The mayor’s office called me. Think I had any choice?”

Trevor pocketed his phone and arched his neck to ease the tension. The holidays always increased his stress level, but he’d been glad to do a favor for a fellow detective by switching duty schedules with him. Stokes had a family. Christmas was important to him.

Guarding witnesses scheduled to testify was a boring task. The witnesses were usually consumed with worry about their testimony, and the most exciting event was likely to be a good ball game on TV. Guarding a spoiled heiress would up the annoyance factor slightly, but not beyond what Trevor could handle.

His charge, Merry Ducharmes Randolph, was the only surviving victim of the Widow Killer, a name given by the press to the elusive killer who had killed three widows within the past year.

But they’d only been able to charge Harry Bonner, Merry’s attacker, with attempted robbery and assault. As badly as the Atlanta Police Department wanted to solve the Widow Killer murders, they’d been unable to positively link Bonner to the other three women. He had no prior arrests, and he’d turned up no hits on either the DNA or fingerprint database.

Trevor parked his white pickup in the driveway of the nondescript house next to Detective Amanda Moss’s SUV. Turning up the collar of his jacket against the rapidly falling temperature, he started up the walk. Before he reached the porch, Detective Moss flung open the front door, causing the sleigh bells on the Christmas wreath to jangle. “Hi, Trevor,” she said, her breath turning to ice crystals as she spoke. “Nice to have you on the case. I’ve got to run if I’m going to finish wrapping the kids’ gifts.”

“Merry,” she called back over her shoulder, “this is Detective Atkins.”

Trevor nodded at Amanda, then stepped up to the front door and scowled toward the narrow strip of face visible between the door and the door facing. The single eye narrowed suspiciously. “Good morning, Mrs. Randolph. Like Detective Moss said, I’m your new day-shift detective,” he said dryly. “Replacing Roger Stokes. My name is Trevor Atkins.”

When the door finally opened wide, Trevor’s gaze ran slap into a pair of bright green eyes under a red Santa hat. Long, pale brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, and a full mouth showed a hint of white teeth above a determined chin.

The Santa hat stirred his knee-jerk aversion to anything connected with Christmas. He tried to force his expression to remain neutral as a faint pink glow lit the woman’s cheeks and a hesitant smile spread across her face. So, this was the widow. She was familiar, and not just from TV news spots about the attack she’d survived. He’d noticed those emerald-green eyes before.

He sighed. Wreath, bells, Santa hat? Great. Obviously, she loved Christmas. “You got word that I’m taking Detective Stokes’ place over Christmas eve and day ?”

“Yes.” She took a step backward, still hanging onto the door with one hand and a piece of red cloth in the other. “But Amanda will be back tonight, right?” The quaver in her voice matched the wariness in her eyes.

“That’s right. Detective Moss is still your night guard.”

A flicker of relief passed across her face. He’d seen that look before in assault victims. A fearful mistrust of men that, for some victims, never went away. He almost apologized for invading her privacy, then nearly laughed at himself. She didn’t know it yet, but there was no one on the planet safer for her to be with than he was. She was under his protection, and he would never violate her trust or risk her safety. She’d eventually figure that out and then she’d relax.

He stepped past her into the modest living room. The sight that greeted him almost knocked him to his knees. Every square inch of floor space was covered with Christmas. A sea of gold Randolph and Ducharmes bags full of ornaments flowed into dozens of red and pink poinsettias in brightly wrapped pots. To his left, a monstrous Christmas tree aglow with white twinkling lights almost blocked a large picture window. A staggering horror tightened his chest and streaked like electricity out to his fingers and toes. He felt the blood drain from his face. The smell of mulberry and cedar turned his stomach.

Images he’d banished to the dark side of his heart swirled around him—long bright corridors, sympathetic faces, the low soft lights of the hospital’s chapel. A sterile, quiet, sad room. Trevor squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never passed out in his life, but there was always a first time. Steadying himself with a hand on the back of the sofa, he sucked in a deep breath. “What the hell is all this?” he rasped when he could finally speak.

When he opened his eyes, Mrs. Randolph was standing behind a table, eyeing him the way a cornered mouse watched a cat. “I—I asked the store to send over some Christmas decorations. No one had—you know—” she gestured vaguely “—decorated the house.” Her voice rose and strengthened in the space of those few words.

“This is not a store window, Mrs. Randolph. It’s a safe house,” he said harshly.

She sniffed. “Oh please, Detective. It’s Christmas Eve.” She spread the red cloth over a table.

“So that’s what the truck was delivering.” His captain was a coward. He knew Trevor’s history. He could have warned him that it was a truck full of Christmas. Well, the stuff would just have to go back. He would not be subjected to Christmas. He’d taken this job to avoid the holiday and the tragic memories attached to it.

“Look, Mrs. Randolph, all this has got to go. We are not here for a party,” he said just as she stepped out from behind the table and he got his first good, head-to-toe look at the glowing woman in front of him.

“Oh, God—” His chest tightened and his head spun. He gripped the back of the couch more tightly and fought the surge of dizziness and gut-wrenching nausea that broadsided him.

“What?” Merry cried, her eyes widening. “What is it?”

“You’re pregnant!”

#

Confused, Merry Randolph stared at the detective’s chiseled features. His mouth was compressed so tightly the corners of his lips were white. What was his problem? She smiled.

“Of course I’m pregnant. How could you possibly not know?” Her every move had been chronicled by the media for the past seven months. “My husband’s helicopter accident, then the attack? I’ve been the favorite local news filler for the entire Atlanta area these past months.” She tasted the bitterness that darkened her voice.

Detective Atkins didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there, his face drained of color, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Detective, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He wiped a hand over his face and shot her a hard glance, then turned away and shrugged out of his jacket. With his back to her, he didn’t seem quite so intimidating. She let out a breath of relief. Why couldn’t Detective Stokes have foregone Christmas Eve and Christmas morning to stay with her? She winced at her selfish thought. Of course she didn’t mean that. He deserved to spend Christmas with his family, even if his doting, fatherly disposition had made her feel completely safe and comfortable. Detective Atkins had been here less than five minutes and there was nothing remotely fatherly about him. He had a lean and hungry look, as though he could slay dragons.

She thought about what the captain and his lieutenant, and several other police officials, had told her over and over. We’re the good guys. We’ll keep you safe.
As Detective Atkins folded his jacket and lay it on the back of the sofa, she noticed the brown leather straps of a shoulder holster crisscrossing the black T-shirt he wore. His movements were spare and efficient as he adjusted the holster and checked his weapon. He angled his head as if he’d sensed her scrutiny, and then rounded on her. “Do you realize you may have compromised this safe house by having all this delivered?”

“What?” She recoiled at his cold tone.

“That R&D delivery truck might as well have sported a banner—This Way to the Witness.” He shook his head, his voice as cold as the wind outside.
Merry’s heart pounded and she bit her lip. She should have thought of that. But in her defense, this was the store’s busiest time of year. “Randolph and Ducharmes has trucks making deliveries all over the city.”

The detective shot her a disgusted look. “Not in abandoned neighborhoods.”

She had no response for that.

“I’m here to protect you from a suspected killer, not deal with a house full of Christmas—” He bit off the end of the sentence.

Frustration and a deep sadness burned in Merry’s stomach, until, by force of will, she bullied those feelings into determination. She’d never had a real, homey Christmas. Not once. Her parents were nationally renowned philanthropists who had spent their married life traveling the world to work with their own and others’ charitable ventures. This year, as every year, they’d found as much to do during the holidays as during any other time of year. For most of their twin daughters’ lives, Merry and Christy had traveled with them, tutors in tow. Now Christy, whose full name was Christmas , was a runway model and almost never had time to come home to Atlanta, except on business.

As bad as this entire year had been, Merry was determined to end the year the way she wanted. She might be locked up in a barely furnished house under police protection during the holidays, but no matter what else happened, she planned to spend Christmas surrounded by beautiful decorations.

“Detective, I could not possibly be more aware of how serious my situation is. A man who may be a serial killer is out on bail pending his trial, and he knows I can identify him.” She lifted her chin. “I can see in your face what you think of me. But if I stay in this house, it will be decorated for Christmas. This past year has been the worst of my life.” To her utter dismay, she felt a tear spill over and drip down her cheek. “I lost my husband, I was almost murdered, and now I’m spending the holidays in an ugly house located who knows where and unable to see my family. I will have Christmas decorations!”

She swiped the tear away. Her little guy was sure playing havoc with her hormones, but she would not cry in front of Scrooge McCop. She turned her back and picked up a crystal ornament from one of the bags. “I apologize if guarding me is keeping you from Christmas with your wife and children,” she said as she stretched to hang the ornament.

He sucked in a long breath. Her shoulders tensed.

“You’re not keeping me from anything. I’m divorced. I don’t have chil—” He practically choked on the word “children.” She turned and caught a haunting sadness clouding his eyes. His sadness pierced her heart like an arrow. She’d unwittingly tapped into a private place inside him, a place she was sure no one ever saw.

With a flash of insight, she realized that Detective Atkins wasn’t just a Scrooge who hated the holidays. His gruff manner hid a tragedy—a tragedy that centered around Christmas and children. His children?

(End of Excerpt)

Thanks again, to everyone. I would love to hear about your favorite childhood holiday tradition, if you’d like to post a comment. You can do that by clicking Say Something/Something Said, below. I hope you’ll consider picking up Christmas Bodyguard if you want a quick and heartwarming read for the holidays. You can find it, or any of my other books, by clicking one of the links below.

Christmas Bodyguard is available now at your favorite ebook retailer.
https://books2read.com/ChristmasBodyguard

Mallory Kane