He still had nightmares about it…waking up to the sound of a shotgun being pumped. More times than he’d ever admit to anyone, he’d woken up in some hotel room and broken out in a cold sweat at the memory. To this day, that sound still sent shivers up his spine. After all, what nineteen-year-old wanted to find himself saddled with a wife. When three very large and angry men spoke, Cole had no choice but to marry her.

What other option did he have?

But he left. He left Sarita Littlefeather three days after they got married and never bothered to go back. He never bothered to get a divorce either, figuring she’d do it.

Imagine his surprise when, nine years later, he again woke to the sound of a gun being primed. This time it was a pistol, Smith and Wesson’s finest from what he could tell by the light of the bathroom and standing at the givin’ end was a boy. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, slight of build with dark hair and pale eyes that looked spooky in the dim light. His hands shook.

Cole took a long slow easy breath and relaxed against the stiff hotel pillow. This he could deal with. It was just a kid, for crying out loud. Cole was more worried about an accidental shooting than a deliberate one. “What do you aim to do with that gun?”

“Kidnap ya.”

He pressed his lips together, trying to smother a grin. “Where exactly do you plan on takin’ me?”

“Mesa.” The boy’s voice squeaked and then he cleared his throat.

“What’s in Mesa?” Cole propped his arms behind the pillow, trying to act casual despite the heavy pounding of his heart.

“Mary Grace, and she wants you for her birthday. She wished for your sorry ass on a damned star, and I aim to see she gets what she wants.”

“Who’s Mary Grace?”

“My sister. My twin. Now get up ‘fore I shoot your sorry dog ass. We got a long drive.”
“Boy, I got a rodeo today. I ain’t going nowhere with you and don’t swear at me.” There was no way in hell he was missing the Stampede. He needed the points and the money. ‘Cause come December he had a PRCA All Around buckle to win. He grinned in the dimly lit room; his body tensed, ready to spring as soon as the boy let his guard down like Cole knew he eventually would.

“Either you come with me or I shoot you. It’s as simple as that, Dad.”

Mr. Pettibone tasted his tea with the quiet appreciation of a connoisseur and set the demitasse back on its saucer.  “It is always such a treat for me when you come to visit, dear lady.  I save my best blends for these very special occasions.  Rarely is one able to find an associate who shares one’s taste for the finer things in life.”

The woman’s smile curved into the rim of her cup as she casually crossed her long, elegant legs.  “Associate?  You mean competitor, don’t you, sir?”

“Only once a year, my lady; once a year.  Would you care for a bit of cake?”  He gently rang a small silver bell on the tray before him.  “And even at this most exciting time of the season, I can scarcely think of you as a competitor, Eleanor.  It’s not as if you have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning—as usual.”

Mrs. French laughed, the gauzy, ribboned veils on her hat swirling easily in the breeze.  “You’re being unusually catty this year, Harcourt.  I’m glad to see it.  It means you must be just a tiny bit worried.”

He gazed with frank admiration into the glass-green eyes before him.  Summer-flushed skin, perfect bearing, and cinnamon-brown hair that burned bronze in the sunlight.  How astonishing that the only woman who gave him such a thrill was the woman who always proved nearly—nearly—his equal.  “I love the way your Southern accent deepens when you need to use your femininity as a weapon, my dear.  Especially when it’s all you have.”

“Now, Mr. Pettibone, don’t treat me like one of your naïve little schoolgirls.  We both know that I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t heard about—oh, here are the cakes.”

They leaned back in the wide wicker chairs to allow the serving of their treat.  The girl who brought the delicacies was dark-haired and ruddy-cheeked, her small waistline cinched below a bust so bountiful it hovered precariously low over the silver tray.

“Deanna is one of my most gifted pupils.  She’s finishing near the top of her graduating class.  Deanna, this is Mrs. Eleanor French.  I believe you’ve heard of her.  She runs the finishing school just across the lake.”

The girl inclined her head ever so slightly.  “My pleasure, Mrs. French.”

Mr. Pettibone waved distractedly at a marauding bee intent on tasting his tea.  “Would you be so kind, Deanna, as to show Mrs. French your wares before pouring us a little more of that excellent brew?  And then you may excuse yourself.”

Deanna calmly opened the buttons of her starched white blouse and pulled it from the confines of her belt, allowing her unfettered bosom the pleasure of the warm afternoon sun as she carefully refilled their cups.

“Why, Mr. Pettibone,” Mrs. French murmured admiringly.  “I’ve seen the girl on your grounds before—but I never knew she was so lovely.”  Reaching out, she cupped one of the young woman’s breasts, feeling the weight and texture as she jiggled it in her hand.  “Quite delectable, my dear.  Oh, I’m so glad you invited me for tea, darlin’ Harcourt.  If your other selections are anything like this one, we should have one wicked little contest indeed!”

It’s Name That Chica Contest all this week! Can you figure out who’s who? Be sure to check back daily!

Kate Smithfield didn’t think this night could get any weirder until she found a large naked man in her kitchen eating all her Starbucks Java Chip ice cream. She was momentarily struck mute by the sight of his backside – all sleek and sinew with a waist tapering down into a hard round butt that made her nearly swoon. Her gaze lifted to his massive biceps, watching the flexing of his muscles as he dipped the spoon into the tub and then sucked off the mocha colored ice cream.

Still, he was eating all of her favorite ice cream. Without permission even.

“Excuse me, but what the hell do you think you’re doing?” It was the only thing she could think to say while staring at that fine ass. Her mouth watered at the sight of it, not to mention all that heat of long-dead desire running through her veins and right to her core. She could imagine her hands running down the length of his back to grip each cheek while he thrust…

He turned, his head moving slowly and she saw the chiseled features of his brutally handsome face. Her breath caught in her throat as she examined the high cheekbones, the narrow nose, and the dark brows over sooty eyes she could definitely get lost in. Deep, dark soulful eyes. Thick black hair brushed his shoulders with a plait on either side of his head. His square clefted chin led right to a beautifully shaped mouth she suddenly found herself desperately wanting to kiss.

And being naked left nothing to her imagination. She could see every curve of muscle, the dusty sprinkling of dark hair across the brawny chest, his thick biceps that had to be the size of one of her thighs and – oh!

Jesus, God! Is he really that big?

The sight of his engorged penis certainly left her feeling lightheaded. It dwarfed all the battery-operated toys she had seen on her coffee table just hours before. She had only agreed to the sex toy party because she needed to relieve some stress by laughing at the ridiculous and naughty toys with her friends. Cassie, however, had taken things a bit too far when she suggested they “conjure” a man for Kate.

“Are you the stripper?” she asked now. “How did you get in here?”

When Kate had refused to allow her Mother Earth best friend to “invite love to her door” (she really did mean well, but for the love of God, she was into so many different things Kate couldn’t keep up), Cassie had shoved the paper into her hands and insisted she read the spell aloud. And since her two best girlfriends were tipsy and Cassie refused to take no for an answer, Kate had caved and read the spell.

Nothing had happened.

Big and Beautiful answered her query with a silent stare. It was as though he knew what she looked like naked. She watched his large hand holding her spoon – which looked so odd to her – and then his pink tongue lick the remaining taupe ice cream off the back of it. Watching that tongue do that to her stainless steel made her completely jealous. For an instant she wished she were that spoon, wishing she could feel his cold tongue in the dark warm places a man hadn’t explored in a very long time. He gently placed the spoon on the countertop before setting aside the tub of frozen delight and taking one large step toward her.

“I thought Cassie said there was no stripper.”

The words rushed out of her mouth, nearly stumbling over each other. Kate was having trouble breathing now as she forced oxygen through her lungs. She tried desperately to catch her breath when she found herself staring up at the gigantic man who seemed to fill up every inch of her kitchen.

“Hi,” she said on a whisper. Good God. Don’t look at it. For God’s sake, do not look at the erection. No matter how much you want to.

We constantly hear about the importance of VOICE in a story.

The author’s voice can make or break the book.  The voice can make what might otherwise be a dull storyline captivating.  The voice can sell a proposal, create a career, keep readers coming back for more.

But really—how much attention do we actually pay to the piper?

Here’s your chance.
For ONE WEEK—next week—the Chicas will give you a chance to find out.
For four days next week (without avatars and not on our traditional days), each Chica will post an excerpt from something they’ve written but have yet to publish.  On Friday we’ll see who gets the gold. 

Prizes of pens, bookmarks, and the Chica’s CD, chock full of stories from all of us, will be available.

You’ve read our books, visited our blogs, perused our posts here (if not, feel free to browse).

Got a good ear?  Quick to pick up on personalities?  Think you can tell us apart?

Lessee. 

First off… as Dennie posted, we are having a little contest. Our prize package will include a CD of some Chica-licious Fiction, Chica Pens, some booksmarks from moi, cover flates from Ames, and, oh, I dunno what else we’re going to throw in. I’m sure Dennie and Raine will have something cool and awesomey awesomeness to add.

Anyhoo…

This post has absolutely nothing to do with writing. It’s a completely random rambly post. To make up for my lack of post last week. Now, aren’t you glad you joined in the fun today?

First of all, when then HELL did I wake up and discover I’m old? The Birthday Fairy is knocking on my door and I’m not pleased. I’d really like her to

but you know…since that’s not happening I suppose I have to live with my 30-something age. Right?

It’s really not so bad being over 30. Not really. (I think 43 is totally my scary age. Come on, ladies, you know you have one. We all do. That scary age where we wake up and realize we have yet to accomplish everything we’ve wanted to accomplish.) I much prefer the 30-something to the 20-something. At least I’m not as stupid as I was 10 years ago.

Here’s a question for you all. If you’re in a serious relationship with someone (and you’re NOT married), are you content with things the way they are, or do you need that final committment? In other words, does your relationship have to end in a ring, a date, and the big white dress in the church?

Okay, my brain is fried and that’s all the rambly randomness I can think of for now.

It has been said that readers can tell authors’ works by their voice. How many times have you heard writer folks talking about this author’s voice is strong? That author’s voice is passionate and sexy?

Voice:  (according to THE COMPLETE IDIOT’S GUIDE TO GETTING YOUR ROMANCE PUBLISHED) A writer’s voice is the style that reflects her/his personal rhythm, attitudes, and outlook. It’s the way sentences are out together and how they feel and sound it’s how the paragraphs gel to form a unique mood or vision it life. In other words, a writers voice is her/his own distinctive personality translated onto paper.

Do you think you could tell you faves apart? Can you tell the chicas apart? Even if you haven’t read books from all four of us, you have read our posts. And I think our “voices” are carried through those as well. Raine thought it would be interesting to find out–so we’re going to put you to the test–in a fun way! 

The Chicas decided, next week we’re each going to post a portion of a WIP and see if you guys can guess whose it is. We will each pick a day that is NOT ours and on Friday we will see if anyone can guess . . . anyone game to play?

(more details to follow soon……….)

Since I can’t tell you how much I really REALLY wish I could sell my children on ebay, I’m going to talk books today. And I want you to talk books too.

I first met Allison Winn Scotch* on myspace, and happy to discover another Lolly Winston fan, I started reading her blog. Allison’s not Lolly’s LOL. And I was immediately fascinated with the subject matter of her debut book, The Department of Lost and Found. Here’s the blurb from amazon (because I’m too lazy to write my own).

It didn’t start out as the worst day of Natalie Miller’s life. At thirty, she is moving up the political ladder, driven by raw ambition and ruthless determination. As the top aide to New York’s powerful female senator, she works hard, stays late, and enjoys every bit of it, even if the bills she’s pushing through do little to improve the lives of the senator’s constituents. And if her boyfriend isn’t the sexiest guy alive, at least he’s a warm body to come home to.

Then he announces he’s leaving. But that news is barely a blip compared to what Natalie’s doctor tells her: She has breast cancer. And she can’t cure it by merely being headstrong. Now the life Natalie must change is her own.

(more…)

Remember wayyyy back when you were just a wee tadpole, and your parents/guardians/keepers told you, “if you can’t say something nice…”  ??? 

So we did this a short while back when it had been a rough week.

So guess what?  It’s been a rather rough week. 

So again, I’ll just open up the blog to whatever may come.

It’s Free-For-All Friday.  There’s no subject pending.

Got a question, any question?  Bring it.  Good news?  Share it.  Comment on anything?  Post it.  Vent?  Go for it.  Are you a lurker who comes to peek but never participate?  Feel free to join in!  We don’t bite.  Unless you’re really, really cute and ask nicely.

Go for it. 

Sorry folks. Blogging was NOT on my brain today. Can you tell? I completely forgot! But hey - I blogged with 45 minutes left in the day! HA!

Will be back next week. I promise. :)

I’ll probably create a page for this also, but the Southern Fried Chicas have donated a gift purse for Brenda’s Auction. The purse will include HANDS ON by Amie Stuart, HOWL an anthology with Raine Weaver, Jet Mykels and Jeigh Lynn, and DEADLY MISTAKES by Denise McDonald, chocolate, autographed bookmarks, biscotti, cocoa and a mug, as well as our ebook titles on CD (all PDF): LETS PRETEND by Raine Weaver; INCUBUS by Raine Weaver; Once in a Blue Moon by Amie Stuart; The Big Girl’s Guide to Buying Lingerie by Amie Stuart; Her Passion by Denise McDonald; Talk Dirty To Me by Michelle Miles.

I’ve also donated an autographed copy of Hands On and a critique!

This is for a wonderfully worthy cause, so go forth and bid! And bid a lot!