May 22nd -29th, 2013

Hot Summer Nights Blog Hop is also offering two Grand Prizes!! To take part, leave your comments and email addresses.  Two winners will be chosen at random and notified no later than May 31, 2013.

NEW Excerpt posted 5/23 from the Beckoning of Beautiful Things: Buy on Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

She swished her hand around in the water, finding nothing distinct. Had he forgotten one? Had the florist removed it? She began taking out handfuls of the clear orbs and laying them on the newspaper. When she had taken out everything, she examined the sparkling marbles. “They all look the same to me,” she muttered. She squinted, eyeing each one. That one…right there…that one looks different. That one that had tiny spider web veins running through it. She picked it up between her index finger and thumb.

Mi corazón.

The words spun through her brain, making her drop the crystal sphere. The gemstone rolled across the floor. She lunged for it before it whirled out of her cubicle.

“You alright in there? What are you doing?” a co-worker called.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I just spread my research out on the floor. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” he said dubiously.

When her hand made contact with the crystalline sphere, the voice whispered through her head.

Mi corazón.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

Can you hear me, Marissa?

“Daniel? Where are you?” she hissed. Laughter filled her head. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

I’m in your head. You’ve found the Herkimer diamond. Good.

“What are you talking about?”

“Are you talking to me?” her co-worker called out. “You’re going to have to speak up if you are.”

“No. You know me, always talking to myself. I’ll be quiet.” Again the laughter whirled through her mind like a warm breeze.

Just think your answers. We’re communicating mind to mind.

Marissa frowned. How is that possible?

It’s the stone. Since I ground it, it’s attuned to me. Since you possess the mind of the Light Rebel, we can communicate this way.

She stared at the tiny sphere and dropped it in her desk drawer. Sure enough, her head got quiet. She picked it up once more.

Believe me?

This is creepy.

You probably do it all the time and don’t realize it. This is just a clear way to communicate with me. It’s like having me on super speed dial.

Um, okay. It seems odd.

Only because you’re not sure of yourself yet.

Silence. Marissa didn’t know what to, er, say to that statement, not that she was saying anything. She was only thinking. She shook her head and hissed to herself. You’re making this up, Marissa. Active imagination!

This is real, the voice in her head continued.

It sure sounded distinct from hers. She thrummed her fingers on her desk.

I realized we didn’t even exchange phone numbers. We’ve been backing up into our relationship. That’s the way of our kind.

Our kind? Humans? Marissa rolled her eyes.

Magi. Lux custodes. If we back into something, we don’t have to see it coming. We can pretend to be surprised.

She could picture him smiling as he thought that. We don’t even have a relationship.

Yes, mi corazón, we do. It’s begun. 

From the Beckoning of Beautiful Things: Buy on Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

Visit Hot Summer Nights Blog Hop to enter to win Grand Prizes!! To take part, leave your comments and email addresses.  Two winners will be chosen at random and notified no later than May 31, 2013.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Want to win a $25 gift certificate and a copy of The Beckoning of Beautiful Things? Visit my Facebook Fan Page.

Here’s an excerpt from one of my featured books (discounted on certain days throughout the sale), The Beckoning of Beautiful Things, released in April, 2013:

“Your mother and father had been told that you would come into your significant powers in your late 20s.”

Marissa’s eyes whipped up to meet his. “What significant powers? What are you talking about?”

“A sign had been given when you were born.”

“What sign? What are you talking about?” Her fingers clutched the edge of the desk. She pried her fingers loose and placed them in her lap.

“Your mother had been travelling late into her pregnancy with you – something she was advised against. She was a willful one, your mother.” He removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “She accommodated the doctor’s requests by travelling with a midwife.” He chuckled. “Your mother’s doctor was outraged by that, but what could he do? Your father, mother, and a few close companions were on the island of Madagascar when she went into labor. It was early for her to give birth to you, but you were ready to be born. Perhaps you liked that island. It’s a magical place.” He smiled at her. “Anyway, they hustled your mama to the home of her travel guide and there you were born. You came out rather quickly, mija.” Again, he smiled at her.

“What was the sign? Besides being born on an island somewhere.”

“The story is quite remarkable. The guide lived in a modest home cut into the side of a hill in the jungle.” He chuckled. “I guess it was quite a sight to see your mother brushing aside the assistance of the men as she climbed the trail to the house, stopping to lean against a tree when a contraction came – she was very stubborn, she was.

The windows of this home were all flung open wide to let a breeze flow through. It was quite hot and your mother insisted that every window be open. Also, there was a hole in the roof above your mother. The guide was apparently in the midst of installing a sky window to look out at the stars at night. Your mother said it calmed her to look up and see trees and sky between contractions.”

“I can relate. The trees and the sky calm me down, too.”

“You were always like your mother, mija. Your sisters, they took after their father and his stern Germanic blood.” He paused to look at her, smiling warmly. “The lemurs let out quite a keening as you were being born. They issue a shrieking, howling kind of caterwaul. Did you know that they named lemurs after the Roman name ‘lemure’?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“It means ghost and spirits, and it’s easy to see why when you hear them. Their cries are rather eerie. In the night, it can make your hair stand on end. The Malagasy hold a lot of superstitions about the lemurs. They believe if you kill one of them, you will suffer the same fate.”

Marissa shuddered. “Oh! That’s awful!”

“Yes. I’ve heard tales of it happening. Anyway, at the time of your crowning, a kestrel flew into the room through the sky window. The falcon got disoriented for a moment and zipped around the room, seeking escape. Picture your tiny head being revealed, the midwife assisting, your father squeezing your mother’s hand, your mother bearing down and no doubt moaning with that beautiful voice of hers, and then a bird of prey flies in from overhead.” He sliced his hand through the air.

A slight smile curved on her lips. “I can’t imagine. So why did they think the bird was a sign of something amazing?”

“To add to the chaos, someone shouted for assistance to get the bird out and the travel guide ran into the room. He was an ornithologist. Apparently, his face went completely white when he saw the bird.”

“Why?”

“Because, mija, it was an extinct species. It was apparently a Réunion Kestrel. It has been extinct since the 1700s.”

“Come on! With all the chaos in the room, the guy could have made that up.”

“He insists it was that bird, mija. But here’s the truly remarkable part. The midwife was at the ready, waiting for you to come out. There’s shouting and chaos in the room. The bird flapped against the ceiling. It flew up and down along the wall. Then it did an amazing thing – it flew right over your mother’s legs and looked at her and then at you. The kestrel hovered in mid-flight, like it was scoping out its prey, ready to drop down and snatch you in its talons. Everyone stopped and looked up at the bird. It remained like this for, oh, maybe a minute, watching your mother and your tiny head emerging. Then it just flew out the window, as if it knew where to go all along.”

Visit the other Books-a-Fire Authors to read excerpts of their books:

• Diane Rapp
  
• J. Heather Leigh
• CLR Dougherty
• Gloria Repp
• Tami Kidd
• Jennifer Donahoe
• Reb McRath

Win a $25 gift certificate and a copy of The Beckoning of Beautiful Things. Visit my Facebook Fan Page.

Here’s an excerpt from one of my books on sale, The Beckoning of Beautiful Things:
When Marissa arrived at work, Crazy Betty sat at the front desk, as usual. Crazy Betty seemed as old as the brick building housing PS Publishing. She’d probably worked there since the beginning of time. Her real name was Betty Worthington, but everyone called her Crazy Betty – just not to her face.

Betty grew up in the hills of Virginia – the App-uh-latch-a’s, as she called them. “I’m hillbilly, and I’m not ashamed,” she often liked to say. She had been a chain smoker for much of her life and coughed like her body still heaved up tobacco memories, drank whiskey straight up on Friday nights, and spoke with a Southern drawl. Her sagging, wrinkled skin reminded Marissa of a Galapagos tortoise face. Her job was to answer the phones, but when the phone wasn’t ringing, she could usually be found spreading Tarot cards out along the counter for customers. She claimed to have “the sight.”

“Good morning, child,” she said, looking over the tops of her red polka dot reading glasses. Her deep, gravelly voice tumbled from her mouth like sand over wet pebbles.

“Morning, Betty.”

“You look different this morning. What happened?”

“What do you mean?” Marissa stepped around the blond wood front counter, heading for the back, where her desk was.

“My little Buddy did the strangest thing last night.” Betty’s elder-mind drifted from topic to topic like she was finding her way through a conversation, stepping along stones and the occasional log to get to the other side of a creek.

“What did your Chihuahua do?” Marissa paused at the door to the back office.

“He chased Pumpkin around the yard, something he hasn’t been able to do for years.” She hacked and coughed, reaching for the handkerchief she kept tucked in her bosom.

“It’s summer. Maybe he just felt good.”

“No, lord, no, I think his time is coming. I think he was chasing the Grim Reaper away, saying that he’s not ready to go just yet.”

“You said he was chasing the cat.”

“The Reaper probably disguised himself as the cat to make Buddy feel at ease. He can do that, you know.” She gave Marissa a rheumy-eyed glare.

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“What did you do to yourself? You look different.”

“It was my birthday yesterday. I turned 26.”

“Lord, lord, happy birthday, child! Come give Betty a squeeze.”

Marissa stepped gingerly over to the elderly woman.

Betty folded Marissa into a cloud of sour sweat, fresh-baked cookies, old-lady cologne and oodles of warmth, patting her back like she was a baby. She released Marissa and picked up her cards, tapping them on the counter. “Let’s see what the spirits have to say about your birthday.”

Take a look at the authors featuring Paranormal Books:

• KH LeMoyne
  
• Calinda B
• Jennifer Blackstream
• Meredith Bond
• Stacey Brutger
• Lisa Chalmers
• E.R.Davis
• LJ DeLeon
• Michele Drier
• Raine English
• H.D. Thomson
• Misty Evans
• Renee Field
• Heather Fleener
• Angie Fox
• Jami Gray
• Marie Hall
• Caroline Hanson
• Edie Ramer
• Mona Karel
• Mary Marvella
• Viola Estrella
• Deb Sanders
• Jackson Stein
• Lauren Stewart
• Bella Street
• Teri Thackston

PLUS, visit the Book Lovers’ Buffet website for a chance to win gift cards to your choice of online retailers. $400 in gift cards are up for grabs! A total of twenty-two gift cards will be given away– one $100, two $50, four $25, five $10, and ten $5 cards.

So click on over to the Book Lovers’ Buffet and fill up your Kindle or Nook full of great summer reading before the sale ends.

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Just finished this book. It was, in short, an awesome read. Tahereh Mafi found her stride with this book. The writing was flawless. I was immersed in the character’s world through some of the most evocative writing I have ever read. I loved the tension built between the heroine and her love interests. The heat level of a couple scenes made me want to throw my partner on top of the car and love him from head to toe.

Love the way she developed friendships. Truly loved her development throughout the book. Highly recommended to lovers of paranormal/unique reads.

View all my reviews

A romantic suspense, supernatural romance novel.

Summary:

Artist Marissa Engles has hidden in a world of paint and sorrow, ever since her parents died eleven years ago. When she meets Daniel Navid, sparks fly – literally – from her fingers to his. She’s immediately swept from her pristine world into one of terrifying darkness, dazzling, electrifying light, and unimaginable sensual pleasures.

With her faithful Doberman by her side, Marissa uses her creative imagination to restore her Light Rebel skills. She comes face to face with pure evil – the demented sorcerer known as El Demonio de la Muerte.

El D’s got plans for her. He plans to charm her into forgetting she ever met Daniel Navid, the sexiest, most dangerous man she’s ever known.

Buy on Amazon

Excerpt:

Ten years, six months, and 15 hours. That’s how long since my mom and dad died. Marissa stared at the photo of her mom, a beautiful, regally clad opera singer, and her father, an orchestra conductor and the proud husband to Mica Engles. Her heart skipped a couple beats as she eyeballed the image and then resumed its steady cadence. The pain in her chest was muted, but still present, like a wound healed over and over until a grizzled scar muffled the noise of sorrow.

Her eyes wandered to the photo of her staid, conservative aunt, staring back at her with endless reservation and regret. Ten years, five months, 29 days since my world got dark. Her gaze slid around the room of her cozy studio. Seven years since I moved out of my aunt’s dreary world. She scoffed and swept both hands forcefully through the air, brushing away the memory. Her dog, Sober Dober, lifted his head from slumber, eyed her, then settled back to sleep.

Marissa picked up a palette knife, scooped some gesso from the plastic container and swiped it across the canvas before her. Twenty-six years to the day since I bloomed though my mama’s legs, a bloody, vernix-covered animal coaxed into the world through mom’s passionate, panting moans and sweat-soaked, exhausted effort. ­She spread the creamy white mixture of pigment and rabbit-skin glue along the rough canvas. With her fingertip, she scraped a message into the thick gooey pigmentation. Happy Birthday, Marissa Engles. This year you’re going to change. She scratched a bold exclamation point into the gesso and stabbed it three times with her blunt fingernail for emphasis. Her palm swept through the velvety paste and wiped out the message, swishing back and forth with messy impatience. She wiped her hand off on the terrycloth towel tucked in the waistband of her skirt.

She glanced at another photo sitting on the beat up pine shelf against the wall. A tan, lean muscled man with curly blond hair stood poised on a surfboard, hanging in a curl in a giant, Hawaiian ocean wave. One year since I started dating Jason Brown. She sighed. They’d met at a Tantra workshop, an odd spiritual practice that encouraged enlightenment through sexual mastery and practices. Jason was really into it, claiming to be a fourth level Cobra breath practitioner, whatever the heck that was, and being groomed to teach. She’d gone to the workshop on a dare from a friend and had no real interest in it. Two months since I started thinking of moving on. She picked up a scrap of paper from the windowsill, placed it in her palm, and studied it. “Listen Sober. Wants in a new boyfriend,” she read out loud to the sleeping Doberman in the corner, tracing the words in the air. The outline of words hung for an instant as if she’d traced them with a sparkler. Her eyelids fluttered over her eyes, and she wiped them with her gesso stained hand. I should have eaten lunch.

Her eyes scanned the scribbles and adjoining stars that emphasized the ones she deemed most important. She closed her fingers slowly and deliberately over the paper. First, the index finger. “Intensity,” she whispered. Her dog didn’t stir a bit. “Passion.” Her middle finger closed next, creating a small strain in the muscles of her forearm. “Commitment.” The ring finger moved into position. “Sexy, sexy, sexy.” Her pinky joined the others. She squeezed her eyes shut. And a wild card – something exciting. She bent her thumb over the fingers and crushed the paper in her fist.

A delivery truck’s wheels crackled over her graveled driveway, and she leaned toward the window to look. The driver leapt from the side.

Marissa slid open the glass pane to the clear blue, late afternoon, windswept sky. “Martin, hi!” she called down automatically.

“Not Martin, sorry,” the voice called up to her as the man disappeared behind the van.

She slid out of view and waited for him to reappear, watching stealthily through a slit in the colorful blue and orange curtain, clutching the crumpled note in her fist.

He reappeared from behind the van and stood, looking expectantly at the window.

Her fingers released the desire infused paper, and it drifted to the floor. Like you. She stood, frozen, momentarily gobsmacked by the sight of him. Oh, yeah…you’ll do nicely.  

He looked to be about 6’1”, with warm brown skin and thick, straight, shiny brown hair, hanging down to jaw level. She imagined his eyes were a rich, dark brown, like her favorite 86% Cacao dark chocolate. He wore a lightweight, brown, long-sleeved sweater and expensive looking brown corduroy pants. A dusting of dark hair peered over the top of his collar, as if straining to see. The attire was casual, comfortable, and non-descript. She squinted through the curtain opening. Some delivery man’s attire. Martin always wore the standard issue crisp, beige, short-sleeved shirt withOrganic Universe emblazed on the back. The guy below was dressed way too upscale for a delivery man.

His shoes gave his wealth away. The dark brown leather gleamed and winked at her as if hinting at his financial status. The double buckle, monk-style boot was polished to a sparkle. She cocked her head and caught a glimpse of the supple shaft of this guy’s boot. Made of woven leather, it hung around his ankle like a shrug of casual indifference, as if it was his lover’s hand resting in relaxation. Fratelli Rossetti, she thought. Expensive Italian boots for expensive men. She’d done an ad layout for Rossetti boots just last week. The price tag on those babies was not for the faint of heart.

Her eyes caught the gold wrist watch encircling his wrist.   Movado, she thought. A smile played at her lips as she studied him.

When she didn’t move into view, he crouched down and placed the box on the concrete. He held his right hand above the produce and slowly moved it back and forth.

Marissa squinted. Is that a cloud of purple fog beneath his hand? She blinked and the fog disappeared. She rubbed her forehead, picturing her uneaten sandwich in her desk drawer at work.

His fingers were long, the nails manicured. Gleaming gold rings winked from the index and middle finger. She imagined those fingers tracing a complex pattern down her back, and she shivered. A breeze blew through the window, ruffling the curtain and tossing her long, curly brown hair around her cheeks in playful, tickling wisps.

“See something that pleases you?” he called.

His voice caught her by surprise. An exclamation leapt from her lips. “Oh! I apologize. I was gawking. Please forgive me. I’ll be right down.”

She opened her studio door, trotted down the steps that lead to the garage, and punched the big garage door button with her fist. The maw to the garage sprang to life, opening wide. She strode out into the bright afternoon, coming face to face with the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid eyes on.

He extended the box to her, capturing her with piercing blue, blue eyes, rimmed with an even darker blue. They pinned her in place like a moth’s wings pressed to the window by a thumb. I want to melt into those eyes and reemerge in his bloodstream. I want to swim through his pulsing veins.

“Well…?” he said.

His voice landed rich and sonorous in her ears like she lazed on a beach at the Sea of Cortez and the sun blew hot kisses all over the tunnel of her ear canal. “Well?” she echoed, uncertain what he was asking. She looked down at her hands – they gripped the wooden slats of the box. She released her grip, and the box fell to the ground, just missing her red tennis shoes, landing with a crack. The produce appeared to jump in alarm and then settle back into position, safe. Four, blackened, finger-sized scorch marks appeared on the slats on each side where her she’d been gripping the box. She blinked, looked at her hands, looked at the box, back to her hands, and shook her head like a rattle. The scorch marks vanished. Make a note – tomorrow – eat your lunch.

“I asked if you saw something that pleases you,” he said with a mischievous smile.

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m simply being rude. Marissa Engles,” she said, wiping her damp palm off on her short skirt before extending it to him. “Again, forgive me.”

“Enchanted. And no apology necessary.” He took her hand.

An electric shock sizzled through her fingertips, and she quickly snatched her hand back. “Oh!” She gave her hand a quick shake. “Must be static electricity in the air. It’s a bit windy outside.”

He gave an easy laugh and nodded. “Yes, that must be it,” he agreed.

“You’re not Martin.”

“I sure hope not.” He looked down and patted his chest and flat abdomen. “Nope, still me here.”

“And you’re not dressed in a uniform.”

Again he regarded his clothes. “No, gosh, I’m not.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Am I?”

“What happened to Martin?”

“He’s a friend. He asked for the day off. They wouldn’t give it to him. We conspired.” He winked at her.

I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth. “That sounds fishy.”

“Would I lie?”

“I have no idea.” She pointed at the box of produce. “What were you doing there? With your hand, I mean? It looked like…” She pushed her hair back from her forehead, biting back the question.Purple fog. Right.

“This hand?” he asked, lifting his right hand, tilting it away from his face. “Or this one?” He lifted his left hand, in the same palm up gesture.

A giggle escaped her lips.

“Do I amuse you?” he asked, with that same, playful smile splitting his face. He wrapped his left arm around his middle and used it to prop the right one. His right hand cupped his jaw, assessing her. He lowered his eyelids slightly and stroked the long stubble underneath his full lips, regarding her intently.

“Oh, no,” she answered. “I’m sorry. I’m an artist. Constantly shaping things in my mind. I’ve got a warped sense of humor, too. You reminded me of a game show host or something. Or Alfred E. Neuman on the cover of Mad Magazine. What, me worry? That’s what he says. Alfred E. Neuman, I mean.” She clamped her mouth shut and pressed her fingers to her lips. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling. I’m not usually like this.”

“Like what, so capricious?” he asked. He turned his head slightly and studied her. “But really…a game show host? Is that how I seem? A cartoon? I’m none of those, I can assure you.” He shook his head disapprovingly and dropped his eyes to the crate of herbaceous edibles.

Her whole body relaxed, as if he had let go her wings. She didn’t know whether to flutter away or work her way intently up and down the delightful eyeful before her. She dropped her gaze, mimicking his, landing on the sugar snap peas, carrots, fruit, and leafy greens. “It’s not what you think. It’s just that…never mind. Anyway, your hand…the hand that moved over these vegetables. What were you doing?”

“Ah,” he said knowingly, a half-smile forming on his face. “This hand.” He raised it to chest level, and her eyes tracked its movement, as if it were a pocket watch held by a magician in an attempt to hypnotize her. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

 I want to be touched by that hand. “It looked like something.” I want that hand to excite me in new ways.

“I was just…I like to imagine that I can influence the world around me. It’s sort of a game.”

“Ah,” she said, repeating the word he had used. “And?” I want that hand to caress me, to smooth away my sorrow, to lift me from my isolation. I want the man attached to the hand.

“And what?” he said, lifting his hand higher.

Her gaze tracked his hand as if he guided a puppet string attached to her eyes. Her back stiffened slightly as she secured her point of focus on the beckoning blue orbs. A single word lolled in her head, like a leaf on a lazy river. Want. The word balanced on her lips, drawing them apart as she regarded his eyes. “And what did you discover?”

Not taking his eyes away from hers, he answered. “Just now?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“I think I discovered something rare.”

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But I sure want to find out.”

He seemed to drink her in with his eyes, as if she were expensive Scotch. She imagined him tasting her with his tongue, letting her settle into his mouth, gently swishing her between his cheeks before letting the rich, burning liquid of her essence roll down his throat. “When will you know?” she asked, her cheeks burning.

“It might take some time,” he replied. “Perhaps you’d honor me with dinner, and let me start my research?”

Her eyes were pools of honey that he stirred with lazy, languid fingers. The sensation disturbed her. It was like he was reaching inside of her mind, rearranging the gray matter between her ears. She managed to blink. “Where?” Her voice came out strangled and small.

“My place.”

“I don’t know. That doesn’t seem…” She paused, considering him.

“Safe?”

“Right. Dating 101.”

“Smart woman.” He paused. “I have staff if that makes you more comfortable. We won’t be the only ones there.”

“Staff…” Of course you do. “Why would someone with staff drive a produce van?”

He shrugged. “I told you – I’m helping out a friend.”

“And I told you. That sounds fishy.”

He smiled a non-committal smile and said nothing.

 “Where do you live?”

“At the top of a hill in Seaview. I’ll send a car.”

“I have a car.”

He shrugged again. “Live a little. My driver will be at your beck and call. You can leave at any time.”

“Any time?”

“Absolutely. You have my word.”

Her mind raced. A date with a wealthy man at his place? Is that safe? I don’t know him. He gave me his word. What if this is a trap? What if he…? What if I…? An overwhelming sense of yes drowned out all her fears. “Alright,” she stated, amending I’ll phone a friend and let them know where I’m going. That way, if I don’t call at a certain time they’ll know to send the police.

He let out a deep sigh as if he expected a different answer. Once more, his gaze tangled with hers. “Until tonight then.”

“Yes, until tonight.”

He reached out a finger and drew it slowly along her face, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You have paint on your face.”

“It’s gesso – a canvas primer.”

“Ah.”

I like the way he says that word.

He let two fingers trace her cheek.

I like the feel of his touch. Captivated, she closed her eyes. Once more, images of the Sea of Cortez with its blue-green waters and pale sand beaches came to mind. Her breath moved in and out of her lungs like ocean waves. The wind stirred the tall cedar tree tops, causing a peaceful swish. A green goddess-like apparition in her mind swirled in the clear sea, staring up at her. She frowned at the image. Many of the women in her family saw visions. They handed this trait down from generation to generation. Maybe he travels a lot. Maybe he has a home in La Paz.

When his hand left her face, her skin felt somehow empty, like a vacant lot remained where a home had once been. Her eyes popped open.

He stood gazing at her, contemplative, and once more reached for her hand. This time she didn’t resist the searing, electric heat that poured along her skin.

He kissed her hand lightly, nodded, turned, and strode away. “Until tonight, Marissa Engles,” he said as he stepped into his truck.

“Until tonight,” she repeated. She blinked, coming out of her momentary stupor, and raced around the side of the vehicle. “Hey, what’s your name? What time?”

He laughed. “Daniel. Seven. I wondered if you’d ask.” He pulled the van out of the driveway and sped away.

Buy on Amazon

I’m a creative. I create. Creatives put their creations out into the world saying, “Look at me! Look at what I did! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Some will agree. “Yes, it stirred me! It’s brilliant!” Some will disagree. “Gah! Pure garbage!” The critics will put on their knowing smiles and cite why your work is worth nothing to them. Or, if kind, they’ll say, “It’s good but not what I was looking for.”

When I got my first 1 star rating I was devastated. That person had rejected my hard work. She made fun of it. It didn’t matter that I got 10 times as many positive reviews. It didn’t matter that person after person said, “Great book! Really descriptive! Wow!” That ONE person called me out. She knew I was worthless as a writer. She was the one with The Truth. I was crushed. Humiliated. Beyond repair.

Well, guess what? People have opinions. Many reviews later, many opportunities and rejections later, I’ve learned a better truth than the one star reviewer – I’ve learned that a) I am a really good writer. b) There’s always room for improvement. c) If feedback is specific or helpful, I learn from it. d) If feedback is mean or spiteful or just plain wrong, I thank that person in my heart and move on.

See, I’m a creative. I was put on this planet to create. I might learn from your comments about my creations. I might ignore your rejection of my creations. But in the end I’m going to keep doing what I was born to do. I’m going to create, I’m going to take joy in my creations and maybe, just maybe, you will, too.

A carton of bright red strawberries lay nestled in the corner of the box. She took one of the strawberries, flipped up the faucet handle and let the water dribble on the berry. She slowly inched up the solid, stainless steel handle until the liquid gushed. Holding the plump, ripened fruit under the cool water, she let her fingertips move gently over the stippled surface. Her hand coaxed the water faucet off and she bit the sweet, succulent berry, savoring the juices that filled her mouth. Mmm. I think I need more.

When she’d finished her feast of berries, she removed the lettuce, the smooth, waxy, yellow bananas, the glistening apples and the pale, greenish-yellow mottled pears. She arranged them along the countertop, eyeing each appreciatively. She regarded them through one eye, then the other. The apple, she decided. She ran a fingertip along the lustrous red-streaked surface before picking it up. With deliberate care, she lovingly buffed the skin to a gloss with a clean, soft, cotton cloth, turning it over and over in her hands, taking delight in the firm girth of the Honeycrisp. Seizing a knife from the drawer, she buffed the blade smooth with the same cloth, until her smiling face gleamed in the polished steel. She gripped the knife handle and slowly, deliberately pierced the flesh of the apple. The tip of the steel blade parted the skin and the tiniest bead of moisture seeped from the slit. She licked the sweet droplet, savoring the sugary nectar. She pushed the blade deeper into the flesh. As it gave way, it sprayed her face with tiny beads of juice.

Grabbing a silky piece of satin from the shelf, she arranged the apple slice, the berries and the lettuce leaves between the pink folds and prepared to apply paint to canvas.

From the Beckoning of Beautiful Things, scheduled for release mid-April

If you do like books with a whole lot of heart and soul, a great deal of creativity and inspired imagination, start the series – I think you’ll like them!

Whatever your choice, please don’t make me an outlaw.

Sheriff: So what brings you to these here parts, Calinda B?

Calinda B: Gosh, sheriff, I just wanted to express myself and write about things that interest me. I thought others might enjoy my writing, too!

Sheriff: And what kinds of things interest you, little miss?

Calinda B: Oh, people engaged with one another, growing, evolving, exploring the world around them.

Sheriff, thoughtfully scratching chin: What, exactly, do you mean by “engage?”

Calinda B, looking at her lap: Oh, you know…engaging.

Sheriff, whipping out a copy of A Wicked Awakening, flipping to a bookmarked excerpt: “He was a great kisser. A completely sensual man, he liked to kiss long, slow, and deep, or impart brief little butterfly kisses over my neck and face. I loved having him suck my lower lip and then lazily investigate the inside of my mouth with his delectable tongue. ” Is that what you consider engaging?

Calinda B, studying her feet: That’s one way to engage.

Sheriff, flipping to another bookmark: “He sucked in air between his teeth and began to thrust inside of me with one long, slow push. His ragged voice asked, “Like this, Chér?”

“Yes,  like that…oh, yes, like that…Now stroke me s-s-soft and…and…and…and…oh, God… stroke me soft and deep…”  What about that?? Is that engaging?

Calinda B, eyes narrowed, looking directly at the sheriff: Yes, that’s another way to engage. What about the page after page of story in between those scenes? You skipped many chapters, there pal. There’s a story to be read.

Sheriff, thumping the book on the table, causing dust to swirl into the air: I didn’t read those parts. I just jumped to the places that had people engaging as you call it.

Calinda B: And did you like it, sheriff?

Sheriff, clearing his throat: That’s not the point. The point is, you wrote stuff that’s explosive. We’re not sure if we want an outlaw such as yourself here.

Calinda B, squaring off: Then don’t buy the book. Do yourself a favor. If there’s readers like me out there, I’m pretty sure they like the book. Some of them have already told me so. But tell me sheriff, what kinds of books do you like to read?

Sheriff: Decent stuff – like murder mysteries, war crimes…things like that.

Calinda B: I see. So reading about people die violently, be maimed or injured…that’s okay. But reading about people trying to figure themselves out and then lovingly connect….that’s considered inappropriate….is that how it is?

Sheriff, looks away, then back at Calinda: Don’t change the subject. If you write this much sex into your books, you’ve got to be an outlaw. It’s too much.

Calinda B: Another reader says there wasn’t enough. He said it was so juicy he wanted more.

Sheriff: Well then, he’s as warped as you are.

Calinda B: I don’t consider myself warped. I consider myself pretty healthy. So tell me – how can we sort this out? Agree to disagree, if you will?

Sheriff, adjusting collar: I suppose you live on your side of the tracks, and I’ll live on mine.

Calinda B: Am I still an outlaw?

Sheriff: Not as long as you keep your books on your side of the tracks.

Calinda B: Okay then, give me my book back.

Sheriff, snatching the book behind his back: I need it as evidence.

Calinda B, raising her eyebrows in suspicion: Give it back.

Sheriff: No. I, er, uh, I need it.

Calinda B: What for? Give it back!

Sheriff: Okay, okay, okay….you’re not an outlaw. You’re a good writer.

Must be 18 years old to read.

Today’s Boomer Lit Friday excerpt is from the Beckoning of Beautiful Things, scheduled for release in April 2013. 

She pivoted to face him, . “If I’m going to be a food source for you, I expect respect.” Her fingernails traced delicate patterns along his chest.

“Of course. A beautiful woman such as yourself should always be respected.” He gazed down at her curiously, seeming unsure with where she was headed.

Marissa was giddy with her newfound sense of power and strength. She twirled in a circle, the light emanating from her body refracting against the mirror and walls. “These jewels are beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And these jewels…” Her fingertips danced across his testicles, causing them to pulse and his cock to stiffen into readiness. “These jewels are pretty fine themselves.”

His tongue found its way to the corner of his seductive mouth and he hissed. “Thank you. What would you like to do with them? They’re available for play.”

“Are they?”

“Yes. Everything here is yours for the taking.”

From the Beckoning of Beautiful Things, scheduled for release April 2013. Check out my other books at calindab.com

Must be 18 years old to read.

From the Beckoning of Beautiful Things, scheduled for release April, 2013:

She stepped across the room and stood before the generously sized full-length mirror. A beautiful stranger stared back at her. She stood, curvaceous and tall, bejeweled and dazzling bright. She looked like one of those sensual, finely detailed illustrations of goddesses she had painted in school. She remembered the pleasure she’d had adorning them with jewels, flowers, feathers and not much else.

She turned side to side in wonder. Light burst from her ears, her neck, her belly and her legs. It streamed down her arms and vibrated from her hands. “Oh, my God, Daniel. Who is this person?”

He sauntered over to the bed stand, pulled open the drawer, retrieved something and made his way over to her. “This person is my heart and soul. She needs one more piece to remind her of that.” He draped a braided necklace along her chest. “Hair, please, mi amor.”

She lifted her abundant hair and he fastened the jewelry behind her neck.

“What do you think?”

“Oh! It’s beautiful!”

At the center of the gold cup lay a sparkling emerald. Golden strands cascaded between her breasts. The light pouring from her body converged at the gem, manifesting in small green rays. A most delicious sensation radiated from her chest.

She turned to and fro in front of the mirror, thoughtfully scrutinizing this new being who stood before her. She extended one hand and then the other, willing the light and heat from her palms and fingertips. She bent her legs, flexed her arms, made fists and released them. “Wow. Power. All this power was hidden away from me.”

“Yes. But now it’s back. You’re beginning to own it, aren’t you, dulzura?”

“I’m trying. It feels a bit foreign, like a long lost relation has come to town. But I believe I’m going to get along really well with her. I believe she and I are going to get along great.” She swept her arms up and down, sending rays of light in every direction. “What will I be able to do with this new power? What does a light rebel do?”

“Traditionally, light rebels were used to pierce the darkness. They illuminate that which is hidden. They serve to restore order to chaos. In your case, we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

“I don’t like it that this was hidden from me.”

“Nor do I, but that’s a subject for another time.” He slowly strolled over to where she stood, coming up to stand behind her.

She regarded the two of them, reflected before her. His eyes pulsed with an eerie blue light. “Your eyes – they’re lit from within. I’ve never seen that.”

“Nor have I. This is the result of you and me. I told you, you affect me in some new ways.”

“Good ways, I hope.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Good ways. I am restored when we’re together.”

“Like when you suck on my breasts and drink the light?”

“Yes.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and his cock stirred against her skin.

“Like when we kiss and the light streams from my mouth into your throat?”

His blues eyes pulsed with light and he took a sharp intake of breath. “Yes, like that.”

Marissa considered this for a moment. “I guess you’ll have to be nice to me then to keep getting the goods.”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?” He placed his hands on her arms and stroked them up and down.

“I saw what you did to Jason. And I don’t yet know what you are capable of. This just seems like an insurance policy, you know?”

He frowned slightly. “Do you need an insurance policy?”

“You did bind my soul to yours without checking with me first.”

“And,” he began, circling his palms around her breasts and fingering her nipples. “You did agree that it might have been a good idea since you met El Demonio and he tried to implant himself inside of you.”

“Yes.” She placed her hands over his and guided his movements. “But turnabout is fair play, don’t you think? I want to be equals, not someone who keeps getting caught unaware with decisions you and Tom have made.” She pivoted to face him. “If I’m going to be a food source for you, I expect respect.”