One fake wedding coming up... #EroticRomance #RomanticComedy

I know everyone goes gaga over weddings. Little girls dream of the dresses they'll wear and the splendor of the day. Some of them are probably already hooked on Say Yes to the Dress, if the program is still on. (I don't watch TV much.)

For me, weddings have become soooo involved and horrendously expensive, they seem to miss the real purpose of the day - two people loving each other to commit to a life together. Kind of like Christmas misses the most important part of the season, you know?

Call me crazy, but an intimate setting is all I'd need and the man I love. To hell with the flowers, bridesmaids, grooms, relatives, and the other junk.

Lissa Lee feels the same. She's the heroine of my newest erotic romance, a romantic comedy about a fake wedding, a love that wasn't supposed to be, and one very hot Texas rancher.

The book releases June 24 (don't have a link yet) from Booktrope. Here's the cover art, which I love, the blurb, and a brief excerpt. Enjoy!

Blurb:

Their desire wasn’t supposed to be real…

With millions willed to her in an incentive trust, Lissa can get the dough to start her own country music label when she meets one of the no-contest clauses. Namely, reach middle age in twenty years, work in the hated family business for a decade, or marry someone not in the music biz.

Marriage it is, at least for a year to satisfy her greedy brother who wants the inheritance.

Enter Cass, a hot Texas rancher who dampens Lissa’s panties. With a pile of medical bills from his brother’s accident, Cass agrees to wed Lissa. She’s sweet to look at, surprisingly pleasant for an Atlanta debutante, and makes his jeans feel tight as hell despite their no-sex contract.

Uh-huh. The devil’s in the details. Longing gazes turn to tender intimacy and wild nights with pretend feeling all too real.

Damn shame it may be too late with her brother gunning for them both. 

Excerpt:

Cass leaned to the left, but the sun still reflected off the car’s windshield, hiding the passengers from him. Not that it mattered since he knew who they were. An Atlanta debutante who wanted to get around a trust and her attorney who was helping her do it. Sweet Jesus, what had he gotten himself into?

It wasn’t like Cass to engage in fraud of any kind. Before the lousy drought, the drop in beef prices, and then his kid brother’s problems, he’d been doing well. Now, not so much with no financial institution wanting to help. Only the Bank of Lissa Lee had answered his appeal.

Now that she was there, Cass wanted to run.

He was certain she wasn’t only spoiled, but probably had a voice that would shatter safety glass, not to mention looks only a blind mother could love. Her attorney had refused to send Cass a picture of her, warning him not to search for one on the Internet.

“This is business,” he’d said in a soft yet nasty voice. “If you look into Ms. Lee at all, I’ll know, and the deal’s off.”

Cass hadn’t been certain whether the man had been blowing smoke or not, but couldn’t risk it. He’d told himself to be a good boy for the attorney and a bad boy for Lissa while also making a mockery of marriage. That wasn’t like him either.

He was ready to go back inside the house and throw the lock when the driver’s side door popped open and a balding blond guy got out. “Mr. Bronson?”

Unfortunately. “Uh-huh. Mr. St. Claire?”

“That’s right.” He went around to the passenger door and opened it.

Cass took a deep breath, reminding himself this was necessary to pay the bills, keep the land and house. He wasn’t even expected to consummate the—

His thoughts stopped dead at the young woman who stepped out.

Her hair fell in soft waves to her waist and was the color of a Texas sunset…shimmering red with a few gold highlights.. The dress she wore was short and sleeveless with a scooped neck but no shape. Didn’t matter. A stiff breeze pushed the pale yellow fabric against the faint curve of her tummy, smallish breasts, and tightened nipples.

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Cass’ cock went instantly stiff, while his gaze prowled down her. Damn, he couldn’t detect a panty line either. Now his rod was beginning to ache. He glanced lower still.

Lord, but she had nice thighs, slender calves, and ankles too, not to mention tiny feet in her wedged sandals. They added about three inches to her height. Barefooted, she’d be one mighty small woman.

As she shifted her weight, which couldn’t have been more than a hundred and twenty pounds, Cass glanced up to see her creamy complexion—not one freckle—and one of the prettiest faces a woman could have, along with a surprisingly vulnerable expression. As though she wasn’t certain he’d approve of her.

How could any normal man find her lacking?

Her eyes were pale blue, circled with dark lashes, her nose as delicate as the rest of her features…all except for her mouth. It was pink, her lips as full as Angelina Jolie’s, and looking to be hotter than this day.

He swallowed.

“This is Ms. Lissa Lee,” Mr. St. Claire said.

Cass had to hold back a grin of delight since this arrangement was supposed to have zero fun, and she looked kind of daunted. Poor thing. Feeling oddly protective, Cass wanted to assure her that everything was going to be all right, but hadn’t a clue how it could be. They were supposed to live together in wedded un-bliss for a year, which meant they were both going to be celibate.

Somehow, Cass hadn’t thought of that until now, and suddenly realized he was fucked big time. Holding back a sigh, he took off his hat and went down the steps to claim her.

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Everything's coming up roses...

Okay, I'm exaggerating a bit. I'm dead tired, there aren't enough hours in the day, I'm so busy I can't recall my characters' names at times, and at the end of the day I have been known to stare at articles (the word kind, not the item kind), such as 'the', and ponder - is that how 'the' is spelled?

Yeah, I'm busy.

That said, my releases are coming fast and furious this year. I have enough contracts to last me to the end of next year. For now, let me share the cover art and blurbs for my latest releases. One just came out, the other is due out June 24 (no links as yet).

EROTIC TAKEOVER

Erotic Contemporary

Released April 22

Amazon - Ellora's Cave

Blurb:

He’ll unleash her indecent desires…in the most provocative way possible

Working for a celebrated photographer of lush nudes, many with BDSM themes, isn’t easy for Jodi. She’s full-figured, wholesome and longing for Mac, her bad boy boss. His shaggy hair, wicked tat and total hotness make her dream of ditching her work as his assistant to get down on her knees as his eager sub. If he’d only notice her.

Who says he hasn’t? As laid-back as they come, Mac can’t get over how uptight Jodi is around him…like he might bite her. Not what he has in mind. Her guileless nature and voluptuous figure do dangerous things to his self-control.

Lucky for him a client’s request has Jodi finally yielding to her sensual nature, because Mac’s fully prepared to dominate, demanding her submission, delivering punishment. In other words, an erotic takeover.

COME AND GET YOUR LOVE

Erotic Contemporary - Romantic Comedy

Coming June 24

Blurb:

Their desire wasn’t supposed to be real…

With millions willed to her in an incentive trust, Lissa can get the dough to start her own country music label when she meets one of the no-contest clauses. Namely, reach middle age in twenty years, work in the hated family business for a decade, or marry someone not in the music biz.

Marriage it is, at least for a year to satisfy her greedy brother who wants the inheritance.

Enter Cass, a hot Texas rancher who dampens Lissa’s panties. With a pile of medical bills from his brother’s accident, Cass agrees to wed Lissa. She’s sweet to look at, surprisingly pleasant for an Atlanta debutante, and makes his jeans feel tight as hell despite their no-sex contract.

Uh-huh. The devil’s in the details. Longing gazes turn to tender intimacy and wild nights with pretend feeling all too real.

Damn shame it may be too late with her brother gunning for them both. 

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Whatcha Readin'?

I love to read. Yeah, I know, that's not surprising. I am an author after all. I don't think you'll ever meet an author who wasn't first in love with the written word that carried them on a wonderful journey.

A true reader talks about memorable characters like old friends who might drop in for tea. .. Can describe story settings as if they've lived in that place for years ... And will happily explain the reasons why a favorite tomb has a place of honor on their "keeper" shelf. A reader caught up in a good read will burn dinner, pray the soccer game being played in 40 degree fog goes into overtime, agree to clean the bathrooms for a month or give up chocolate if they could just have another 15 minutes to finish the book. (Okay, maybe I went too far with the chocolate ... but you get the idea.)

I have always claimed I'd read any genre except horror (but I've even done that for the right story). But you know what? I discovered something this week. I don't enjoy romantic comedies. I know, right? What the heck's wrong with me?

There are awesome authors like Janet Evanovich and Jennifer Crusie. Kristan Higgins and Lori Avacato. And more. Wonderful authors who write stories that readers looooove.

And I wanted to be one of them. Sometimes I just would like to want to sink into the zany angst of a quirky heroine. To laugh out loud to the bad luck that just continues to snowball into impossible situations. And I try. I pick up a book my friends have just gushed over, ready to fall headlong into a story that takes me away from the stress of my life. But it doesn't happen. I plod through the pages waiting for the good part that never seems to arrive. I skip pages wondering what I'm missing. I'm not sure why the slapstick scenes that are cute and engaging on the movie screen don't translate on the page for me, but they just don't.

And then, like a beacon in the fog of discontent I realized ... it's not the writing or the story ... it's me. Try as I might these stories will never hold my attention. I was reading them thinking I was missing something or to break the spell of science fiction and paranormal stories that seem to overflow my nightstand.

I know, this is such a "well, dur, Nina" situation. But it's taken me twenty-some-odd years as an adult to figure this out. Life is just to darn short to spend time on books that don't carry me away or make me yearn to carve out some reading time.

Writing a book is hard. Writing it well ... even harder. Authors' stories should be read by those who can appreciate them, whatever the genre. As for me, I'm off to check out Jessica Andersen's final installment in her paranormal Nightkeeper series ... Rabbit's been calling my name for a couple of weeks now.

And what about you? Any genres you truly enjoy? Any you've discovered that just don't do it for you? I'd love to hear about it. Because you know me, I'm curious like that.

He Said She Said

Wouldn’t it be nice if men and women understood each other better? But alas, she’s from Venus and he’s from Mars. So, let’s use it to its best advantage in writing. When a misunderstanding comes, milk it for what it’s worth by amplification of their miscommunication. I go for the humor, but you can also use it to amplify the frustration and the angst. It’s your call.

Sometimes it’s the man who misunderstands and sometimes it’s the woman. Here are two examples. In example one from Mr. Wrong by Terry Campbell, Roarke, the hero, is coming to find Kat and bring her back to the hospital where her daughter is from drinking Ipecac in an attempt to bring her mother home and into Roarke’s arms. The little girl wants them to be married. Kat is off on a holiday with a wealthy man she thinks is marriage material despite her overwhelming attraction to Roarke, whom she has labeled as Mr. Wrong. Her time with the wealthy man has been a disaster in which she has led him into injuring himself multiple times. So, let the fun begin…

Easing out of his car, he headed around the side of the house. As he entered the rear gardens, he spotted the kitchen lights, aimed for the stone patio and stopped.

“Pull it and you’ll get the treat of a lifetime.”

“Slippery little devil, isn’t it?”

Slippery little devil? He was too late.

****

Kat jerked the tab. The shell separated from the crab and sailed through the air like Tory’s Frisbee.

Jason’s hand flew to his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” She battled tears as blood seeped from under his fingers. “I can’t seem to do anything right.” It was a good thing Jason wasn’t Mr. Right. She doubted he’d survive marriage to her, assuming he lived long enough. Guilt-ridden, she stood and moved cautiously toward him.

He bolted to his feet. “Stay where you are.” He edged around her and started to the bathroom.

She advanced. “I know what to do. After all, I am the mother of a six-year-old.”

“She’s lived that long?”

Tears of held-in laughter streamed down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.” Her fingers touched his newest wound as a noise caught her attention. She turned and glanced at the open French doors. Rourke stood in the threshold looking like a savage warrior bent on murder. Her hand dropped to her side, and she offered a tentative smile as he moved toward them. “Rourke? What are you doing here?”

“Thank God. I’m saved.” Jason said, seconds before Rourke’s fist connected with his jaw.

“Get your stuff. Tory’s in the hospital.”

She stared at his disappearing back. “Wait.” she screamed. “What do you mean Tory’s in the hospital?”

Four minutes later and after hurried explanations, Kat stood beside the open passenger door and watched Rourke toss her bags into the trunk and slam the lid down. “You don’t understand.”

“I said get in the car, Katherine.”

She slipped into the passenger seat and jerked the door closed. This was ridiculous. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this frigid treatment, and Tory wasn’t in danger. Of course, Rourke saw everything in black and white.

“Thank you for coming out here. I’ll feel better once I see Tory’s okay for myself.” At his glower, she winced.

“That’s nice. God knows we all want you to feel better.”

A sharp retort threatened, but she bit her lip and watched in silence as he threw the car in reverse. “I realize she’s dehydrated, but it was Ipecac, not poison.”

“Which she drank because she wanted you home, not off for a weekend of love with your flavor of the month. Or is it, the week?”

“That’s unfair and out of line. Yes, Tory didn’t want me to date Jason. But that’s because she wanted us together.” She glanced at his grim mask and sighed. “Of course, kids dream the silliest things.”

He jerked the steering wheel to the right and pulled to the side of the road. “You discussed Jason and this trip with her?”

When he turned that slate-gray glare on her, she nodded. “I tried to explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” He faced front, put the car in gear and went from zero to seventy in six seconds. “That’s always been your problem, Katherine, you don’t think.”

She wasn’t sure which was worse, his burning glare of disgust or his cold frost of disdain. She’d never liked her name, Katherine, and now she hated it.

“You couldn’t even wait to make it out of the living room to start jumping the man.” He snorted and shook his head. “I’m glad you didn’t take me up on my offer. I’m not into S&M or having my bed partner draw blood.”

“Now wait a minute. That isn’t what happened. Jason was showing—”

“His equipment.”

She gasped. What an arrogant bully. Boy, was he going to be embarrassed when he discovered the truth. “No. I was learning how to pull—”

“A zipper. I can’t believe you called his equipment a ‘slippery little thing.’ I thought I taught you not to attack a man’s ego.”

Now here’s another example of our heroine misunderstanding the hero. In The Marriage Murders, my latest book written under my real name, Greg, the hero, wants to explain that he has just discovered he has a grown daughter from a love affair he had when he was very young. Roxie, the heroine, thinks he’s telling her he had an affair with the town’s new femme fatale . Roxie’s especially upset about his timing because she came to their date fully equipped with sex toys and a box of After Dinner Weanies.

“I have to come clean about something. It’s not like me to keep secrets, but I thought this was going to upset you, and I didn’t know exactly how to break the news.”

Finally, now, of all the odd and unexpected times, he was planning on unloading about his affair with Marlowe. Like she really needed to hear it on the night she’d hoped for a chance to check out his bed herself.  “I see. You may not have to tell me Greg. I think I already know.”

“You do?” He frowned. “How could you? No one around here knows.” He sighed. “I should have known you’d discover it. You always find out what going on. I want you to understand, what happened happened many years ago. If I’d known what I do now, it never would have occurred, not in a million years.”

She nodded. “I’m sure that’s true. When we’re younger, our hormones get the better of us. I would never have married Billy if I’d known about Georgia being pregnant.”

He stared at her, concern showing by the set of his jaw. “I understand exactly. But in all fairness to Billy, sometimes the woman doesn’t know what she really is doing to a long term relationship. You know, Georgia could have baited Billy, not told him the truth about birth control, even lied to him that she wasn’t pregnant, or worse yet, told him she’d aborted.”

Roxie grabbed the back of the seat cushions and stared at him in disbelief. She dug her nails into the fabric and wanted to gnash her teeth to powder. “You’re telling me you got her pregnant? You actually fathered a child with that woman?”

“That’s what I was trying to explain, but I didn’t know at the time. Now you’re sounding surprised. Look, I don’t know how you found out about this. Did Justina actually tell you?”

Her eyes widened in shock. “Justina? Who exactly is Justina?”

His mouth fell open and he stared at her like he’d lost all his senses.  “You said you knew. I just thought my daughter had somehow met you before I saw her.”

Roxie jumped to her feet. “This is worse than I ever thought it could be. You had an affair with her and now you tell me you have her daughter? Greg, you are not at all the man I thought you were.” She grabbed her paper bag and held up her hand, palm forward. “Don’t say another word. I’m leaving before I bite off the real version of the mints I have in my bag.”

See how the misunderstanding become worse, fueling the fire for more action? Try it in your writing, and please tell me about examples from your own writing.

Bobbye Terry writes mystery/suspense, romance, fantasies and dystopian fiction. The Marriage Murders, Bobbye’s Book 2 in the Briny Bay Mysteries series, was just released. Bobbye and Linda Campbell, writing as Terry Campbell, have a new cozy mystery short story collection, Slam Sisters of Serendipity, that released through Eternal Press.  For more about Bobbye, visit her at www.BobbyeTerry-MysteryHappens.com and www.BobbyeTerryRomance.com .

Did Bridget Jones Die?

Got your attention, didn’t I? Still, I’m asking a valid question. It appears that the oh-so-once-popular chick lit has now died on the vine. It didn’t even get a proper burial. No more new journals for Bridget. Then again, perhaps the claim is erroneous. Could it be that these books still exist but are masquerading under new euphemisms?

I did a Google search to see what chick lit is being called and read some interesting and somewhat comical discussions about how to term such a work-in-progress so an agent or editor will read and consider it. One writer suggested  “upmarket fiction.” Another one pointed out that upmarket fiction is meant to describe work that falls between literary and commercial fiction and chick lit isn’t really that “upscale.” That left me thinking the formerly designated chick lit was somewhere between the “how-to” instructions for your latest purchased gizmo (you know, the instructions you never read) and last week’s junk mail.

I finally came to the conclusion that “downmarket fiction” would be a more appropriate title, but that depresses me even more because it makes me think of the stock market and the current state of economic affairs. To name my literature in such a manner would doom it to never even being purchased, much less read.

Most of the posts I found agreed that former chick lit books were now being referred to as “women’s fiction.” What on earth does that mean? I don’t know what you think of it, but, honestly, I find that to be incredibly boring. It sounds like a department in a megastore. As a result, I think we need to rename this type of literature. While we’re at it, let’s try to get rid of the stereotypical heroine image of stiletto heels and frilly fru-fru or skin-tight outfits. How can we bring justice to the genre when it gives credence to its don’t-get-no-respect appearance?

One writer, Jon Eaves, said it better than me in a guest blog at Novelicious, http://www.novelicious.com/chick-lit-genre:

The cover will invariably be pale pink or baby blue. The title will be written in a curly, a whirly or even possibly a squirly font.  There will, without exception, be a smattering of either silvery stars or shiny red hearts or, in the worst case scenario, purple butterflies. The cover illustration will be a stylised colour drawing of the thin, pretty heroine wearing deep red lip gloss and very pointy shoes.

So here is my list of the top five must-haves in the new “chick-lit” yet-to-be-named:

1.      Independent, not some run-home-to-live-with-mom-and-dad sappy, spineless heroine.

2.      The heroine is a good friend but capable of having lunch or drinking a coffee-shop drink without her double-sided-tape chums.

3.      In at least one scene in the book, the heroine is dressed wearing flats or ratty slippers. Under no circumstances should she own any shoes or handbags with names the average American can’t easily pronounce.

4.      There is more on the heroine’s mind than the hero, the way she is going to spend her time off and the state of her friends’ love lives.

5.      The heroine is not in her twenties, slim with a fabulous wardrobe and living in the middle of the glamorous neighborhood of a metropolis.

Here’s to forty-year-old heroines with weight issues in suburbia who are divorced or never married with mortgages that swallow half their incomes and a desire for a night life they don’t have. Wait! I have the perfect name for the literature. Reality fiction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bobbye Terry writes the new yet-to-be-named “chick-lit” as well as romantic comedies, cozy mysteries, suspense, fantasies and dystopian fiction. Her latest work is Rose, Book 1 in The Lipstick Girls series.  The sequel, Rusty, will be out in late June. Bobbye and Linda Campbell, writing as Terry Campbell, have a new cozy mystery short story collection, Slam Sisters of Serendipity, debuting through Eternal Press on June 7^th.  For more about Bobbye, visit her at http://www.bobbyeterryromance.com/ and www.BobbyeTerry-MysteryHappens.com.