Sarah Ballance – Tide of Lies

What fun, Sarah and I are blog swappin’ today! Yay! I’m over on her site talking about my part in an upcoming project, Writing Out Child Abuse. You all remember, Sarah Ballance, right?! She was on here a short time ago. Well, she’s here to talk about her latest release, Tide of Lies. Check it out folks. Sarah is wonderfully talented and you won’t be disappointed!

Ready to hit the beach? My recent release, TIDE OF LIES, will take you there in spine-tingling style! Here’s a look at the story.

TIDE OF LIES | blurb

A devastating secret. A shocking betrayal. A deadly obsession.

Haunted by three unsolved murders, Detective Holden Whitlow is stunned when his cold case takes a heated turn. Julia Cohen, his ex-lover, is back in town, and in the face of a brutal attack she’s ready to run. No matter how tightly she holds her secrets, for Holden, turning away from the woman he’s spent a decade trying to forget isn’t any more an option than walking away from his job . . .even when it threatens to cost Julia her life.

Julia is still reeling from a past she can’t bear to face. When she becomes the target of a killer, fate throws her back into Holden’s arms, but she’s yet to recover from a truth that has stripped her of everything—and everyone—she loves. Will she tell him the secret that will destroy him, or will her lie destroy them both?

TIDE OF LIES | excerpt

In this excerpt, Holden has just informed Julia they “need to talk.” You know how *that* goes, LOL!

She laughed, but the sound was hollow. “I thought that was my line.”

“I wish it was a line, Jules.” He edged her across the lobby, away from the desk clerk but—more importantly to his disgruntled psyche—closer to the exit. “Your purse was found.”

“And?”

“And the notes were not.”

Her green eyes widened. “Why would anyone take those?”

“Look at it this way,” he said, pushing the towering walnut doors open to a flood of sunshine. He led her outside, and then turned to say, “Who would take them?”

Julia stood motionless on the sidewalk. The sun lit her blackened eyes and showcased the dirt staining her khaki shorts. “You think it’s the guy?”

Ignoring a flood of emotion at the state of her—of her proximity after so many years—Holden steadied his discomfort. “It’s too early to know anything.”

“So what does this mean? You think he’s after me?”

“It’s too soon to rule anything out.”

She stared him down. “I’m no cop, Holden, but I think you just said the same thing twice.”

He held out his arms. “Fine. I don’t know what’s going on. Not a clue. Are you happy now?”

“No,” she said, sounding small. “I am not happy. I don’t have anything but the clothes on my back—and they’ve seen better days—and now I’m out of a place to stay. I can’t even get home—”

“You can’t go home.”

Surprise lit her eyes. His, too, probably. He hadn’t meant to sound so damn wistful. He hadn’t meant to sound so personal. And he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to make things more confusing between them than they already were.

But he expected his next request would do nothing less. He needed her for his investigation, and that gave him excuse enough to keep her close.

Reaching to caress windblown hair from her cheek, he steadied himself. Tried not to choke on his words. “Jules,” he said. “I want you to come home with me.”

NOBLE ROMANCE  https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/409/Tide-of-Lies

AMAZON (author link) http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003WKYEJI

BARNES & NOBLE (author link) http://www.barnesandnoble.com/c/sarah-ballance

SARAH BALLANCE | bio and links

Sarah and her husband of almost fifteen what he calls “long, long” years live on the mid-Atlantic coast with their six young children, all of whom are perfectly adorable when they’re asleep.  She often jokes that she writes to be around people who will listen to her, but her characters aren’t much better than her kids.  Fortunately, her husband is quite supportive, having generously offered to help her research “the good parts” . . .  and she’s never had to ask twice.

WEBSITE  http://www.sarahballance.com/

BLOG  http://sarahballance.wordpress.com/

AMAZON  http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003WKYEJI

TWITTER  http://twitter.com/#!/SarahBallance

FACEBOOK  http://www.facebook.com/sarah.ballance.author.news

Related articles

• Sarah Ballance (museampoule.wordpress.com)

Ellie Heller – Ginny’s Capture

Please welcome a very special friend, Ellie Heller! Ellie is one of the wonderful, funny, and lovely ladies over at the ERAuthors Crit group AND, as of this week, a newbie author at Noble Romance! Her first book, Ginny’s Capture, was released through Noble on February 27th so she’s experiencing all of the joys and excitements of this happy, happy event.

If you don’t know Ellie, it is my pleasure to introduce her to you. 

Ellie, thanks for being here today! Can you tell the readers a little about yourself, when and why did you start writing?

I stated writing in the fifth grade when my english teacher, Mrs. Dora, would put up writing prompts and say we could write either a fiction or non-fiction response. I created a character, an intergalatic space alien, whose story revolved around the prompts. Needless to say the story line had no coherency, but I had a lot of fun.

Does listening to music and/ or looking at images influence on your writing? 

Typically, I don’t like listening to music when I write. Not big on images either, although once I have my characters set in my head, I’ll sometimes look for an image online which matches my mental write-up. My largest influence is odd things I see in everyday life. Like why would a casket company have a barbed wire fence? Why is that cop standing in the paper recyling dumpster sorting through papers? Why would an ambulance stop, lights flashing, in the middle of a forest preserve with no other vehicles around?

Any favorite authors? Who inspired you when you were young? And now?

Wow, favorite authors is hard. I read across a variety of genres. I do, however, have the following authors on my auto-buy list: Sharon Shinn, Tamora Pierce, Julia Quinn and Shelly Laurenston (both as herself and G.A. Aiken).  Inpsiration when I was younger would have been Craig Shaw Gardner, Anne McCaffery, Robin McKinley and Patricia McKillip.  Today, would have to be my father. He started to do print making in his sixties and found his passion for all too breif a time.

Do you ever get stalled in the middle of a story? If so how do you get past it?  

All the fracking time. One, I try NOT to stop stumped. Which means, for me, not staying up late to write that one last scene which is in my head. Wait and write it in the morning. Two, when I can I set the story aside for a week, then look at it with fresh eyes. I try to igure out why the characters are in the place they’re at in the story, and I then ask myself is that where they want/need to be (or am I going to have to redo the whole story line?) Or, more often, do I need this scene or can I skip at and sprinkle in any ‘needed’ information later? For instance, I had started what turned into Ginny’s Capture several times. It wasn’t until someone pointed me in the direction the Lesbian vs Zombie call that I had the ‘aha!’ and realized I had the wrong love interest for her. J

Who has been your favorite character to write to date and why?  

I think that’d be Gert, from Gotta Get Gert, my first ever complete novel (which I don’t ever plan to have see the light of day!). After working on the story for so long and learning so much about her snippy sacrcastic self it’s hard to let her go.  I do have to say, I’m rather fond of many of my heros too. Nic, Monroe, Aiden, Frank, Oh! Wait, I changed my mind. Randall, the Puck, is my favorite ‘cause he’s so innordinately fun to write. The fact that he costumes his barrell shaped body for every encounter is only half of it.

Quick fire questions:

Favorite color:  Red.

Satin or Lace:  Um, I’m a cotton kind of girl, to be honest. Athough, if you’d asked latex or leather…nah, still cotton.

Most attractive part of the body:  Smile.

Pantser or Plotter:  Start out as pantster with an idea/image/scene (see above!), but quickly morph to plotter.

Favorite place to write:  Recliner at home with the dogs nearby.

Thanks so much for playing along with me today Ellie! Before I let you go could you tell everyone what projects you’re working on?

I just had my first ever published story come out from Noble Romance. Ginny’s Capture is a novella from their Lesbian vs Zombie series. A bit of a break of the status quo for me, as I do write stories with lesbian characters, just not typically as the protagonist. And a bit of the same old, same old. Comtemporary fantasy with a romance and happily-ever-after.

The blurb:

Two years ago Deidra Montague royally screwed up with Guinevere. Now Dee secretly works for the fae council, breaking up potential zombie swarms, while Ginny–a mortal–attends grad school, preparing for a career helping survivors of zombie attacks.  Even apart, Dee still watches over Ginny. How could she not, after learning that the woman she betrayed has been blessed as her mate?  Now students from Ginny’s school are dropping out in alarming numbers and turning up infected with the zombie virus. When Dee finds out, she decides it’s time to extract her mate from the mounting peril. Only she arrives to find Ginny in the thick of things, trying to solve the problem herself. Just like old times. With drugged-up zombies everywhere, casket sales on the rise, and saccharine bubblegum pop constantly playing in the background, Dee decides it’s time to lay her heart on the line. Because she’s the only one who’s going to capture Ginny.

Buy Link: https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/399/Ginny’s-Capture

Currently I’m editing, and getting ready to submit, the first book in a seven book romantic contemporary fantasy series.  Hope to have more news on my progress this fall.

Thank you so much having me here today, Renee.  Hanging out with you was a blast as always.

You can find me on the web at http://elliewrites2.wordpress.com I also have been posting frequently on the Lesbian vs Zombie Blog: http://lvsz.wordpress.com .

K.B. Cutter and the Undead

Little introduction is needed for my guest today. K.B. Cutter was here recently with Margie Church to talk about their up and coming release RAZOR and we had such a great time that he insisted on coming back. 

Ok. I might have asked nicely…  Don’t give me that look… Fine! I might have bribed him with whiskey and a pillow fight, but nothing more than that.

To add to the fun today, K.B. has generously offered up some of his books to a lucky reader who leaves a comment an their email addy. Read through the post for details.

Welcome back K.B. It’s good to have you here today.

Who's got the dollah bills? Ladies?

Hey, Renee, thanks for having me back at your pad. I promise I’ll wear pants while I blo . . .  –looks down-   Sorry. You might have to settle for a snazzy leopard skin Speedo. However, this time I remembered to put the potato in the fron . . .

Right, wrong blog, so sorry.

Any-hoo, I’m here today to discuss my new release, ‘Undead Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye.’  Yes, the title is a bit of a mouthful. To simplify, how ’bout we call it URJE.  Oh. Hmm. Sounds like the name of the guy I called for tech support last weekend.  Right, skip it.  We’ll just call it ‘Undead’ for now.

Speaking of Undead, I originally wrote it for another anthology, an up and coming indie horror publisher, a while back. The story was a tad quirky (okay, more than a ‘tad’) and I opted to go more of a conventional route with another submission. Undead languished on my laptop, tucked away in Word like another can of beans on the grocery shelf.  I meant to finish it and self publish on Amazon Kindle like my other works, Dead Fall and Sins of the Sparrow.  Other projects consumed my time and Undead remained in its Microsoft crypt.

Fast-forward two years.  Ruby Green contacted me, inquiring if I’d like to contribute a zombie story for an anthology to be published by Noble Romance.  The parameters being: Lesbians, Zombies, music and a college type setting.  I was intrigued. The concept was quite original and it gave me an opportunity to resurrect ‘Undead.’

The original hook I was going to use for the horror anthology was the ambiguity of the main character’s gender/sexuality. Told in first-person, I wanted the reader to believe it was a hetero male until a crucial moment in the story. Alas, not meant to be, however, I’m happy to see my tale of a group of misfits holed up in a roadside dive during a Zombie Apocalypse reanimated!

I think it fitting to remind aspiring writers or those who are established, SAVE your stories.  You never know when they might be called upon to lumber out of Cyber Limbo!

I’d like to thank Ruby Green for dreaming up the concept and Jill Noble for taking a risk on publishing a non-traditional romance anthology.  I hope Undead provides readers with enough thrills, chills and shivers of sensual delight as well as some food for thought (no pun intended . . . okay, maybe a little).

It is not your usual Zombie fare or erotic romance.

And that is the way I write it!

Thanks also to Renee for hosting me today. The woman is generous, allowing me to ramble on, ‘cuz you never know what the hell I’m gonna say!

I’d like to share a Blurb and bit of an excerpt from Undead Reflections of a Jaundiced Eye.

Annnnndddd… a little treat to the pithiest comment, a trifecta of terror, PDF copies of my horror stories, some laced with simmering sexuality,deviant lust and bit o’ the red:  Dead Fall, Sins of the Sparrow and Killing Apathy.  Please provide your e-mail addy in the body of your post.

You can peek at my work or the inner workings of my twisted mind at: www.kbcutter.com, where there are links to all of my published work.

Blurb:

An undead infestation can be a real killjoy. For a group of misfit weekend bikers holed up in roadside dive, it is the understatement of the century.  One of them, a jaded misanthrope, examines her life as civilization crumbles.  Will true love finally pierce the cynical veil shrouding her heart before the zombie horde devours her flesh?

Excerpt:

Chapter One

A Zombie Apocalypse can be a real buzz-kill.

The jolly Captain Morgan and I, best mates, we were; however, the buccaneer was playing mischief with my sea legs. I stood with said legs slightly apart, swaying as if the bar’s floor were the wooden deck planks of a pirate sloop.

I spotted my prize leaning against the jukebox, booted foot tapping in rhythm to George Thorogood’s raspy lament of “one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer.” Her treasures, encased in snug tight blue jeans that accentuated the tantalizing curves of her ass, were mine for the plundering. Life was good, damn good at Red’s Roadside Tavern, until one of the locals burst through the door.

The first thing I noticed was his eyes. Aside from an unnervingly vacant stare, his irises bore the milky white of cataract-afflicted orbs. His mouth was a crooked maw of blackened gums and jagged teeth; hair matted to his skull, slick with sweat and rain.

At the time, we had no clue that he–it–was the infected, soon to be walking dead. None of us did.

Christ, who would have?

Buy link:

https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/390/Undead-Reflections

H.C. Brown – Lord & Master

Thank you all for coming by. My guest today is the fabulous H.C. Brown who is both one of my fellow Noble Romance authors and the newest member of the ERAuthors critique group. I admire her for both her talent and her immensely positive and generous attitude, so it’s my great pleasure to have her hanging out with us.

H.C Brown is a multi published, bestselling author of, Historical, Paranormal, Sci-Fi, Fantasy, BDSM, Time Travel, Action Adventure and Contemporary Romance.” I write tender erotic romance, always with a happy ending.”

H.C writes under the pen name Pia Moonglow for YA Fantasy. Living in Australia with her own alpha male, HC enjoys walking hand in hand along the beautiful Gold Coast beaches.

Welcome to my pages, H.C.! Could you tell us when and why you started writing?

HC. I’ve always told stories but never had the time to write them down. My published writing career started in 2006. Writing is an addiction or an insanity, it must be due the misery we authors endure from critics and rejections. Then again. I don’t suffer from this insanity I enjoy every minute of it.

Any favorite authors? Who inspires you?

HC. My all time favorite author is Diana Gabaldon because I love reading Georgian era Historical.

Author David Kentner AKA KevaD’s way with words, is a great inspiration, he has a unique voice and a wonderful sense of humor. I believe he inspires most authors who read his work. I wish he would write a historical, civil war perhaps, story. He would bring the era to life.

People inspire me, their stories. I’m a listener.

I have to admit, I’m a pretty big fan of David’s also, and I can’t help but to agree, I find his style is really inspiring.

Do you ever get stalled in the middle of a story? If so how do you get past it?

HC. No, never stalled. Things going on in my life stall my writing, I would write 24 hours a day if I had my way.

Who has been your favorite character to write to date and why? 

HC. Nox King of the Fae— a stunningly handsome bisexual 7 feet tall alpha-male Fae, compassionate yet strong.

If you had the opportunity to meet one of your characters from your books, who would it be and what would you say to them?

HC. Nox-for all the reasons above . . . oh yeah.

” Make me young again, gorgeous, and your slave.”

Quick fire questions:

Favorite color:  Purple

Satin or Lace:  Satin

Most attractive part of the body:  Soul

Pantser or Plotter:  Pantser

Favorite place to write:  Anywhere quiet.

It’s so nice finding out more about you H.C. I especially like your answer to favorite body part.  :)  Soul, the greatest appendage. So, now that we have a good sense of who you are, would you care to share some of your work?

Lord & Master

Blurb:

Lord Reynold Wilton, fearing exposure after a public argument with his sex slave, Lord David Litchfield, leaves England for the Americas. On his return, he finds his delicious man in the hands of a brutal sadist. In a time when homosexuality is a hanging offense, Reynold must use every trick in the book to regain the possession and trust of his young lover.

 Excerpt:

Prologue

London 1769

A rush of pain radiated from Lord Reynold’s clenched teeth and into his temples. The burn from over exertion raged across his shoulders. His sweaty grip slipped on the leather handle of the cane, a narrow strip of birch he had commissioned especially for discipline. With lust, he gazed down at his slave, savoring the crisscrossed, red welts marking the porcelain flesh, the raised prints of his hand on each tender buttock. He bent over the slim figure tied so deliciously on the bench, and licked each crimson cut, using his mouth to soothe and caress. Reynold lapped, enjoying the taste of sweet skin, the rise of gooseflesh under his tongue. The man’s scent of soap mingled with the warm aroma of male sex filled his nostrils.

With the man tied this way, stretched out with both arms and legs secured, Reynold had complete control. The power of dominance surged through him. In truth, he could easily draw blood with his cane if he chose to, yet he loved this man and gave his slave what he craved. This session had been different from those long nights of bliss they’d enjoyed so often before. He needed to conquer his slave, to take back his role as master in a relationship teetering on the brink of disaster. With slow, deliberate moves, he stalked around the bench, running the cane over the sub’s quivering body. He stopped at the head of the young man. “Why do you question my loyalty? I will not tolerate such behavior.” He grasped a lock of the man’s long, blond curls. “Speak.”

“I am jealous, Master.”

Reynold brought the birch down in two swift cuts across the slave’s pristine back. The prone man’s cry sent blood rushing to his cock. Christ, he loved to hear his submissive moan. He threw down the cane. “Of whom are you jealous this time?”

“Lord John, Master.” The slave drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t want you to continue your friendship him.”

“When you are tied to my bed, I am the master.” Reynold met the man’s cornflower blue gaze. “I will not tolerate such demands from my slave. If you continue in this manner, I will have no option but to take my leave.” He ground his teeth. “I warn you, do not think to use my devotion as a weapon to manipulate me to your will. If needs be, I will take a commission abroad to be rid of you.”

“Reynold . . . I beg you—think of my feelings.”

“You would have me weak?” Reynold dropped his breeches. “I think not.”

“No, Master, not weak—never weak.” David’s gaze fell on Reynold’s shaft. “I do not care to share you with Lord John.” He licked his lips. “When you are in his company, I fear I will lose you.”

Reynold growled. “I regret now confiding my relationship with Lord John Henley to you before we became involved. The man is a dear friend but you are my lover. If you don’t believe this to be true, the trust you claim to have in me does not exist.” He sighed. “Perhaps it is you who wants to end our relationship.”

“Christ, I would have no other touch me in this way, and you know this to be true.” David poked out his tongue, and swiped it across the head of Reynold’s cock. He moaned. “I beg your forgiveness.”

“You have my forgiveness, but I cannot allow you to dictate which friends I have. You know I have no desire to fuck any of them. Arguing with me in public has already put us both under scrutiny. Christ, David we can’t be seen together. The risk is too high. What reason would I have to be in your company?” Reynold stroked David’s cheek. “If you cannot trust me, this time we have together—our relationship as master and slave, as lovers, will not survive.” Reynold groaned. “I care for you deeply but I won’t allow you to risk the hangman’s noose because of youthful foolishness. I will not offer you another chance, do you understand?” Reynold tugged David’s hair. “Do you?”

“Yes.” David smiled. “Master, will you allow me to pleasure you? I crave the taste of your seed.”

Palming his shaft, he guided it toward his slave’s rosy lips. He sighed as the man’s hot, wet mouth surrounded him with absolute bliss. He loved the way David’s flushed cheeks pulled tight with every withdrawn thrust. Later, he would take the man’s tight arse, and hear his intoxicating screams of delight. He could never have enough of his luscious young submissive. Reynold rolled his hips, his hands cradling David’s, sweat soaked cheeks. Lord, this man knew how to take him to heaven. Tipping back his head, he plunged deeper, fucking the man’s delightful throat.

This session with David had been brutal. Reynold wanted to stamp his authority over the young man. Of late, the possessive nature of his delicious sex-slave had become out of hand. David had grown too demanding. Reynold had no option but to take a stand. The submissive’s teeth raked a path up his aching cock, the man’s agile tongue flicking over the sensitive tip. Reynold bit back a groan and fell into the darkness of forbidden bliss. His slave’s mouth became a whirlpool of ecstasy spinning him into an uncontrollable, shattering conclusion. Christ, David, for once, do as I say. Your jealousy is leading us down a path of damnation.

Chapter One

Three years later—London 1772

 

 

Chapter One

Lord Reynold Wilton opened his pocketbook and paid the tailor’s account, grateful to be finally out of uniform. He met the gaze of Mr. Joseph Brown. The man had produced every inch of clothing he had worn since a boy. “Have everything else sent over to Spencer Street. There’s a good man.”

Donning the new hat he’d purchased from Locks in Bond Street, Lord Reynold pulled on his gloves and turned to look in the mirror. The new, delightfully comfortable, clothes fit well. Soft and fresh against his skin, the linen provided a welcome change from his stagnant, uniform shirt and stiff smalls. At last, after three despicable years, he resembled a gentleman again. The new clothes, ordered by letter some three months prior, had surprised him with their elegance. Mr. Brown had tailored each garment in the height of fashion, right down to the fine, lawn ruffles and silver buttons. White silk stockings and a cloak of the finest, black wool lined in silk completed his dress. He rubbed his chin and smiled ruefully at his reflection. The breeches stretched tight about his thighs and bottom, and Mr. Brown had pinched the jacket in at the waist to enhance the width of Reynold’s shoulders. The cravat lay in exquisite folds. Dressed as such, in blue velvet, with his hair tied in a neat queue, he knew how men of his predilection would react to his appearance. Christ, I look like a peacock. In truth, his body had changed from soft to hard and muscular, but a commission in the Americas did that to a man. His face had altered too, but not in a bad way. He had not suffered any serious injury during his time abroad, but the man with haunting eyes in his reflection had replaced the innocent expression of youth.

Although, relieved by the sale of his commission and consequent arrival in England, his thoughts were not on returning immediately to his country estate in Surrey. Rather, he had spent the last two days in his townhouse close to Hyde Park, not wanting to endure the immediate duties of lord of the manor.

Lord Reynold stepped from the shop and glanced down Oxford Street. Nothing of note had changed in London during his time abroad with exception of women’s fashion and the volume of carriages barreling along the dusty roads. He drew a deep breath to enjoy the scents of normality after enduring an eternity of stinking jacks and sweat. The smell of gunpowder and the unforgettable stench of a military camp had combined with horrors a man could never forget.

For three long years, Reynold had remained abroad. Christ, he had little choice. His role as master had become impossible after another very-public argument with David had threatened to expose them both. To avoid the scandalmongers and the chance of prosecution for the act of sodomy, he made the heart-wrenching decision to leave his lover.

Reynold stood for a few seconds to enjoy his surroundings. There had been a meager amount of birds brave enough to negotiate the noisy camps, and his heart lifted to see an abundance of sparrows feasting on a discarded crust of bread on the footpath. Above a blue sky peeked briefly through a profusion of white fluffy clouds. A stream of sunlight bathed a rose bush sitting in a large, yellow glazed pot beside the milliners next door. The rich perfume from the red blooms mixed with the pungent odor of horse dung squashed on the road. The hay infused clumps thrown in all directions by the constant stream of carriage wheels. Everything is so normal, as if no one knows a war of great proportions is looming.

Moving toward the curb, Reynold called out to his driver to take him to Charters, a gentlemen’s club in Vauxhall, and climbed into the carriage. He sighed, rested his head on the back of the seat, and closed his eyes. A familiar memory flooded his consciousness. The vision of a young man, exceptionally featured, with a soft gaze the color of a summer sky, hooded with long, tawny lashes. He groaned, recalling his sweet slave’s sated expression from hours of glorious sex. The young body so deliciously secured his skin damp and flushed from his master’s cane. David.

Buy Link: https://www.nobleromance.com/Authors/40/H-C-Brown

My web: www.hcbrown-author.com

Blog: www.hcbrownauthoroferoticromance.bligspot.com

Thank you H.C., having you here has been fun! Please feel free to come and hang out any time.

Noble Romance Author, Zee Monodee

Zee Monodee is here with me today,and I have to say I’m thrilled. She is a fellow author at Noble Romance, a fellow newbie, and a prolific and very talented writer.

Welcome to my page Zee! It’s so great to have you here today. Could you tell everyone who you are and what you’re all about?

Hi everyone! What can I say about me? Inveterate dreamer, shopaholic, undomestic goddess, compulsive writer, book lover… I’m 28 years old, married, mum to an 8-year-old going on 40, stepmum to a 12-year-old video game addict. Somehow, along the way, I acquired a bachelor’s degree in Communications Science, and since finishing my studies, my focus is completely on writing more books and meeting my readers online.
You can find out more about me online on Facebook, Twitter, & Goodreads (as Zee Monodee), and on my blog http://zeemonodee.blogspot.com/

When and why did you start writing? 
I started writing some 7 years ago. I always wanted to be a writer – loved inventing stories since I was little. But I never thought I would become a writer – corporate sounded more like the ‘sensible’ thing to do. Then a few things happened – I found I disliked the corporate world, then I got married and soon after, pregnant; left my job to bring my baby up, and shortly after, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I knew it was the moment for me to look my life squarely, to chart out my path. That’s when the dream of becoming a writer resurfaced – I started writing in between my cancer treatments, and haven’t looked back ever since.

Does listening to music have an influence on your writing? 
Actually listening to music when I’m writing? Not exactly. I often get ‘in the zone’ when I write, so I blank out any sounds and lose track of time.

But music helps me with the emotional drive for my plot and my characters – I always compile a soundtrack for every story, and sometimes, songs and their lyrics enable me to get a better grasp on the characters. For example, in CALLING HOME (A Destiny’s Child Book), my latest release from Noble Romance Publishing, the heroine, Margo, is a cold and rational woman who has closed off all access points to her heart. But then she meets Jamie, a handsome young village doctor who brings out the repressed woman in her. To know what Jamie did for Margo, I based myself on a song – Halo, by Beyonce. I knew that by the time I wrote ‘The End’, Margo should be in that spot where she could literally be telling Jamie everything that’s spelt out in the song’s lyrics. So this helped me with their love journey.
CALLING HOME is also a sweet romance, with more emphasis on the buildup of attraction and the development of the sensual tension between Margo and Jamie. For this one, I based myself on the song What would happen if we kissed? by Meredith Brooks. What would, indeed, happen if Jamie and Margo kissed? That tugged me along through another layer of the story.

Any favorite authors? Who inspired you when you were young? And now? 
I love those authors who give me a thrilling ride filled with 3D characters – these names come to mind: Susan Mallery, Victoria Dahl, Megan Hart, Susan Andersen, Robyn Carr, Jill Mansell, Sophie Kinsella, Philippa Gregory, Marian Keyes. I read across genres and am more into authors than specific titles.

An author who inspired me when I was young is Vikram Seth – it is further to reading his epic novel ‘A Suitable Boy’ that I was bitten by the writing bug, wanting to write my version of his culture-based fiction.

Today, I’m more in want of creating strong characters and complex characterization like Megan Hart does – whether in her erotica or her sci-fi books, the characterization is deep and complex, and that’s the kind of deal I want to offer my readers too.

Do you ever get stalled in the middle of a story? If so how do you get past it?  
Lol, do I ever! Basically, when I start a story, I know the start and the end. The middle is fuzzy, but generally, I have an idea what happens there. If I find I’m stumbling in the middle, I might try to bring some of my CPs on board and brainstorm my way out of the rut. Or if the ‘trouble’ is more dire, then I know there’s bound to be a problem with the path I took since the start – I’ll then go back and attempt to rewrite the start with a different slant, maybe tweak the protagonist’s characterization a bit, and see if that works.

Who has been your favorite character to write to date and why?  
She’s been one of my most complex characters, the hardest too, but as I got along with her, discovering her, I found I enjoyed writing her. Who is she? Her name is Rayne Cheltham, and she’s the heroine of book 2 of my Corpus Brides series, which is a romantic suspense storyline with an espionage slant, focused on the lives and loves of female agents inside a clandestine agency called the Corpus. Rayne is a secret agent, and an assassin. But no one in her entourage knows this, and when she decides to go back to civilian life, to get back with the man she never stopped loving – her childhood best friend – Rayne finds that sometimes, being on a clandestine mission to kill dangerous criminals might not be as treacherous as navigating inside the family fold.

To put Rayne, a super efficient agent, into such a ‘different’ setup for her, where she loses all her assurance and confidence, was fun, and little by little, I got to know the woman at the heart of her. Rayne surprised me with the depth of hurt and suffering she hid inside her, and that’s why she became my favorite.

Can you tell us what your experience has been like being a new author? 
It’s been amazing, and daunting as well! Amazing because I got to meet a lot of readers, tons of new people who’ve become friends now. The people at my publisher, Noble Romance Publishing – especially Jill Noble – have been fantastic and I really loved their support. I’ve also met some amazing authors and people – like you, Renee! – who’ve been awesome in their help and support.

But it’s daunting as well – everyday, I ask myself if what I’m doing is right (promo-wise), is it enough, could I do more? If yes, how? And the expectations ramp up too – I know I need to deliver even better work on my next book, and this can sometimes unsettle me when I’m in one of those ‘am I any good?’ funks.

Quick fire questions:
Favorite color:  Purple! Any shade of it
Satin or Lace:  Satin
Most attractive part of the body:  On a woman: eyes. On a man: shoulders.
Pantser or Plotter:  Plotter
Favorite place to write:  At my desk, in total quiet

Thanks so much for playing along with me today Zee! Before I let you go, could you tell everyone what projects you’re working on and maybe give us a taste of your latest release?

Of course, Renee! I just sent Book 2 of my Corpus Brides series, Before The Morning, to my editor, fingers crossed now that it gets accepted. Like I mentioned above, that story focuses on Rayne aka Kali, a clandestine agent and assassin. Love, and a special man, brings down her carefully-constructed façade – that’s when she knows she can no longer do what she does, that she needs to bow out. But, at what cost, and how does she hide her past? On top of it, someone from inside her agency doesn’t want her out of the game, unless it’s in a cremation urn!

I’m taking a break during the holiday season to be with my kids more, but come 2012, I’ll be back in my writing chair, to wrap up Book 2 of my Destiny’s Child series. This one is a sweet romance series, where fate brings a child into the life of two people who make an unlikely couple – the child will be the glue that binds them together and send them on the journey to find love, to create a family unit together.
Book 2, titled Glory Days, focuses on the reunion of teenage lovers nineteen years later, when they have to join hands to fight for custody of their granddaughter. The issue though – the hero never knew the heroine had his child, and today that girl died when giving birth to her own baby. Can they get over the secrets and the lies of omission?

As for my latest release, it’s CALLING HOME (A Destiny’s Child Book), which came out on December 5 with Noble Romance Publishing. The book is the story of Margo Nolan, a cold and rational forensic pathologist who focuses on her job to the point of excluding everything else in her life. Until the day fate rattles her cage, by dropping 11-year-old Emma into her existence! Margo is totally out of her depths, but that’s not the least of her problems – the minute she meets Jamie Gillespie, the handsome young village doctor, the woman she had buried deep inside her starts to fight to come out. But being a woman – or a mum – was never in Margo’s game plan; how will she cope? But maybe Jamie can help…
Here’s the official blurb:

Forensic pathologist Margo Nolan is described by colleagues as a cold, unemotional man hiding inside a woman’s body. Clinical and rational, the Ice Queen persona is only a facade to protect herself after she lost the only thing she ever longed for: Emma, the daughter she was raising as her own.

When tragedy strikes Emma’s life, Margo is the only one who can step in . . . to become the stand-in parent to the 11-year old! Clueless about children—especially tweens, family life, and anything that should involve her heart, Margo is at a loss.
But she need not worry: sexy and easygoing, and much younger, village doctor Jamie Gillespie is here to help the heart-thawing process.
You can find the book here: https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/369/Calling-Home

And here’s an excerpt:

Chapter One

Emotion is something foreign; cold, rational facts and proof drive everything. Brain over heart, always.

Every forensic pathologist knew his or her work boiled down to that line of conduct, and Margo Nolan lived her life by the principles of her job. Emotion used to be an unfamiliar concept most of the time, except for the rare occasions when the pain would tear through her, when she was unable to tamp the suffering into submission. Pain, the sharp, visceral, abject torture that gripped her every time she thought of Emma, during all those years she was away from the daughter of her heart. Lately, pain sliced through her every time her gaze landed on the pretty girl, fast blossoming into a beautiful young woman.

How many years we’ve lost . . . . If only I’d sought her out . . . .

But she couldn’t—shouldn’t—think of that then. No—there were more pressing matters at hand.

Margo’s feet slowed in the lobby that also served as Dr. Gillespie’s waiting room. He was the only doctor in the little village, Camberry, just outside London in the county of Surrey, where Emma, and lately Margo, too, lived. Like most country doctors, he operated his practice from his house. Emma had been sick at school that day, and had been sent to see him.

Under Margo’s stilettos, the wood planks of the big Victorian manor didn’t even creak or groan—strange, as old houses always had a telltale creak or two in the parquet. Or maybe her step remained light enough not to evoke any sound from the dark surface, worn smooth from years of foot traffic in that very lobby. No place echoed the click-clack of high heels louder than a morgue. Margo had learned how to keep her tread soft under any circumstance. Despite the high-gleam polish on the wood, her feet didn’t skid on the glossy surface as she glided, more than walked, across the boards. Whiffs of beeswax and lemon wood polish tickled her nostrils—a completely different scent from the usual sterile tang and formaldehyde-permeated atmosphere at the morgue.

Margo stopped at the doorway that led into the anteroom to the doctor’s office. Her gaze lingered on Emma, asleep on a high-backed, plush sofa. In slumber, the girl’s dainty features still showed the sweetness of childhood. So very much the likeness of the chubby-cheeked cherub with corkscrew, auburn curls Margo had had to leave seven years ago—

Don’t!

Today she was back with Emma, trying her damndest to bridge the gap between ages four and eleven, the time she hadn’t been there for the girl. Not by choice—

Stop!

Margo straightened when a dark, looming shadow crept up on the tween. All her senses shot on high alert; she bristled, and her hands closed into fists.

The man, tall and imposing in the semi-darkness, bent and placed a hand on Emma’s forehead.

Who on Earth is he? And why is he touching her?

“What do you think you’re doing?” Margo crossed the distance to stand between her daughter and the stranger. She shouldered him aside, before folding her body protectively over the top of the armchair.

Her gaze raked over him, taking in the faded, threadbare-at-the-knees jeans, the hint of a dark T-shirt under the baggy, slate-grey jumper with a hoodie that obscured his face.

Who is this hooligan? What’s he doing here? Emma’s grandmother had come to Camberry because the countryside appeared safer for a growing girl than bustling London. Nevertheless, here was some man, alone in a room with her daughter.

He gave a soft grunt. “Checking if her fever’s gone down.”

Yeah, right!

Margo drew closer to Emma, her protective instincts shooting sky-high. If anyone ever touched her daughter to harm her . . . . Finally, she understood how women murdered in cold blood when their children were hurt, how they showed no remorse afterward.

As she leaned over the prone girl, her gaze shot back to the man. She steeled her spine, tensed her arms and shoulders, and glared at him. Seasoned police officers knew not to mess with her when she stood like that, and criminals always thought twice before bullshitting her when she gave them the narrowed look. Let him try to take her on—he had another think coming if he believed he’d get away scot-free today. “And how’s that any of your concern?”

He sighed.

Sighed. She couldn’t stop her eyes from widening with surprise, before she frowned again.

Good grief! What have perverts come to, nowadays?

“As her physician, that’s my job, don’t you think?” His low voice flowed, smooth and composed, reminiscent of police officers trying to calm a hysterical victim.

Damn you. She frowned so hard, her forehead hurt. Margo blinked to ward off the shard of pain that lanced behind her left eye. Nice try. Who did he think he was?

“Where’s Dr. Gillespie?” she asked.

“I am Dr. Gillespie. And you are?”

She snorted, at the calm confidence and at the unashamed allegation. Which one won her contempt more? No way was he the “good ol’ doctor.” She had met the bear of a man with the soft voice and bedside manner a couple of weeks ago, when she came to settle here. Dr. Gordon Gillespie had looked a far cry from the lean, intense young man before her. The old man had also come out clear on the background check she had a police contact run on him, and on anyone else involved in Emma’s life here.

And to think the man here had fallen through a hole in her security net? No, she refused to contemplate that.

But, questions first; accusations later, when she had proof. The logic of her profession came like second nature to her.

“Stop the act. You are not he.” She threw a glance around the room. “Where’s Helen? Why is Emma alone here?”

“Helen just left for home. It was past time she made it back to her own children.”

His tone conveyed cold reproach. Margo bristled. She was late, she knew it. But she’d been detained by a string of autopsies today. And no one had bothered to tell her Emma had been hurt during football practise. The lab staff had ascribed Helen’s call to a prankster—Dr. Nolan had no life, let alone a daughter.

“You are Ms. Milburn, I presume.”

“Nolan. Dr. Nolan.” She corrected him by reflex—no one addressed her by any other name.

Did his jaw tense? He moved, and the hooded cap slid off his head, to reveal his sharp, angular features and messy dark hair, no longer shadowing the dark brown depths of his deep-set eyes.

Dangerous. The rational whisper danced inside her head.

“Who the hell are you?” Tingles of awareness and peril skittered up her spine, like the time when she was on a crime location, and the killer managed to sneak up behind her. Trusting her gut that day—those shivers—kept her alive, when she didn’t hesitate to look like a chicken, and called the chief inspector into the room with her.

The moment here was one such instance too, urging her to call for backup. She felt her hand itch, where it lay against her trouser pocket. All she needed to do was grab her cell phone and call all her acquaintances in the police—in short, the whole London Metropolitan force.

“I told you. I am Dr. Gillespie, the one treating your daughter for that bad tackle.”

She snorted. “I have met the man.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed. “You met my uncle. He’s away, and I’m filling in for him.”

“Oh.” His explanation killed the wind in her sails. Some of the pent-up tension left her body, and she winced at the weary ache that settled in her stiff muscles. Looking him over, she knew he didn’t lie. Nothing in his body language betrayed him, and his eyes didn’t dart left or right when he spoke to her, focused directly on her face. She’d watched enough interrogations to pick up body language cues.

Still not a hundred percent convinced, she squinted, and hoped the harsh planes of his face, the pointed chin and nose, and shaggy dark locks, would clue her in about him. After a moment, when she realized she rudely stared, she gave up. Corpses clued her in on their deaths—and lives—while living beings were almost an alien race.

He wasn’t lying, that was a given. Her suspicions allayed a little, and she relaxed her shoulders, before drawing to her full height to stand straight.

So he is the doctor. Margo stroked a wayward dark curl from Emma’s forehead. “She isn’t running a fever.”

He crossed his arms, strong hands coming to rest on his jumper sleeves. Tension left him, too, and his body slackened into a casual pose. He rested one hip against the side of the high-backed sofa. “Not anymore. Seems she fell and grazed her shin yesterday. Left untreated, the wound got infected.”

Oh, Em. Why didn’t you say anything?

Because Margo wasn’t around—that’s why.

Margo hung her head. She was on call 24/7. Men thrived in her line of work. Women, not so much. The demands on the pathologist’s private life were all consuming. There existed no place to fit a child or a semblance of family life. What would she do with a daughter?

Three weeks ago, she received the call that had changed her life. Ednah Milburn, Emma’s maternal grandmother, was dying, and Margo was the next in line to become Emma’s guardian. What happened to Cora?—Emma’s mother and Margo’s estranged best friend—she had asked . . . only to be informed that Cora had died five years earlier. Margo was not prepared for the next revelation, either—that Cora had named Margo as Emma’s guardian, were anything to happen to her. But Emma’s grandmother, Ednah, had concealed the will, and taken the little girl in, leaving Cambridge to start a new life in Camberry, Surrey, where no one knew them. The lawyer brought Margo up to speed on the phone. Ednah had suffered a stroke and wouldn’t survive beyond the next forty-eight hours.

Margo had rushed to the hospital, for the first time in her life leaving an autopsy halfway through, to find her baby girl, grown into a tall, beautiful, auburn-haired tween. Emma had taken one look at her in that sterile hospital corridor, and rushed into her arms.

They hadn’t looked back . . . . But, right then, Margo knew she hadn’t looked forward, either. How would she accommodate a child in her life? The sleeping girl before her needed a mother . . . .

Emma whimpered. Margo shushed her with a soothing caress on her forehead. Nothing should distress her little girl.

“Mummy.”

The word was soft, groggy, full of trust and the conviction that “mummy” would make everything all right.

“I’m here, luv.” The phrase barely made it past the lump in Margo’s throat. Mummy had been Emma’s first word, spoken to her, and not to Cora, Emma’s birth mother. Cora, who had gallivanted around like a flitting butterfly, content to leave her baby girl in Margo’s care at home, in the tiny flat they shared near the Cambridge university campus. Between studying for her many exams and looking after Emma, Margo’s life was complete. And she also had Harry in her world—

Don’t think of Harry.

She forced her mind to return to the present.

Even after all these years, Emma still thought of her as her “other Mum”. Should she be grateful and embrace the title, or be scared out of her wits at the terrible job she’d most certainly do as a mother? She recalled how panicked she’d been at Emma’s first bout with colic, at three months. Cora wasn’t home again, and Margo had rushed the baby to Casualty at two a.m., only to be told that first-time mums had a right to panic but that she had nothing to worry about, colic being a standard baby ailment.

“Ms. Nolan?”

Margo tore her misting eyes from the tween and blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“She’ll be okay.”

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “Yes, she will.”

She’d make sure of that. Seven years ago, Emma had been torn from her care, and from her world. Fate had given her another chance, one she wouldn’t relinquish without a fight.

Margo took a deep breath, her gaze going from the doctor to Emma and back again. “What do we do from here on?”

He straightened to his full height and uncrossed his arms; he let them fall to his sides. From her position on the arm of the sofa, she had to crane her neck to look at him. Easily six-four tall, with wide shoulders in perfect proportion to his big stature.

Margo’s mouth went dry and she gulped. He surely was a man who had a daunting physical presence. The skitters of unease flittered over her spine again, and she wondered who would come to save her from him.

Get a grip!

“Come to the desk. Emma will be fine for a few minutes.”

With reluctance, Margo peeled her arms from where they were propped on the armchair’s back.

Be on your guard, her brain screamed.

“I’m Jamie Gillespie. We haven’t been properly introduced.” He stood on the other side of the wide oak table, and didn’t extend his hand.

She hitched her arms to her sides and nodded. “Margo Nolan.”

At the desk, she settled into a chair opposite him. “How is she faring? I mean, really. Please don’t hide anything from me.”

If he heard the worry and panic in her voice, she didn’t care. They were talking about Emma, about her little girl.

“Not too bad. Just, like I told you, the wound on her leg got infected. She developed a fever, and a dizzy spell on the pitch meant she fell and twisted her ankle.”

“But, she’ll be okay?” Never mind that she was herself a medical doctor. Facts and logic had left, to create a wide berth for emotion to play havoc with her mind.

Jamie chuckled. “No need to be so worried. She’ll be good as new in a few days. The fever’s come down but . . . .” He paused. “You didn’t notice she had a high temperature this morning?”

Margo glanced away from his intent eyes, then returned her gaze to his face. Cursed be the good manners her mother had instilled in her, namely, to always look squarely at a person when addressing him. “I wasn’t with her today. I had to stay overnight at work.”

He clenched his jaw; his nostrils flared slightly.

He probably thought she was one of these career-minded mothers whose only claim to motherhood was to carry a child in her womb for nine months.

And that was not even applicable to her.

“Listen,” she said, then thought better of trying to explain the technicalities of her incompetent, so far, journey into parenthood. Why did she care what he thought of her as a mother? “Can I take her home?”

His thick brows furrowed. “Yes. Just make sure the fever doesn’t come back; five hundred milligrams of paracetamol every four to six hours should do the trick. I’ll see her again for the sprain in two days. If there’s anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Will do.” Margo stood. Her gaze fell on the sleeping Emma. How would she get her home?

Paracetamol and painkillers had probably knocked the girl out.

“Is your car outside?” Jamie asked.

She nodded. “I parked in front of the porch.”

“I’ll carry her, if you want.”

She acquiesced with a nod and a sigh of relief, grateful for his help. Emma wasn’t a big girl; still, the tween’s weight wouldn’t be easy for her to manage all the way into the car. Doing autopsies day in, day out didn’t build strong arm muscles.

Jamie scooped Emma up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a feather pillow.

Men. She shook her head. Nature blessed them with physical strength. Many abused that God-given privilege too, as she saw too often in her line of work.

Margo followed in the doctor’s footsteps as he delicately carried Emma out, then settled the sleeping girl into the back seat of her Audi Q5. He clicked her seat belt into place just as Margo reached in from the other side of the car to take over the task.

Their shoulders bumped and their heads came up at the same time. Mere inches separated them, and Margo made the mistake of looking into his face.

Bathed in the soft radiance of the porch lamp that spilled in through the back windshield, his features were an arresting play of light and shadows. Suddenly seeing him so up close that she could make out the errant eyelash that had fallen on his cheekbone, she froze. Her outer shell remained immobile, while inside, a storm of uncalled-for heat and yearning warred for possession of her brain and senses.

That’s a living, breathing man—a handsome, sexy creature in his own right. The red-hot memo wanted to sizzle its way all through her, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow it.

Jamie Gillespie was definitely a hunk, and at first glance, not a day over thirty.

Latching onto him would be like cradle robbing. She was way over the big three-o, a few years shy of forty. She dreaded that prospect more than turning thirty, because with forty came peri-menopause; with it, hot flashes, followed by menopause, when many women went mental. Because she faced a dwindling biological clock with every year that passed, the minute she saw a man as desirable, she immediately viewed him as a baby-making machine, even though that had been less and less important over the last few years.

To see Jamie as sexy meant she could clearly picture herself making babies with him. A hot flash crept up her cheeks and stung her skin. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—picture him as anything but the local doctor. Men younger than thirty had a raging libido—Stop it!

She was further gone than she’d thought. Sex was not a possibility right then, especially not with Emma in her life. She had her child; the biological clock could go to hell in a hand basket. Let another pregnancy-craving young woman sink her teeth into the handsome Jamie.

But if she could sink her teeth into the flesh of his butt cheeks, run her tongue over the ridges of what she was sure were rock-hard pecs and abs—

Margo pinched herself hard and stifled the yelp of pain that tore her from her X-rated fantasies. A younger man was so not right for her . . . .

In the closed confines of the car interior, she blinked, and the fierce flutter of her eyelids shattered the paralysis that held her body prisoner. She moved and her hand brushed against his sleeve.

Soft, warm, yielding. Fine merino lamb’s wool—that was no punk-grunge clothing.

All the more perilous.

“Thank you.” She mumbled the words, and wondered if anything but a garbled sound came out of her mouth. Then she ducked out of the car before he could reply.

She slid into the driver’s seat and waited, without looking back, for him to close the passenger door. Once she heard the soft thump, Margo hightailed out of there, as if the hounds of hell pursued her.

In a way, they were. These hounds were those of desire and longing, to Margo, the most terrifying of all.

* * End of excerpt * *

The other story I have out is Book One of the Corpus Brides: Walking The Edge, a romantic suspense with a female-centric, espionage slant.

Here’s the blurb:

The next step might be the last…

A woman without a past

Left amnesiac after an accident, Amelia Jamison struggles as her instincts slowly rise from the depths of oblivion, leading her to question her life as the wife of a cold, manipulating and distant man. Wisps of a dream show her another man she may have known intimately, but is he a memory, or a figment of her imagination?

A man with too much information

After many aliases, today Gerard Besson is simply a police commissaire in Marseille. When a mysterious woman starts to follow him, he is suspicious – and intrigued. But things aren’t what they seem, and as he reluctantly gets closer to her, dregs of his painful, buried past emerge and make him question her identity.

Each seems to have led several different lives

But neither is prepared for what awaits them when they cross the fine line between knowing your true self and that of your alter ego.

Danger is the name of the game, and as it catches up with them in the French Provence, both know they better be ready for the inevitable fall.

You can find the book online here, at the total steal deal price of $1.99! https://www.nobleromance.com/Books/304/Walking-the-Edge

And here’s an excerpt from the book:

Chapter One

London. Oxford Street

Thursday, December13, 1:24 p.m.

There’s a man following me again.

She didn’t know why she felt so certain. Selfridges teemed with shoppers in a Christmas buying frenzy, and bustling crowds swarmed around her.

Someone was watching her though. She knew. Maybe she tuned in to the hairs rising on her nape. Or to the little voice whispering in her mind, telling her there were eyes boring into her back and checking into her every move.

Was she going insane? The question snapped into her brain like a tightly pulled elastic band being released, stinging her when it hit home.

Come on, she told herself, I’m in a busy department store, and there’s an idiot tagging my every step.

Her gaze darted to Nathaniel, the hulk of a guy who was her assigned chauffeur and man for all tasks, it seemed. Or, he could just be the watchdog her husband had set on her trail.

No, she wouldn’t think of the big doggie and that other cold arsehole who waited for her at home. Peter Jamison was his name, the sad arse whom she didn’t even know, whom she couldn’t even recall, try as she might.

She toyed with the strap of a handbag on display in front of her, having no idea what brand it was or even what shop she was in. There were more important things to pay attention to right now, starting with the strange man who was a few paces away, across the corridor from where she stood. He seemed familiar. He was dressed in dark corduroy trousers and a heavy sweater; a baseball cap hid his hair and threw shadows upon his face. There wasn’t anything specific to identify him. Yet she knew, deep down inside, that she had seen him before. Had it been just a day earlier, at an art gallery she’d visited in Soho, when she’d experienced the same heartbeat acceleration as now? She’d sensed eyes on her then too and had caught sight of a tall man in jeans, a blazer, and a fedora, standing outside the wide glass panes, looking into the gallery.

The two instances weren’t the only times she’d felt the probing stare—that strange, unnerving perception had happened almost every day in the past week, whenever she went out.

And, somehow, she was pretty certain it was the same man every time. There was something about him, in the way he held his head, a slight thrust of the chin that permeated every encounter she recalled of the mysterious “stalker.”

Who was he, and what did he want with her?

A soft gasp escaped her, and she realized she was twisting the handbag strap too hard, both hands locked onto the leather. She released the purse as if it were a hot potato fresh out of the steamer and took a step back.

Could that man know who she was?

Her gaze travelled up the clear glass of the pane that separated the shop from the main corridor that ran through the first level of Selfridges, her reflection staring back at her.

Her reflection or that of Amelia Jamison?

That’s who she was, apparently. She had no recollection of her identity. She’d come out of a dramatic accident some seven months back with amnesia and with—as her medical record stated—a disfigured and burnt-beyond-recognition body.

Lord only knew how she had survived the explosion responsible for her condition. That’s what all the doctors said, and what her “husband” had said too. He’d been there in the sunny hospital room of a private clinic in Switzerland, dark and with a countenance one could only describe as menacing, even when he lounged on a sofa, reading a financial magazine.

“You’re awake,” he’d said in a cold, detached voice. Not even the hint of a smile showed on his pale face. Despite her drug-befuddled mind, she was certain a real husband would greet his wife, whom he’d nearly lost, with more enthusiasm than what Peter had dished.

He went on to tell her he was Peter Jamison, and she was Amelia Brockhurst Jamison, a South African Afrikaner exchange student he had met at a London university and whom he had married when she’d finished her degree. At the time, she’d thought his story sounded rehearsed, and the feeling that their shared past was a fabricated lie struck her, enhanced by the indifference her “husband” expressed toward her. She didn’t remember him or anything from her past and had simply listened to whatever the medical team and that man she was supposedly in love with had fed her about her life before everything was erased from her memory.

Yet, something was wrong with their story—a burn victim from the kind of accident she’d had would need more than a year to recover. But here she was, functioning normally and looking like a perfect, magazine cover girl a scant few months later.

Peter’s explanation, delivered in a bored, why-am-I-bothering tone, was that she’d had experimental treatment at the clinic. Bollocks, she’d wanted to scream.

Some things didn’t mesh, and darned if she wouldn’t try to find out what parts of the puzzle didn’t fit into the whole picture.

Her gaze, lost in the distance while she replayed the scenes of her waking up, focused again on her reflection, the woman staring back at her a stranger. The doctors said she’d had plastic surgery to bring her back to her former likeness; then why did she feel no kinship with the person she met every time she looked in a mirror?

Amelia Jamison, the woman who stared back at her, was a beauty. Delicate features that resembled the work of a master sculptor graced her face. Perfect cheekbones. Smooth, flawless skin. Crystal-clear blue eyes with extremely thick, dark lashes. Wide, full mouth. Dainty nose. Short, honey-toned hair.

Her hair had been long before, if she were to believe the pictures Peter so artfully placed in the Hampstead Heath home she’d come to live in two weeks ago, after leaving the Swiss clinic. Pictures of Amelia and Peter on their wedding day, on a trip to a winter ski station, on a tropical beach with a glowing sunset behind them, snuggled on a comfy-looking couch with a fire blazing in the background, and so on. And then there were photos of Amelia alone, smiling at the camera. Pictures in the same kind of elegant, gilt-edged frames that were arranged in tasteful, classy displays around the leather handbags and silk scarves sold in the shop.

Shaking off the weird, disturbing feeling that a trip down her nonexistent Memory Lane always brought on, she turned her attention back to the source of her unease. The man in the corduroy trousers.

There he was, a few yards away, intently perusing an artful party-table arrangement. Yet she was pretty sure a man like him—who appeared too much in control of a ruthless energy and vigilance, evident in his stiff back and the casual looks he sent her way—would not really have much to do with Disney princess decorations, the theme of the exhibition.

Unless he was watching her in the reflection of the big, Snow White, magical mirror on the table.

What did he want with her?

Suddenly, the corridor cleared, leaving no one between them.

“Ma’am?”

A shadow fell over her, and she sighed when the imposing figure of Nathaniel settled in front of her.

“What?” she snapped, annoyed that he had intervened just before she made eye contact with the tall stranger.

“Time,” Nathaniel growled. “Home.”

Did the man ever talk in a full sentence? Sometimes she wondered if he even had a functioning brain inside that huge, shaved skull of his. Why had Peter saddled her with such a thick idiot?

Stepping around him, she tried to catch sight of the man in the corduroys, but he was nowhere in sight. Just her luck. “Let’s go,” she said to the gorilla beside her as she moved toward the exit.

Some way, somehow, she would figure out if there truly was someone following her. She could be going to Bedlam, yes, but something was on high alert inside her, and, though she had no idea what that something was, she would give it due consideration and follow through.

* * * * *

London. Hampstead Heath

Thursday, December13, 2:15 p.m.

The minute she got home, she headed straight to her bedroom. Home. She snorted. More like a mausoleum, really. The humongous manor looked like an impersonal hotel or a perfect reproduction of a page torn from an interior decor magazine. It certainly didn’t look like a home to her. She was ready to puke every time her gaze landed on the huge, crystal chandelier, massive moldings along the ceiling, the champagne-colored, silk-finish wallpaper, thick cream carpet, and ornate marble table with a disgustingly ostentatious arrangement of white lilies in the middle of the entrance hallway.

Peter said she’d handpicked the split-level mansion from all the outstanding offers in that posh area of North London. She’d wanted to reply that she’d needed to have her head checked a long time ago if that were the case, since no one in their right mind would desire such a dead shell of a house, however luxurious. But what did she know? Maybe the woman she’d been before had been a total snob who thrived on keeping up with the Abramoviches.

Though she heavily doubted she could’ve been such a stuck-up cow, if that were so, thank goodness she had amnesia.

There was a reason why she flew straight to the bedroom and its adjoining bathroom the minute she stepped into the cold dwelling. She wanted to get to the pills she had to take—pills scheduled like clockwork every six hours, and the reason why Nathaniel had said they needed to get back before Peter came home. That way, she could ditch them down the drain while Nathaniel struggled to get in with the mountain of shopping bags she’d piled on him back at Selfridges; thus, she could escape the drugs’ heavy, losing-control-sedation.

As her hands closed on the vials in the medicine cabinet, she froze. The plastic tubes rolled with a clatter of shaking pills into the sunken marble sink.

Someone was there. Oh, no. Peter. Her breath hitched in her throat as she sensed more than heard his approach, his Italian loafers making no sound on the bedroom carpet, then on the polished floor tiles of the en-suite. The closer he got, the more she recoiled and cringed, dreading the feel of his cold fingers should they touch her.

He dipped his head so his mouth would be level with her ear, and the whisper of his breath maliciously teased her skin.

“Good girl,” he said softly.

She heard the hint of mockery in his tone, a chilling reminder that he was the one who called the shots around the house. Gone was the distant, detached man who had been by her side at the hospital. In his place was a manipulating monster who took pleasure in making her jump out of her skin.

Against her will, her body shook with subtle tremors. The one vial of medicine still in her palm rattled with a nerve-wracking sound as the pills inside danced from the involuntary movement.

Peter brought his cold hand to settle onto hers and rubbed his long fingers along her wrist. She wanted to shrink back from the slime-like touch, but she couldn’t move. He’d do to her what she didn’t want him to do—he’d make her take the drugs.

She watched, misery threading an icy path down her spine and into her soul, as he reached for the small bottles.

“Seems like you need to rest, Millie,” he said.

His voice was like a thousand shards of sharp crystal, stabbing into her gut and at her pounding heart. He carefully took one pill from each of the white vials, and two from the pink one, before he cradled her hand in his and placed the little spheres in her palm.

After putting the medicine bottles back in the cabinet, he swung the door closed. The mirror on the panel reflected their images. She stifled a gasp when the visual realization that he stood so close drove home. He was a devastatingly handsome man, tall, with pale skin as flawless as the most precious Italian marble. His eyes were deep green, and locks of his expertly cut dark hair—the shade as intense as gleaming mahogany—brushed his wide forehead, which tapered down to an otherwise lean face.

She glossed over his visual perfection to examine her own reflection. What she noticed was the fact that, for all the racing heartbeat and thundering blood pounding in her veins and at her temples, her face betrayed no hint of the fear and dread inside her. No, she appeared detached, regal, as if she didn’t give a damn.

Peter filled a glass at the tap and placed it in her other hand. His stare caught hers in the mirror, and she shook inwardly at the empty hollowness of his soul that darkened his bottle-green irises.

Drink, they seemed to order, a barely concealed command obvious in the penetrating gaze.

No, she wanted to scream, but something else took over. Defiant, she threw the pills into her mouth and swallowed them with a big gulp of water.

Satisfied? Her blue eyes insolently asked as she stared back.

He smiled. Only the corners of his mouth stretched, his eyes remaining hard, emerald stones in the smooth, chiseled perfection of his otherwise expressionless face.

She shivered—at his calm, detached demeanor, or at the drugs hitting her bloodstream with no food as a buffer in her empty stomach? She didn’t know anymore. The stuff he plied her with was potent, and it could knock her out in a matter of minutes. Already, she felt groggy, wisps of oblivion snaking through her consciousness and laying siege upon her mind, intent on numbing any functioning neuron in her system so that the abyss could consume her.

She felt Peter’s hand on her elbow, the chill of his touch permeating the fabric of her cashmere cardigan. He made her turn around, his grasp firm as he led her, stumbling steps and all, into the adjoining room.

As her blurred vision made out the silhouette of the king-size canopy bed, the last thing she clearly recalled before darkness claimed her was someone pushing her forward with all their might.

** End of excerpt **