Saturday, February 24, 2018

#EggcerptExchange #eroticromance Want a #hotread? Visit for excerpts from the Black Dragon series by @anitaphilmar


Are you ready for a special anthology from Amazon Best Selling erotic author Anita Philmar? I read and loved Black Dragon's Blood and highly recommend Philmar's tantalizing tales. 


Blurb from Black Dragon's Blood:
Amanda Spencer is a woman haunted by her first husband’s murder and determined to find his killer. After two marriages, she doesn’t believe there is a man that can give her what she truly wants a child. 

William VanHorn is a determine politician that has black Dragon’s blood running through his body. With strong desires, he finds the perfect mate in Amanda. Yet the political unrest of the Dragon blood sector of the population is driving him to search for answers to the declining birth rate of the group. As leader of the Dragon Center, he wants answers and Amanda holds the keys to everything he needs. 

Excerpt

The predator’s scent hung in the air, a direct contrast to carefree party going on. The tart citric aroma mixed with the spicy heat of Habanero peppers trapped her as effectively as shackles tightened about her limbs.

She had no doubt about his hunger. Raw and greedy, a strong sexual appetite made this man prowl, drove him to search for the right mate.

The same cravings ran through her dragon blood, ruled her thoughts and fought with her intellectual side. The hunger to have a man had plagued her since she reached puberty. But as the female of the species, she’d learned to hide it beneath a fey veil of decorum and graceful avoidance.

Her tongue ran over her lips. The tart flavor of him floated on the twilight breeze and tickled her taste buds. Her body responded with an excitement that alerted every cell to his proximity and to the hot desire to have him as her mate.



Or read more of the whole series


Now for  Free
Sample of Black Dragon's Series

Meet Anita Philmar--
Amazon Best Selling sizzling hot romance author, Anita Philmar enjoys writing stories that push the limit and take her readers to new exciting places.

In a house full of men, she has learned the inner working of both boy's and men's minds which has enriched her stories.

Having grown up in Texas. she's a big fan of cowboys. She couldn't help but write westerns set in her home state. Hot, historical, or erotic fantasies, she lights up the pages with sizzling sex scenes. Check out her free read - Hot Prairie Nights for a glimpse into Anita's world.

She also enjoys connecting with her readers. Feel free to email her at anitaphilmar@yahoo.com or visit her website www.anitaphilmar.com

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

#BookQW word is TAKE, and the lawyer hero's detective will TAKE his just sprung client shopping. #Tirgearr #RomanticSuspense

Today's Book Quote Wednesday word is TAKE. Below is an excerpt from Unholy Alliance. The detective who works for the lawyer hero will take his client shopping.


Chapter One



“Don’t let the anxiety of freedom consume you.”

Attorney Grady Donahue Fletcher clenched his teeth and rehearsed what he’d say to his client, Victoria Morningstar. He’d won her appeal and drove to pick her up at Gladstone Penitentiary. “At least you won’t be placed in solitary.” That was worse.

Six months earlier Grady had phoned a reporter at the Los Angeles Globe. "Drew Barker. Grady Fletcher here.”

“Ah, the lawyer. Calling about a tip?”

“I am. Here's something you can investigate. Tori Morningstar, did she murder Irene Brennan?"

"I wrote that story many years back," the journalist had said. “I assume you have new discoveries.”

"Fraud, illegal testimony.  Do you want the story first?" A second passed. "Otherwise, I'll call the Orange County Guardian."

"Okay, okay. We want it."

Three days later Grady had a hand in writing the first article in Drew Barker’s column. "The public labeled Tori Morningstar as an undesirable. Not black and poor, but disfavored, accused, incarcerated, and wrongly condemned. Her cellphone has been recovered. Her call to 911 identified her voice and substantiated screams of the victim in the background. Could she have beaten someone while speaking to dispatch at the same time?"

The reporter had written the second article. "People who get their ideas about criminal lawyers from TV probably would be disappointed in Grady Fletcher. He lacks flash but stands up straight, his posture neither ramrod nor slouched.  He doesn't smoke, doesn't wear thousand dollar suits.  His voice is soft and low, one of his assets. He speaks truth with a voice inviting confidences."

As nice as that was, Grady’s stomach cramped over pressure and strain from Drew Barker’s final article with the headline, Tori Morningstar, Released Today.  Picked up by the online service, Newser, KTLA and CBS Los Angeles, they planned to broadcast his arrival to escort his client from Gladstone.  

Tori’s decade-long prison sentence ended today but with a sobering fear over tomorrow.

When was a July morning this hot? Grady balanced her release papers on his lap as he rolled up one sleeve then the other while gripping the damp steering wheel. Sweat blossomed on his throbbing forehead, wrapped like a python[S-E1] ’s grip. He adjusted the dial for the AC and embraced the challenge of helping another client get back on track. Embrace and conquer. Or at least sound like it.

Grady didn’t necessarily believe in heaven, but suppose such a place existed and he was eligible for entry when his time came? He expected it’d look like a courtroom where he won appeals for deserving people.

The mobster’s daughter, Tori Rourke, took Morningstar as her surname. She’d run from the Irish mob but couldn’t hide. With no patience for those who leave its ranks, the mob had framed her. She’d spent a decade at Gladstone.

His most recent client, Tyrone Marquis, black and poor, worked at a poultry plant where he’d plucked, hacked, and processed thousands of chickens. Marquis had written a bad check and committed a petty theft. The court had handed him a twenty-year prison sentence. When Grady believed in the falsely accused or excessively sentenced, he fought hard from a deep pit. He won this man’s appeal.

Poor and black did not describe Tori, born into an Irish crime family, but in essence, she was marginalized and excluded too. Society detests any mobster association.

His cousin, Finbar Donahue, managed the trust accounts for the Rourke offspring. In spite of Finn’s hostile relationship with the mob, he’d followed Tori’s murder trial.

Finn had guilted Grady into appealing her case. “She’s a fringe relative. Okay. Not by blood, but come on.” Finn’s words landed like punches, sapped his resistance.

The closer he got to the maximum-security complex, the more his heart pounded with blood pressure exploding like a grenade. Thump, thump. How safe will she be when freed? He scrambled for his game face.

He turned off Highway 5 and onto the stark, industrial City Drive of Orange, California. Sunlight reflected off a homeless man’s shopping cart and the broken glass in the gutter. A jaywalker lunged across the street. Grady swung the steering wheel to miss him, tires squealing over the concrete. Ahead at the red stoplight, three kids, about the age of his son, crossed the street on their way to school. They jabbered in Spanish but giggled just like his son. A sharp-edged thought boiled up.

Grady’s rancorous custody battle continued post-divorce, and he’d relocated to be closer to seven-year-old Shane. How long would his job-hopping ex-wife stay in Long Beach? He stuffed a wishful dream to coach soccer into the caverns of his mind.

Ahead, a sign marked the penitentiary run by the most hard-hearted Godzillas of the human race. A shrill hiss grew to an ear-piercing whistle. At its command, prisoners rose at sunrise and appeared at their cell doors. Doors opened, and they stood on the threshold. “Right face.” All wheeled to the right. “March!” Without energy, the inmates zombied along for two hours of labor before breakfast. They made license plates, jeans, jackets, T-shirts, and hats. They worked in the laundry room, kitchen, or in the sewing room where they cut, basted, and stitched.

Color televisions, said to be available for viewing by those who earned the privilege, amounted to one set per eighty offenders. In the dayroom, they watched a nine-inch screen while seated on metal benches bolted to the floor. Correctional officers held remote controls and flipped through basic networks, sports, and educational channels. From there prisoners marched to dinner, out in the yard, and then back to cramped stone cells.

On the bright side, according to his cousin Finn, Tori took college classes. She’d spent her college years in prison but earned a degree in restaurant management and planned to run a food truck.

Ahead, the Gladstone brooded on its hill. Beige stucco rectangles, complete with a tower, perched on the banks of the dry Santa Ana River bed. The penitentiary’s ten acres housed three and a half thousand inmates. He passed a complex for foster children. A knot formed in his stomach over its unfortunate location and similar architecture.

Grady’s experience with appeals was going on two years, and the details of each stood sharp in his mind. Nothing blurred into another. He slowed and checked his wristwatch. Nine o’clock, but a half hour early wasn’t early enough to beat the crowd. He tried to steady his shaking hands as he passed parked cars lining the curb. He looped twice before finding a space big enough. In another time, a throng of citizens would have suggested a terrible event such as the impending execution of a criminal or public whipping. Thanks to news media, this sympathetic crowd celebrated release of a woman who’d served a sentence for a crime she didn’t commit.

Grady stepped out of his Jeep, smoothed down his grey-striped tie and adjusted the cuffs of his white shirt. He let out a breath, spotted Drew Barker of the Los Angeles Globe, and waved to the reporter who was instrumental in sharing his discoveries of fraud and illegal testimony. Other reporters and cameramen shifted and rolled like an ocean of tipsy goodwill. Grady scanned over the waves for Tori Morningstar.

She stood stiff at the high security entrance and hugged a leather moto jacket wrapped over crossed arms. Dressed in her pre-incarceration style, her defined muscles created a perfect fit for her silk blouse, In prison she worked the heavy bag, labored hard so that she could protect herself in the yard.

Grady slipped papers into the hands of a guard. “Good morning, sir,” he said without another word, signed his clipboard, and rushed to her side. “Tori. It’s okay to speak to reporters.” The whoop-whoop of a hovering helicopter drew attention, and cameramen angled their equipment upward.

Beside him she swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “These reporters helped. I’ll answer questions, but the publicity worries me.” She froze where she stood, aware of the potential dangers ahead.

“I know.” Their gazes collided. Her eyes resembled honey-brown gems. Fine cheekbones, a firm chin, and a mouth he found disturbingly inviting. In the sunlight, her dark hair glowed chestnut. She’d skinned her hair back from her face so tightly, it had to hurt.

Drew Barker pushed his way in front of the others. “Victoria Morningstar.” The reporter in his sixties, with a round, open face and wide eyes lent an expression of constant surprise. “Can you tell us what happened the night you were arrested?” He held a microphone close to her face.

“Go ahead. Talk to him, Tori,” Grady whispered.

She stood like a brittle statue. . "My cousin and I were having dinner on the Long Beach waterfront. Rhubarb and Ginger, we went there a lot. Seamus McGinn and Timothy Noonan must have tailed us. They’re from Cobh, County Cork." Her words came out in a robotic rush.

“That’s in Ireland.” Grady chuckled for the camera. "For once Ireland was lucky. Lucky to be rid of them,” He took her ice-cold hand and stepped around Barker, a reporter familiar with McGinn’s government-agro kidnappings. Recovered victims had broken collarbones, fractured limbs, cigarette burns, stab wounds, shattered eye sockets and facial bones, accomplished with a blunt instrument. Casualties had been alive at the time of beatings, with foreign objects jammed down throats. Teeth were found in their stomachs.

“Excuse me.” Another reporter, a tall woman from the Long Beach Beacon, swarmed down on Tori. "So you saw McGinn and Noonan?"

"Correct," Tori lifted her chin, her vibrant eyes filling with the raw memory. “A half-dozen more stormed in. Carried automatics, ripped through the place. Found the owner, Irene Brennan. Dragged her out."

"The owner refused to pay them for protection,” Barker chimed.

Tori nodded, rubbed her forehead. “Same old deal, a mob upping the ante.”

And then what?" The earnest reporter from the Beacon leaned forward.

"My cousin Viv ran out the back. I was arrested."

“Make room, everybody.” Grady headed for his car, dragging Tori behind him.

Tori shuffled in slow, measured movements as if shackled.

“One last question, Tori,” Barker called from behind. “You tried to leave the mob. What did they want you to do?"

Tori turned halfway around. "Act as a lure. I refused." She shrugged. “I paid for that decision.”

The woman reporter elbowed Parker out of the way. “Tori. Your lawyer, Daniel McMahon. Didn’t he serve as the mob's lawyer?”

Tori nodded. “Just great for me,” She paused for a few seconds. “I didn’t anticipate a setup.”

The reporter touched her arm. “You’re a fighter. How will you bounce back?”

Tori looked up, her face bleached of color. “I’ll try to accomplish small things. This will help. Little by little, I’ll let go of fear.”

“We’ve got to go, folks.” Grady reached to shake hands with several surrounding him.

Barker popped his thick eyebrows up. “Glad things worked out.”

“Thank you for following the case.” Grady placed a hand on Tori’s trembling back and walked her to the passenger side of his Jeep.

She halted mid-motion. “Where to?”

He stared into her questioning eyes. “I’ll drop you at your apartment. From there, my assistant will come by.” Grady’s cousin Finn had rented a studio for her at the Marriott Residence Inn and paid the rent with her ample trust fund. “You’ll be on the top floor. The apartment overlooks the Queen Mary.”

“Sweet.” Tori placed a hand over her heart. “You, Finn, and Amy. You are so kind.” She squared her shoulders.

“If you have any questions,” he said, “ring my associate.” He handed her his private investigator’s business card. “Later you’ll meet Maeve McGuire.” He opened the passenger door of his Jeep and waited.

She stared at the card. “Oh, yes. Maeve. She found my cell phone at the scene. This made a big difference at the trial.”

“It did. You’d made a 9-1-1 call, silenced your phone, and jammed it in the slats under a table.”

Her smile, genuine and appreciative, drew him in. She glided onto the seat, but her boots remained on the curb. His ex-wife wore similar Saint Laurents at eight hundred a pair.

He watched her clutching hands and said, “Maeve will get you settled. Take you shopping.”

She angled her face up at him. “No need for shopping. I’ll order clothing online. T-shirts, capris, and sneakers. That’s all I’ll need.”

“Really? Sounds like you’re going to a church picnic.” He was about to close the door. “Where will you be going?”

“Not far.”

“You’ve been in a prison bubble.”

“Closed off for a decade,” she said. “A concealed bubble grows fetid.”

It happens, and he nodded. “Learn anything in prison?” It was a canned question, and he didn’t expect much of an answer.

“Accept dark times. Go from there. Find a teddy bear among the crocodiles.” She sat with a poker-straight back, a determined expression blossoming. “You represented my cellmate—”

“—Ebony Yves. Worked as a mule for her husband, Now she’s working as an embalmer for Coley-Reece Funeral Home. Ebony said you told her to drop your name when she interviewed.” He arched a brow.

“Mick Coley and my parents were friends.” She nodded. “It’s in the waterfront neighborhood. Used to be good for hiding illegal profits. The funeral home overcharged the living but paid employees well.”

“Now that you’re out,” he said, “you’ll need wheels. Unless you plan to drive your food truck around for supplies.”

“I considered a golf cart. It doesn’t hold enough. Eventually I’ll buy a small truck. Today, I’d love to get a haircut.” She frowned, and he sensed her uncertainly about being out. Her thick, dark lashes closed over her eyes. Without those big, troubled eyes to distract him, fatigue lined her face. Did she want to blend in?


 [S-E1]Like a python what?

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

#eggcerptexchange-- spotlight on IT Exec's Baby by Tina Gayle, Executive Wives' Club series, #contemporary #romance #!/AuthorTinaGayle


Welcome talented romance author Tina Gayle along the EggcerptExchange trail. I have the honor of spotlighting IT Exec's baby. 


Blurb for IT Exec’s Baby


Brie Sullivan has a new baby girl and there are a million things to do, but Brie doesn’t have the energy to keep up. Why? She’s still grieving for her husband and suffering from baby blues, but she won’t let that stop her. She’s come up with the answer--find a new husband to be the father of her kids.

Jason Clark has been doing everything he can to help Brie. He loves her but can he accept her proposal of marriage knowing she’s not thinking clearly about the future?



Comments from Reviews for IT Exec’s Baby (2nd book of the Executive Wives Club series)


“IT Exec’s Baby is almost a love story in reverse. The marriage comes first, then the sex, and finally the love - at least from Brie's point of view. It is tender and poignant at times, and full of strong descriptive passages.”



“What I love about series books. Every book gives you more about the characters that you've fallen in love with during the first book.”



“IT Exec’s Baby is a riveting story of a woman with numerous problems.”



Excerpt:

With the warmth of the sun beating down on her head and the sound of her children’s laughter ringing in her ears, Brie spread her arms and spun in a circle.

She raised her voice and called to her kids as she walked to the railing of the upper deck. “You better find a good hiding place because ready or not here I come.”

With Isabella down for a nap, Brie drew in a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air and the freedom from being stuck inside the house. The kids had convinced her to play with them outside. She loved the easy game of hide-and-go-seek. Glancing over the rail, she scanned the backyard, searching for Ethan’s and Allison’s young forms.

A giggle sounded from below the deck.

Brie stepped down a few stairs to search the patio below. Still unable to catch a glimpse of her children, she continued down the staircase, listening for sounds that might give her a clue to their whereabouts.

Not seeing either one of them, she hugged the back wall and silently slipped to the corner of the house that had concrete steps, which led to the front yard.

Determined to catch one of her kids heading for home-base, Brie refrained from peeking around the corner. The squeak of a tennis shoe alerted her to someone’s arrival.

Ready to grab them the minute they rounded the corner, Brie stayed out of sight. A shadow fell across the patio, and Allison’s young form raced past.

Jumping out to grab her, Brie touched her daughter’s shoulder.

Allison’s wail of surprise vibrated off the bottom of the deck and pierced through Brie’s brain. Undeterred by the noise, she caught her daughter’s arm and spun her around.

“I got you.”

“No,” Allison screamed again.




Purchase at




Pick up Tina’s Free Read at  http://www.tinagayle.net/



Bio

Tina Gayle grew up a dreamer and loved to escape into the world of books.

After years of working in the business world doing a variety of jobs, she decided to try her hand at writing and hope to incorporate the joy of being a woman into her books.


Married thirty years, she and her husband love to travel and play golf.  She can’t wait to do more of both.

Read the first chapter of any of her books by visiting her website.



Find Tina Gayle everywhere



Home - www.tinagayle.net

Blog - www.tinagayle.blogspot.com

Twitter - https://twitter.com/#!/AuthorTinaGayle

Goodread - http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1641826.Tina_Gayle

Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/tina.gayle

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

#BookQW word is LOVE. Excerpt from #Tirgearr #eroticromance One Night in Havana, still 99cents/99pence

The Book Quote Wednesday word is love. What a perfect word for Valentines Day. Will she kiss her lover goodbye in One Night in Havana in spite of love?

Here's a brief excerpt from One Night in Havana-- still 99 cents on Amazon.
“So, Bonita, give.” Dr. Carlos Montoya slid onto the bar stool next to her. “What brings you down from a lofty ship to grace us lowly Cubans with your presence?”

Bonita. Pretty lady was not an endearment coming from the mouth curved in a taunting smile, but not a slight either. Not with his deep, melodic voice speaking words as if he knew secrets about her. What secrets did he know? Would he pry into her personal life? She doubted this bad-boy college professor acknowledged boundaries.

“Just drinks and dinner.” She scrambled for composure. “Aren’t we attending a world-class conference? I find the local population to be friendly and kind. That’s not slumming.”

The bartender set down a saoco. “Hope you like it, senorita.”

“Gracias,” she said. “Very nice, served in a coconut.”

“Ah, the saoco,” Carlos said. “Rum, lime juice, sugar, and ice. The saoco,” he repeated, disbelief heavy in his words. “Um. Wow. Once used as a tonic for prisoners of the revolution.”

“Medicinal?” She couldn’t help it. She chuckled and sounded as if a rusty spoon had scraped her throat raw, but it was genuine. The warm glow in its wake was welcome and needed. .

He leaned an elbow on the bar, his beer bottle with the green-and-red Cristal label dangling between his fingers. “Be careful with that one.” He dipped his head toward the front door as if he needed to go somewhere soon.

That fast, the glow of love snuffed out. She cleared her throat and gripped the fuzzy surface of the coconut container.

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

#BookQW word is secret. Excerpt from new release #Tirgearr #eroticromance and suspense, One Night in Havana -- what secrets?


 Hello Wednesday! Today's Book Quote Wednesday word is secret, and Veronica Keane has plenty of those. 




One Night inHavana, excerpt-- Chapter One



“Why, Veronica Keane.” A voice heavy with a Spanish accent drawled from behind her. “A dive bar?” A taunting tsk. “What do we have? A slumming New Yorker?”

She stiffened and closed her eyes. She knew that voice and its owner, Dr. Carlos Montoya, a finalist like her, competing for the same damn grant at the biggest Cephalopoda conference of the decade. Her heart pitter-pattered against her ribs. To turn toward him would intimate distress, or worse yet, weakness. She wouldn’t fail to win this grant, not when she was a final contender. “I like this funky little place.” Sia Macario Café, smack in the center of Havana, allowed her to observe locals and their daily lives.

“You need to eat with all the mojitos you’ve downed.” The big tease wasn’t counting. This was her first drink, but his rumbling, sexy timbre hinted at all kinds of dark, hot promises. She’d rubbed shoulders with the Cuban scientist all week. This splendid specimen of Latin male brought on a physical ache that punched low.

A flare-up stirred fear. For her own good, she needed to resist. “I ordered camarones enchiladas.” By now she knew the menu on the chalkboard by heart. She tipped her head back to whiff grilled shrimp soon to arrive in sofrito sauce with fried sweet plantains.

“The flan is good. Just like my abuela makes.”

“I bet. Your grandmother would be happy to hear that,” she said, knowing he brought out the best in most people. Two days ago he'd invited her and a handful of others scuba diving. The chance to ogle him had been one of the perks. He’d worn nothing but swim trunks, his bare chest on display. Every glistening muscle was finely etched. Not a drop of fat on him. Since he’d not given her the time of day, she’d checked him out without him noticing.

The hard-bodied host had led the way toward habitats of soft-bodied creatures. To find where invertebrates lived was never an easy task. Octopuses squeezed into narrow passages of coral for protection and gave females a place to keep their eggs. She’d discovered the remains of a few meals nearby.Octopuses scattered rocks and shells to help them hide.

 This grant meant so much to her and no doubt to him as well. Veronica mindlessly toyed with the gold necklace around her neck, but anxiety crackled through her brain. Unlike this man of action, she lacked the flamboyant personality necessary to talk people into things. Carlos had that ability. He'd made friends with judges on board while she’d conversed with an older woman about a box of scones made with Cuban vanilla cream.

That day the wind had picked up to a gale force, and this woman named Bela with Lucille Ball red hair needed help walking to her home. The half mile down the seaside promenade, The Malecón, had provided her with time to practice her Spanish. Turned out Bela was Carlos’s grandmother. She’d worked as a maid when the Castro government came to power. When private homes were nationalized, titles were handed over to the dwelling occupants. Bela owned a crumbling home in the respected Verdado district and rented out rooms.

What Veronica detested about Carlos was his abnormal level of talent for schmoozing. Not that he wasn't charismatic; he drew her like a powerful magnet with emotions hard to untangle. Why was a self-assured woman who ran her own life thinking about a man who commanded everyone around him?

She inhaled a breath and turned around on the barstool, caught fast by a gut punch of Carlos Montoya in the flesh. She sighed and surrendered to the tendrils of want sliding up between her thighs.

Tall and muscular, his lush dark hair curled to his collar giving him a wild, roguish appearance. His face was lean and chiseled. His mouth full and tempting. His eyes the smoky-gray of a grass fire and fringed with black lashes as dense as paintbrushes. He smiled. A faint hint of mockery curved his mouth, a sensual mouth she imagined to be either inviting or cruel. Or both at the same time when he leaned over a woman with a diamond-hard gleam in his dark eyes while she drowned with pleasure. She fought a fierce desire to run her hand across his broad chest, tip her face upward, and…

His breath tickled her face.

Not going there. She blinked and forced her mind to focus. Carlos Montoya was not the kind of man you lost focus around. But that image of putting her mouth full on his and peeling away his shirt once introduced in her mind was impossible to expunge. Pointless even to try.

He was an intimidating blend of intellect and sexy danger. Both qualities had her leaning back against the bar’s edge. If it weren’t for him, she’d have a chance at winning the grant.

His lips twitched. “You’re staying on one of the cruise ships, am I right?” He rolled up the sleeves of his linen jacket to reveal a dusting of manly hair.

”Yes." Her cabin served as her hotel room while attending the January meetings with perfect high-seventies temperatures. His eyes locked with hers. She willed herself to move and yet she remained seated, clutching heat between her legs, a wetness so intense that her breath stalled in her chest while her heart hammered faster. Soon she’d return to freezing New York City.

“So, Bonita, give.” He slid onto the bar stool next to her. “What brings you down from a lofty ship to grace us lowly Cubans with your presence?”

Bonita. Pretty lady was not an endearment coming from the mouth curved in a taunting smile, but not a slight either. Not with his deep, melodic voice speaking words as if he knew secrets about her. What secrets did he know? Would he pry into her personal life? She doubted this bad-boy college professor acknowledged boundaries.

“Just drinks and dinner.” She scrambled for composure. “Aren’t we attending a world-class conference? I find the local population to be friendly and kind. That’s not slumming.”

The bartender set down a saoco. “Hope you like it, senorita.”

“Gracias,” she said. “Very nice, served in a coconut.”

“Ah, the saoco,” Carlos said. “Rum, lime juice, sugar, and ice. The saoco,” he repeated, disbelief heavy in his words. “Um. Wow. Once used as a tonic for prisoners of the revolution.”

“Medicinal?” She couldn’t help it. She chuckled and sounded as if a rusty spoon had scraped her throat raw, but it was genuine. The warm glow in its wake was welcome and needed. .

He leaned an elbow on the bar, his beer bottle with the green-and-red Cristal label dangling between his fingers. “Be careful with that one.” He dipped his head toward the front door as if he needed to go somewhere soon.

That fast, the glow snuffed out. She cleared her throat and gripped the fuzzy surface of the coconut container.

He placed a five-peso coin with a brass plug on the counter and whirled it. The spinning motion mirrored a dizzying attraction going on in low parts of her belly.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

#BookQW word is night! #Tirgearr #eroticromance -- The New Yorker is on a mission, but a meltdown is coming on. One Night in Havana is still 0.99.

Book Quote Wednesday's word is NIGHT and NIGHT is in the title of  ONE NIGHT IN HAVANA with a release date of today, still 99 cents, below is the NIGHT our woman on a mission has a meltdown--


With a camera slung over her shoulder, Veronica joined the flock to watch the sunset on the promenade. In spite of the clouds, the full moon cast a soft light across the water. What a spectacular night.

A young girl motioned her toward the railing. “Do you like it here?”

“Oh, yes. I love your city. Tonight we have a purplish orange sunset.” She snapped a few shots.

The girl smiled and caught up with friends. Was it more than the tourist business that made Cubans friendly and kind?

The surface where she walked was slick with humidity. In New York, if she were to slip and topple down, there wouldn’t be anyone to pick her up. Here there was camaraderie among strangers, aloneness without feeling alone. Birds chirped. Small children’s voices were clear and sharp against old motors chugging down the street. She walked for a half hour and then turned around.

She gazed across the main street at Moorish architecture with Baroque balconies. Her mind played through the architectural richness, older by five hundred years compared to New York. Portals, columns, and pilasters loosely followed classical lines. The greatest charm laid in strolling after a warm day. At sunset couples, children, and fishermen walked along this outdoor lounge, The Malecón.

Ancient side streets, too narrow for traffic, were shaded by towering Colonial buildings with faded paint and cracked plaster. Rooftops had some planters with vines running wild. Wooden benches with sun canopies above them flapped with the wind picking up.

Coming toward the point where she’d entered, she stood and listened to the rolling tide.  Wave after wave sloshed against the barricade, wish-wash, wish-wash, the rhythm of a heartbeat. On the horizon, the haze had turned from purple to gray. In the entire harbor, there must have been hundreds of vessels of all shapes and sizes crammed in deep-water berths. Multi-million-dollar cruise ships like hers, luxurious yachts, and smaller boats moored together in rows.

She spotted her ship docked with many others on the pier. The giant vessel stood out in dark silhouette. Seagulls shrieked from where they nested on reefs. Like a bird sensing danger, she tensed. Nausea crawled up her throat, and she pressed a fist to her nervous belly. Her cruise ship bobbed up and down and plunged her into a troubled state. Throughout the busy week, her thoughts about the goings-on remained nebulous. Vague fears were swallowed up and forgotten. Until this moment, facing departure tomorrow night, she hadn’t fully processed what she’d seen onboard. She’d looked the other way when young women had padded the bras of their bikinis with white chalky powder in packets and brown powder in toy balloons. Who would she tell anyway, the Cuban military police? She hoped to heck no one put anything in her luggage. How would a drug bust work out in a communist country?



Tuesday, January 30, 2018

#Tirgearr #newrelease on January 31st, still #99cents 99pence erotic romance suspense One Night in Havana

Chances are you remember times when you were on a serious mission. Did you need to accomplish something that would enable you to do something else? One Night in Havana's Veronica Keane wants to continue her late father's research in marine biology. Her competitor, Dr. Carlos Montoya, has a fun-loving personality.  Getting to know him gives her confidence, but does it improve her chances? Chances for what? The conference they're attending ends after tonight.