My response to this question has been and will continue to be the same - why not?

My love for the genre has nothing to do with the 2008 report from Simba Information, which reported that revenue from romance fiction remained strong at 1.37 billion, despite the economic slid. Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that romance fiction remains the largest share of the consumer market. But it has everything to do with this one simple fact: I love romance!

The genre first captivated my attention when I was a junior in college. The year was 1979. My college roommate introduced me to the world of romance when she handed me a tattered copy of The Flame in the Flower by the late Kathleen Woodiwiss. Instead of studying for an organic chemistry mid-term the next day, I spent the entire night reading one of the greatest romance novels of all times. And just in case you’re wondering, about that exam, wonder no more. Yep, I flunked big time. Overnight, I’d transformed into a hopeless, never to recover, romance-a-holic. I didn’t know it then, but that one night, almost thirty years ago, would eventually land me on the road to publication.

Becoming a writer was never something I was particularly interested in or even considered doing. Honestly, I was content being an avid reader. It was the challenge from my late husband in the spring of 2003 that made me seriously consider penning my first romance novel.

One night, I was in bed reading a romance, but I simply couldn’t get into the story. It was well past midnight and I guess I’d whined and moaned enough. Hubby turned to me and said, “Baby, if you can write a better book, do it. Now turn out the lights, please.” At first, I thought this man was crazy. Well, truth be told, I thought he was funky, crazy insane. Although I was a fairly decent technical writer in my profession as a public health educator, fiction writing was a different monster all together. Eventually, I honored his request, but not before a zany cast of characters settled in my head, and wrapped around my heart. They’d later become known in the literary world as the Baptiste Family.

Three months later, the timing was right and something amazing happened. My enthusiasm for teaching health, social responsibility and social justice over the years sparked a multitude of storylines. What if. . . Since I didn’t have anything to lose, I accepted the challenge and rolled the dice.

Four years later, the gamble paid off with the release of my debut novel, WHEN I’M WITH YOU followed six months later with my sophomore release, WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN. On March 4th, I celebrated the release of my third fill-length single title, IF I WERE YOU WOMAN.

It ain’t been easy, but it’s been worth it!!

Until next time – stay well and be blessed!
LaConnie

***

Leave a comment by Tuesday, March 16, 2010, 6:00 a.m. CST to win a copy of IF I WERE YOUR WOMAN.

Congratulations to Sue A. for winning a copy of this book!

About the Book

Tinsel Town is about to learn a few lessons from a Southern doctor with the courage to win the heart of a man who swore no woman ever would

If it doesn’t have a scientific basis, Dr. Laney Olivia Houston doesn’t believe in it —and that includes love at first sight. But she meets Raphael Baptiste. One encounter is all it takes; and she realizes her life is changed forever.

Jazz musician, Raphael Baptiste is no stranger to women or their beds. When an illness strikes, his life is thrown into turmoil. But a quiet Southern belle sees beyond his past and bitterness. She sees a man who could love. . .

By LaConnie Taylor-Jones

· Red Rose Publishing
· March 2010
· ISBN: 9781604356083

order the book

Read an excerpt after the break!

The flight to Oakland arrived twenty minutes early. Laney stopped by the ladies room, and when she came out, her heart was beating faster than normal. It had been seventy-seven days, four hours and forty-five minutes since her last visit to Oakland. The excitement of seeing the only man she’d ever loved was finally at hand.

Laney walked toward the baggage claim area with a stride that was a notch above a stroll. She glanced at the crowd gathered near the baggage carousel, but didn’t see him. She’d never responded to any man the way she had to Raphael Baptiste. Flummox was the first word that filtered through her mind the moment they met. Before she’d entered the first grade, she knew the meaning of the word. Now she understood how it felt.

For the last ten years, she’d been consumed with her research and never had time for a man in her life. All of her energy and passion had been channeled into continuing the investigative study her mother began before she died. She’d been just as driven as her mother had been to discover a cure for the congenital birth defect she’d been born. If the countless research hours meant another child wouldn’t suffer the same fate, then the sacrifices she’d made in her personal life weren’t in vain.

Sensuality and masculinity permeated through Raphael Baptiste. Simply put, the man exuded sex. Now Laney understood why women chased after him, but it didn’t mean she had to be one of them. She knew she was in trouble when her out-of-control hormones kicked into full gear and she fell hard for the man who’d told her upfront he’d never settle down with any woman. Therein was her dilemma. A causal affair wasn’t on her agenda. Although she loved Raphael to distraction, what he wanted wasn’t what she desired. She wasn’t a snob, but she’d never sacrifice her two best friends—self-respect and dignity—in the name of love.

Laney knew it was unlike Raphael to be late for anything. Since she didn’t own a cell phone, she headed off toward the bank of telephones a few feet away. Her steps slowed and halted altogether when she heard the familiar baritone voice call out from behind.

“Whatcha doing Red? Ignoring me, again?”

Laney gasped for air. Her heart pumped at a laborious rhythm and the sudden thud against her ribcage packed so much force it hurt.

Speechless, Laney turned and allowed her gaze to roam over a neatly trimmed five o’clock shadow, café-au-lait skin and shoulder-length dreads. Gold hoops in each ear with layers of gold chains on one wrist would be too much on any other man. On Raphael, it was perfect. She never took her eyes off his lean carriage, which moved with graceful agility. It wasn’t the tailored wool slacks, cashmere sweater or Italian leather slippers that took her breath away. It was the intense masculine expression, which assessed her from top to bottom. She stood still acutely aware of the appraisal, though it didn’t reveal appreciation or disproval. If she knew nothing else about Raphael, she knew one thing—he was a private man whose thoughts were very much his own. She tried to speak, but her words lodged somewhere between her larynx and throat. Her second attempt faired much better. “Hello, Raphael.”

Ray tsked. “You know, you’re the only woman who calls me Raphael.”

Laney had never been particularly fond of nicknames, but the one Raphael always referred to her by caused a smile to tug at the corner of her lips. “You’re the only man who calls me Red.”

“Oh my, God. It’s Ray LaSalle,” a female fan screamed. She ran up to Ray, nearly knocking Laney over and held out a piece of paper and a pen. “Can I have your autograph?”
Ray flashed a mega-watt gleam and honored the request. After the giddy fan skipped off, he turned to Laney with his arms folded over his chest. “See, most women call me Ray.”

“I’ve told you before, I’m not most women.”

Oh, you got that one right, Ray thought. He’d seen her the moment she walked into the baggage claim area, and the sight of her slammed him in the gut from twenty feet away. She’d draped her jacket over one arm, and his intense observation was unobstructed. The silk wrap-around dress with a puffed collar stopped right above her knees. God, to be so petite she had the prettiest legs he’d ever seen.

Ray let his gaze trail upward to her eyes. From day one, those green pools reminded him of polished emeralds. Every time he stared into them, he felt as though he were drowning. They held an unusual calmness. At times, they appeared dreamy, but with acute alertness and enormous intelligence. Occasionally they twinkled with amusement, but there wasn’t a damn thing funny about the way she’d ignored him all these months. He stepped forward, seizing the chance to touch her when she swayed a bit, and curved his hand around her upper arm. “You been good?”

“Yes.” Laney shuddered from his touch. His closeness brought forth the scent of his aftershave, and she called on every ounce of reserve she could muster. Her eyes locked with his. The shade wasn’t an ordinary blue, just a slight hint of gray. Slate blue. “How about you?”

Ray stepped closer. “Good.”

They remained silent and faced each other like rival gang members about to square off over a territory dispute. From day one, she’d captivated him from the top of her red silky hair, which ended mid-way down her back to the bottom of her tiny, narrow feet. The slow closing and opening of her eyelids was mesmerizing. Thick, long lashes swept against high chiseled cheekbones speckled with freckles, which also were scattered along her collarbone. So far, the red hue of her hair was the loudest thing about her. Her raspy voice hugged him, and the few words she’d spoken were conveyed in a soft, genteel drawl.

“Let’s get your luggage,” Ray said, breaking the soundless confrontation. He nodded at the baggage carousel. “How many pieces did you check?”

Laney stared up at him, but couldn’t think, clearly. “Luggage?”

Ray chuckled. “Yeah. You know the thing you put your clothes in.”

Slowly, sanity returned. There was no excuse for this type of behavior. Laney knew she should’ve been embarrassed for staring, but wasn’t. Then she noticed her garment bag on the black conveyor belt and headed over to get it.

Ray tried to tell her he was on it, but his brain refused to cooperate with his mouth the moment she sauntered off. He planted his feet in a firm stance and sucked in a deep breath. “Mary, mother of Jesus,” he whispered, making the sign of the cross. Laney was walking provocation. His gaze settled on her behind, which rode a tad bit high up her backside. He promised not to look too long, but couldn’t help himself. The slow, lazy roll of her hips was breathtaking. Lord, what he wouldn’t give— He crushed the thought and took another deep breath.

Ray stepped forward and stood next to Laney. He’d had a few moments to get his thoughts together, but barely. Plus, it wasn’t everyday he was in the presence of a child prodigy who’d pioneered a medical breakthrough. The fact she’d accomplished in ten years what usually took researchers a lifetime to achieve came as no surprise. Hell, Laney had completed college by the time he’d even begun. Her research efforts had led to the discovery of a cure for amniotic band syndrome, the birth defect she’d been born with. And in less than two weeks, she’d be the youngest female physician ever to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine.

Ray allowed his gaze to roam over her profile. No, this sista definitely wasn’t Hollywood plastered with pounds of make-up. A shiny coat of lip-gloss was it. Nor was she weighted down with multi-karat bling-bling. A pair of pearl studs was the only jewelry she wore. Pretty was the only term to describe her face, which possessed an abundance of radiance and liveliness, and easily promoted her to the category of downright sexy. Not even the absence of her index and middle fingers on her right hand detracted from her beauty. And the tiny pierced diamond on the right side of her narrow nose wasn’t bad, either.

He’d been so captivated, he never noticed Laney trying to lift a second piece of luggage off the conveyor belt. He reached out and caught her by the waist when the heavy weight caused her to stumble backwards. Her startled cry at his abrupt movement made her grab his forearm. His mouth went dry and sweat beads surfaced on his forehead. A thick, fierce tension stretched between them, but he wouldn’t let go. “Red…”

Laney turned to face him. An open lust burned in his eyes. At that moment, a sharp realization hit her. He felt some of the same turmoil she’d felt for months. The fact they stood in the middle of the airport was the only reason she babbled an apology. “I—I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

“It’s all right,” Ray lied. His tone was hoarse and barely audible. He stepped back, grabbed the handle on the roller luggage with one hand and placed the other at the small of her back to guide her toward the exit door.

Never in his life had any a woman messed him up so bad he couldn’t think straight. This wasn’t attraction. It was a gut-wrenching emotion so foreign to him, he was scared shitless. Laney wasn’t dangerous.

She was deadly.

Ray admitted a hardcore truth on the spot. If he wasn’t careful, he might very well do something really stupid—like kiss bachelorhood goodbye.

A couple of days later, Ray drove Laney back to her grandfather’s home in Blackhawk, a gated community in San Ramon, California after Thanksgiving dinner with his family. If he’d had any sense, he would’ve seen her safely inside the Georgian colonial, split-level estate nestled on four acres, then hit the road smoking.

Ray knew the best way to survive the next seven days was to place some distance between him and Laney, and he’d promised to limit his interaction with her. Lunacy overruled lucidity when she held the door open, an unspoken invitation to enter.

Oh, hell, who was he fooling? He’d wanted to be alone with her all day. He followed as she led them through the grand foyer, past an array of original oil paintings and into the family room. The moment he glanced over at the sofa where she’d settled and saw that half-crocked smile, it was all she wrote. Before he knew it, he’d skidded across the pristine wide-plank hardwood floors and sat at her side.

Laney glanced over at Ray’s profile. “Raphael, you seemed distant at dinner. Is everything all right?”

No, everything wasn’t all right, Ray mused. He’d been in pain most of the day, but there was no need to saddle Laney with his misery. If it were any other night, he would’ve suggested they go out to a club in San Francisco. Maybe being around other people would diffuse his focus on her, ease a little of the tension he’d felt being in her presence. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t. If he ran to the farthest end of the earth, it still wouldn’t be enough distance to concentrate on anything other than her.

Damn her pretty, freckled-faced soul.

Ray stared into the green, bottomless eyes and lost it. Before he knew it, he whispered, “Je pourrais tomber dans l’amour avec vous.” He’d never confessed those words to any woman. Ever.

His gaze was so intense, Laney had to look away. Her body temperature rose, responding to his voice and what he’d uttered. “Could you fall in love with me, Raphael?”

Irritation threaded down Ray’s spine so swift, he bolted to his feet in an instant, causing his feet to tangle together. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you spoke French before now?”

“You never asked,” she said, her eyes a bit dreamy. “Does it bother you that I do?”

“Ya damn skippy it bothers me!”

“Why?”

Whenever Ray wanted to verbalize his feelings without others knowing it, he’d shift to the language he spoke as fluently as English. Laney had innocently invaded his territory, his inner space, and he was caught off guard. “Why?” he cried out in mock indignation, plopping back on the sofa. “A man needs to know that kind of information in advance. You can’t just spring it on him.”

“Would you have said what you said, if you knew I spoke French?”

Laney’s point-blank query staggered Ray. Plus, she’d just busted him out and did it with a smile so sweet it was sinful. He was about to put her on full blast until he glanced over and noticed her expression. It was the one he feared most. Whenever her face took on that calm, angelic appearance, she was either blistering mad or up to mischief. Most times, it was difficult for him to tell which was which, until it was too late. A faint alarm went off inside his head. This was no dummy he was dealing with. Laney’s I.Q. placed her at the genius level. “Are there any other languages you speak?”

A soft smile crinkled her eyes. “English and French are it, so you’re safe.” Laney tilted her head sideways. “You never answered my question, Raphael.”

Ray looked straight ahead and remained silent. Finally, he posed a question of his own. “For months, you’ve avoided me like I’ve got a contagious disease. Why?”

The crispness in Ray’s voice didn’t faze Laney a bit. She merely smiled at him. “I wouldn’t call it avoidance.”

Before he knew it, Ray made the mistake of inhaling her sweet baby-fresh scent. No doubt the sheets on her bed smelled the same way. His body responded strongly to the thought, and he muttered a string of oaths in French for the inability to do nothing more than wish. He gave her a measured look. “All right. What would you call it?”

Laney kept her head down and prayed her blush would subside. What was it about this man that caused endless nights of erotic fantasies? “Preserving my sanity.”

“What the hell is that suppose to mean?” he asked in a low, rough voice.

Because their relationship was tenuousness, with her grandfather serving as the only common link between them, Laney had promised never to reveal her true feelings. But his last question opened the gate of truth, and she walked in, closing it behind her. “You’ve proven that when it comes to women, the only thing you’re interested in is someone to warm your bed. Unfortunately, that’s not what I’m interested in.”

Ray clenched his fist. He wanted her so fiercely, his entire body ached. “So, you think all I want from you is sex?”

“Only you can answer that question, Raphael. However, regardless of what I think or what you want, I hope we’ll always be friends.”

Friends. Ray snatched his head around, peering over a pair of yellow-tinted Dolce Gabbana frames with narrowed eyes. “Uuh, wanna roll what you just said by me, again.”

Laney lifted her chin as a militant gaze shone in her eyes and repeated her last statement.

Ray sucked his teeth. “Hmm-hmm. That’s what I thought you said.” Before he knew it, he was on his feet. Reaching out, he plucked Laney off the sofa as though she weighed no more than a feather and hauled her next to him. “Girl, I can’t sleep at night. My nerves are shot. I haven’t been with a woman since the day you waltzed into my life, and you’re sitting here telling me you hope we can be friends? He pulled her so close, the warmth of his breath brushed over her cheeks. “Damnit Red, I get hard just thinking about you. So, hell no! There’s no way we can ever be friends.”

Laney shivered as her body responded to his words, even though they’d been uttered in aggravation. The silence between them was awkward. Laney took a step back and headed toward the patio door. She turned and smiled at him, again. “You’re welcome to join me, if you like.”

Ray watched her leave the room. The slow roll of her hips caused beads of sweat to break out on his forehead. He started to follow, but knew he needed a moment to get his head together. A slow rhythmic squeak caught his attention a few moments later. Quietly, he slid the door open and stepped outside. Not even the chilly night air cooled him off. He stopped a few feet from Laney who sat on a white swing with her eyes closed, smiling. He leaned his shoulder against a post and watched. To save Jesus, he couldn’t look away. Right then and there, he knew his resolve had hit rock bottom.

Honesty shot through him like a stray bullet, demolishing his sense and shattering the one vital organ he’d never allowed a woman to ever get close to—his heart. His two older brothers had warned him. They’d told him about the day a woman would come along and knock him to his knees. Did he listen? Oh, no. In fact, he’d laughed in their faces. “Red, we need to talk.”

Laney kept her eyes closed. A few seconds passed before she softly said, “All right, but there’s an important question I need the answer to, first.”

“Talk to me.”

“Could you fall in love with me?”

Ray pushed away from the post and sat next to her. His weight caused the swing to dip and sway. With his left foot, he took control of the motion, rocking back and forth. His senses were raw, his emotions exposed. “Hell, yeah.”

That’s all she needed to hear. Things were settled now. Laney took no offense at his silence. She understood he needed time to come to terms with his feelings. She firmly believed an innate knowing was buried deep down inside of every human spirit. They were meant for each other. He was hers and she was his. It was as simple as that.
In the clairvoyant way she saw things, Laney went for broke. She turned and stared him straight in the eyes and gave him a private smile, one she’d never offered any other man. “And if you hadn’t thought about marrying me, I suggest you do.”

Marriage? They hadn’t even kissed yet, and she was already talking about jumping the broom. If he were a sane man, he’d be up and running toward the front door, if he didn’t want the next words out of his mouth to be “I do.” Ray didn’t budge. And what shocked him even more was he never once thought to laugh out loud or tell her she was crazy as hell. With other women, he had mind-blowing, back arching sex. He’d stayed clear of any serious commitments and always made his position clear up front that he was an “into the moment” man.

Well, that was then and this was now.

Congratulations to Sandy for winning a copy of this book!

About the Book

He didn’t know the nightly peepshow was just a naughty invitation…

Garrett knows what he’s doing can get him into trouble, but he can’t help himself. Every night, as he arrives home, the blonde across the alley gets busy with her boyfriend with the blinds open. He’s spent the past two weeks getting an eyeful and falling deep into lust.

But when Garrett sees a man in a black ski mask sneak into his sexy neighbor’s bedroom, he doesn’t know he’ll be the one captured.

Jayne has a nice life with a nice lover who sees to her every need, but she’s still drawn to the lonely man across the alley. She’s been sharing her deepest fantasies with him from afar, but is ready to up the stakes. When she talks Richard into enacting a dangerous scenario, everything works out as planned. Only Garrett’s not happy about being played. And he’s got reservations because she already has a lover and he’s not into threesomes. Guess she’ll just have to convince him otherwise.

By Delilah Devlin

· Ellora’s Cave
· March 2010
· ISBN: 9781419927317

order at the book

Before the release of my first e-book, If I Were Your Woman, I was one of those die-hards who flat-out refused to purchase anything other than a traditional print book.  So never in my wildest dreams did I think one of my titles would end up in e-format. And truth be told, I was somewhat apprehensive about the idea at first.  My saving grace is the belief that a good story is a good story, whether it’s in electronic format or on paper.

So, which do you prefer? E-books or print books?

Until next time - stay well and be blessed,
LaConnie

ABOUT THE BOOK
Tinsel Town is about to learn a few lessons from a Southern doctor with the courage to win the heart of a man who swore no woman ever would. . . Life couldn’t be sweeter for Raphael Baptiste. He’s a lawyer turned Grammy award-winning music icon who’s admired by women all around the world. One admirer in particular is, Dr. Laney Houston, the one woman who isn’t afraid to challenge him at every turn. Make no mistake about it; challenges are something that Raphael thrives on when it comes to the fairer sex. But before he can rise to what the beautiful doctor has in store for him, Raphael is devastated by some personal news of his own that will change the course of his life — forever. But through it all - the good, the bad, and the ugly - Laney is right by his side. She isn’t deterred by Raphael’s past and bitterness over his situation because she realizes everyone comes to love not by finding the perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.

By LaConnie Taylor-Jones
• Red Rose Publishing
• March 2010
• ISBN: 978-1-60435-608-3

Order: If I Were Your Woman

Read an excerpt!
The flight to Oakland arrived twenty minutes early. Laney stopped by the ladies room and when she came out, her heart was beating faster than normal. It had been seventy-seven days, four hours, and forty-five minutes since her last visit to Oakland. The excitement of seeing the only man she‘d ever loved was finally at hand.

Laney walked toward the baggage claim area with a stride that was a notch above a stroll. She glanced at the crowd gathered near the baggage carousel, but didn‘t see him. She‘d never responded to any man the way she had to Raphael Baptiste. Flummox was the first word that filtered through her mind the moment they met. Before she‘d entered the first grade, she knew the meaning of the word. Now she understood how it felt.

For the last ten years, she‘d been consumed with her research and never had time for a man in her life. All of her energy and passion had been channeled into continuing the investigative study her mother began before she died. She‘d been just as driven as her mother had been to discover a cure for the congenital birth defect with which she‘d been born. If the countless research hours meant another child wouldn‘t suffer the same fate, then the sacrifices she‘d made in her personal life weren‘t in vain.

Sensuality and masculinity permeated through Raphael Baptiste. Simply put, the man exuded sex. Now Laney understood why women chased after him, but it didn‘t mean she had to be one of them. She knew she was in trouble when her out-of-control hormones kicked into full gear and she fell hard for the man who‘d told her upfront he‘d never settle down with any woman.  Therein was her dilemma. A causal affair wasn‘t on her agenda. Although she loved Raphael to distraction, what he wanted wasn‘t what she desired. She wasn‘t a snob, but she‘d never sacrifice her two best friends—self-respect and dignity—in the name of love.

Laney knew it was unlike Raphael to be late for anything. Since she didn‘t own a cell phone, she headed off toward the bank of telephones a few feet away. Her steps slowed and halted altogether when she heard the familiar baritone voice call out from behind.

“Whatcha doing Red? Ignoring me, again?”

Laney gasped for air. Her heart pumped at a laborious rhythm and the sudden thud against her ribcage packed so much force it hurt.

Speechless, Laney turned and allowed her gaze to roam over a neatly trimmed five o‘clock shadow, café-au-lait skin and shoulder-length dreads. Gold hoops in each ear with layers of gold chains on one wrist would be too much on any other man. On Raphael, it was perfect. She never took her eyes off his lean carriage, which moved with graceful agility.

It wasn‘t the tailored wool slacks, cashmere sweater or Italian leather slippers that took her breath away. It was the intense masculine expression, which assessed her from top to bottom. She stood still acutely aware of the appraisal, though it didn‘t reveal appreciation or disproval. If she knew nothing else about Raphael, she knew one thing—he was a private man whose thoughts were very much his own. She tried to speak, but her words lodged somewhere between her larynx and throat. Her second attempt fared much better. “Hello, Raphael.”

Ray tsked. “You know, you‘re the only woman who calls me Raphael.”

Laney had never been particularly fond of nicknames, but the one Raphael always referred to her by caused a smile to tug at the corner of her lips. “You‘re the only man who calls me Red.”

“Oh my, God. It‘s Ray LaSalle,” a female fan screamed. She ran up to Ray, nearly knocking Laney over and held out a piece of paper and a pen. “Can I have your autograph?”

As a crowd flocked around him, Ray flashed a mega-watt gleam and honored the request. After the giddy fan skipped off, he turned to Laney with his arms folded over his chest. “See, most women call me Ray.”

“I‘ve told you before, I‘m not most women.

Oh, you got that one right, Ray thought. He‘d seen her the moment she walked into the baggage claim area, and the sight of her slammed him in the gut from twenty feet away. She‘d draped her jacket over one arm, and his intense observation was unobstructed. The silk wrap-around dress with a puffed collar stopped right above her knees. God, to be so petite she had the prettiest legs he‘d ever seen.

Ray let his gaze trail upward to her eyes. From day one, those green pools reminded him of polished emeralds. Every time he stared into them, he felt as though he were drowning. They held an unusual calmness. At times, they appeared dreamy, but with acute alertness and enormous intelligence. Occasionally they twinkled with amusement, but there wasn‘t a damn thing funny about the way she‘d ignored him all these months. He stepped forward, seizing the chance to touch her when she swayed a bit, and curved his hand around her upper arm. “You been good?”

“Yes.” Laney shuddered from his touch. His closeness brought forth the scent of his aftershave, and she called on every ounce of reserve she could muster. Her eyes locked with his. The shade wasn‘t an ordinary blue, just a slight hint of gray. Slate blue. “How about you?”

Ray stepped closer. “Good.”

They remained silent and faced each other like rival gang members about to square off over a territory dispute. From day one, she‘d captivated him from the top of her red silky hair, which ended mid-way down her back to the bottom of her tiny, narrow feet. The slow closing and opening of her eyelids was mesmerizing. Thick, long lashes swept against high chiseled cheekbones speckled with freckles, which also were scattered along her collarbone. So far, the red hue of her hair was the loudest thing about her. Her raspy voice hugged him, and the few words she‘d spoken were conveyed in a soft, genteel drawl.
“Let‘s get your luggage,” Ray said, breaking the soundless confrontation. He nodded at the baggage carousel. “How many pieces did you check?”

Laney stared up at him, but couldn‘t think clearly. “Luggage?”

Ray chuckled. “Yeah. You know the thing you put your clothes in.”

Slowly, sanity returned. There was no excuse for this type of behavior. Laney knew she should‘ve been embarrassed for staring, but wasn‘t. Then she noticed her garment bag on the black conveyor belt and headed over to get it.

Ray tried to tell her he was on it, but his brain refused to cooperate with his mouth the moment she sauntered off. He planted his feet in a firm stance and sucked in a deep breath. “Mary, mother of Jesus,” he whispered, making the sign of the cross. Laney was walking provocation. His gaze settled on her behind, which rode a tad bit high up her backside. He promised not to look too long, but couldn‘t help himself. The slow, lazy roll of her hips was breathtaking. Lord, what he wouldn‘t give… He crushed the thought and took another deep breath.

Ray stepped forward and stood next to Laney. He‘d had a few moments to get his thoughts together, but barely. Plus, it wasn‘t everyday he was in the presence of a child prodigy who‘d pioneered a medical breakthrough. The fact she‘d accomplished in ten years what usually took researchers a lifetime to achieve came as no surprise. Hell, Laney had completed college by the time he‘d even begun. Her research efforts had led to the discovery of a cure for amniotic band syndrome, the birth defect she‘d been born with. And in less than two weeks, she‘d be the youngest female physician ever to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine.

Ray allowed his gaze to roam over her profile. No, this woman definitely wasn‘t Hollywood plastered with pounds of make-up. A shiny coat of lip-gloss was it. Nor was she weighted down with multi-karat bling-bling. A pair of pearl studs was the only jewelry she wore. Pretty was the only term to describe her face, which possessed an abundance of radiance and liveliness, and easily promoted her to the category of downright sexy. Not even the absence of her index and middle fingers on her right hand detracted from her beauty. And the tiny pierced diamond on the right side of her narrow nose wasn‘t bad, either.

He‘d been so captivated, he never noticed Laney trying to lift a second piece of luggage off the conveyor belt. He reached out and caught her by the waist when the heavy weight caused her to stumble backwards. He heard her startled cry at his abrupt movement, which made her grab his forearm. His mouth went dry and sweat beads surfaced on his forehead. A thick, fierce tension stretched between them, but he wouldn‘t let go. “Red…”

Laney turned to face him. An open lust burned in his eyes. At that moment, a sharp realization hit her. He felt some of the same turmoil she‘d felt for months. The fact they stood in the middle of the airport was the only reason she babbled an apology. “I—I‘m sorry. I should‘ve—”

“It‘s all right,” Ray lied. His tone was hoarse and barely audible. He stepped back, grabbed the handle on the roller luggage with one hand and placed the other at the small of her back to guide her toward the exit door.

Never in his life had any a woman messed him up so bad he couldn‘t think straight. This wasn‘t attraction. It was a gut-wrenching emotion so foreign to him, he was scared shitless. Laney wasn‘t dangerous.

She was deadly.

Ray admitted a hardcore truth on the spot. If he wasn‘t careful, he might very well do something really stupid—like kiss bachelorhood goodbye.

Congratulations to Armenia who won Shiloh’s book!

by Shiloh Walker

So what is a writer to do when the bad guy doesn’t want to be the bad guy? That’s the dilemma I had to face when I was writing the first of the Rafferty brother books, FRAGILE.

You see, there was only supposed to be the one book. Luke’s book. Quinn wasn’t going to get a book, because in Luke’s book, Quinn was supposed to be the bad guy. You know… the bad guy, the guy who doesn’t get the girl, the happy ever after. He suffers, we smile. All is good.

My problem started about a third of the way through the book…Luke’s book, yes. Quinn? He was suffering, all right. This shouldn’t have been a problem. It was going as planned—he was the bad guy. He wasn’t going to be the happy-go-lucky sort.

But I was kind of suffering, too. Because he also wasn’t the bastard I needed him to be to make him the bad guy. Plus, his twin… the hero of the book, Luke, he wasn’t too keen on how I was painting his brother as the bad guy. And the more I tried to make Quinn the bad guy, the harder it was to write the story.

Fine, I tell them. Have it your way, but the story isn’t going to work out—there isn’t anybody else who can be the bad guy, and we need a bad guy. It’s a suspense, remember?

Yeah, yeah. Well, it turns out… I didn’t know what I was talking about.

Quinn couldn’t have been the bad guy, because it turns out he had this core of strength I wasn’t prepared for. Yeah, so he was a little bit crazy there for a while, but a lot of us dance on that thin edge every now and then. He brushed a little closer than some of us, but then he had a darker time than many people. He pulled himself back, got himself together, and both Quinn and Luke turned out to be right. Quinn wasn’t bad guy material.

But that didn’t mean I was planning on giving him a book.

I wasn’t. I just…wasn’t. Even though I was told people would ask for his book. And uh… yes, that did happen. It wasn’t anything I had planned.

And then I had to start making the plans, because the questions about Quinn started coming almost as soon as I finished Quinn’s book.

I can do this, I figure. I mean, I figured out how to undo the mess I’d made out of the first book, right? And I conveniently forgot the headaches I had over that book before I finally stopped fighting them, before I stopped fighting the story.

So here I am, mapping out this plan for Quinn’s story. He’s what I’d call a tarnished knight and what he needs more than anything else is somebody he can save…makes sense. He’s somewhat damaged already because the one woman he’d actually had feelings for died and he wasn’t able to save her—if I put somebody in his life for him to save, maybe that can get him on the road to healing. Right?

Makes sense.

So I create this heroine. She’ got a quiet inner strength, but she’s not a fighter. She’s his complete opposite. She’s soft, she’s gentle…and now that I think about it? He would have terrified her. Anyway. I had this perfect plan. And a third of the way through the story?

It died on me. Can’t figure out the problem. Banging my head. Then I take a good hard look at the heroine and have one of my soon to be famous HEAD —> DESK moments. She is the problem. It’s not that she’s a bad heroine. She’s actually a pretty good one—she’s got room to grow, room to become a strong heroine. I may yet use her in a book.

But she was all wrong for Quinn and because I was trying to make her work? The book was stalling.

So there I am, deleting half of what I had written—and at this point, some work had already gone into the blurb…and the fact that I had gone and dumped most of the story? Well, the blurb no longer worked. They had to start from scratch… kind of like I was doing. And the story was due in…oh, three months, I think?

Oddly enough, once I dumped the story and started working on this new one? It started moving. I don’t even remember exactly where the idea for this new heroine came from. She was just sort of… there.

She was stronger—she had some weaknesses, some vulnerabilities, but she was also a fighter. She might find herself hip-deep in trouble, but she’d also be perfectly capable of getting herself out.

And more—she wouldn’t run from Quinn. He has a lot of darkness inside him and some of that is going to haunt him for a while. What he needed was somebody who wouldn’t just understand that darkness—but somebody who could walk with him through the darkness. She can do that. The heroine I’d originally given him? No. No way. She might try, but that kind of darkness…she isn’t ready to face that kind of darkness.

This story ended up taking on a lot of twists, a lot of turns, but once I’d figured out who needed to be in the story—and who didn’t—it was amazingly easy to get it written, and I swear, I can almost see the brothers smirking at me, too. Laughing at me. After all, I had to nerve to try to control the story in both books.

Quinn’s story is Broken—it’s one of the few stories I didn’t have to beat my head against the wall while trying to think up a title. He’s broken in the beginning of the story, damaged in so many ways. His heroine Sara has damage of her own and getting these two souls together took some doing. But it was worth it. If you’d like to read an excerpt, you can find one here. It’s now available in stores.

***

Leave a comment by Tuesday, March 9, 2010, 6:00 a.m. CST to win a copy of Broken. Book will be shipped with Amazon Prime to United States addresses only.

But besides the characters there’s the setting. Where to put these series? Do I make up a place in a certain local or do I use a real place. Any of you who have read my books know I love Savannah and set three books there. My Hot series…Hot and Bothered, Hot and Irresistible and out in May Hot Southern Nights.

For one of the series it’s back to Savannah. I love the people there and the culture and the local. I had one reader tell me she felt as if she visited Savannah she could get around the city just fine as she knew the streets, restaurants, hotels, historical houses and best places to shop.

The other series I’m starting is in Texas and I’ve made up the small town. Eagle Ridge, Texas. This is fun too. I get to find neat names for the diner and beauty salon and the hardware store. And I name the parks and creeks and streets.

So my question to you today is… Which setting do you prefer? Do you like to read about places that already exist or are fictional towns more to your liking?

I’ll pick a winner for a signed copy of Hot and Irresistible and a Hot and Irresistible T-shirt.

Anyone wanting an envelope of goodies from me send me your snail address.

Have a great weekend.

Hugs, Dianne
DianneCastell@hotmail.com
www.DianneCastell.com

Congratulations to Chelsea B. for winning a copy of this book!

About the Book

According to Judge Bennett Walker, trying to kill him is a dumb idea. They might make him wear a big black nightgown to work, but it covers a lot of muscles, and he’s definitely packing beneath it. He’s also an ex-prosecutor and an ex-GI Joe. So when his brother brings in Callie Robbins to protect him, Ben has a few issues. First, he doesn’t need a bodyguard. Second, she’s a 130-pound girl—more smoking hot than smoking gun. And third, what if his body wants her guarding the night shift?

Callie has no problem brushing aside Ben’s disbelief. She left the FBI to escape the boys’ club, but she can be deeper undercover and twice as lethal as any beefy John Doe. As for whether someone’s after Bennett or not, the death threats and car bombs look pretty convincing to Callie. Of course, she might get distracted, sitting inches from the sexiest judge in DC for ten hours a day. Keeping him safe is no picnic. Keeping it professional—that might be impossible.

By HelenKay Dimon

· Kensington Brava
· March 2010
· ISBN: 0758229070

order at Amazon.com
order at Barnes&Noble.com

Read an excerpt after the break!

CHAPTER ONE

“I don’t need a bodyguard.” Judge Bennett Walker delivered his observation as he unclipped the top of his black robe and stripped the garment off his shoulders.

Callie Robbins had to fight hard to keep from rolling her eyes. Three denials in two minutes. Yeah, she got it. The big tough guy in the flower print tie somehow thought he could stop a bullet simply by pretending it didn’t exist.

Gavel or not, she was not a fan of pigheaded stupidity, even if it did come in a six-foot-three package of smoldering eye candy. And this guy had the smoking hot thing down. A square jaw and light brown hair that fell in a soft line over his forehead were just the beginning of the impressive package.

She’d heard about the broad shoulders he hid under the required work outfit. Watching his white shirt pull across his chest, she now could vouch for his linebacker form. Thirty-eight and sat on his butt all day but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on the guy that she could tell.

Still, all of the idol worship surrounding him in the Circuit Court for Montgomery County, Maryland, struck her as overkill. From what she could tell, Ben Walker was a prosecutor-turned judge-turned-superstar in the uber-wealthy area north of Washington, D.C. He wielded a heap of power and had all of the female courthouse clerks scurrying around to catch a peek at him. But, really, he was just a man. And from Callie’s one-hundred-twenty seconds of experience, a very stubborn one.

“If there’s nothing else…” Ben let his voice trail off as he slid into his oversized leather desk chair.

Callie didn’t bother to respond to the not-so-subtle dismissal because he wasn’t talking to her. Hell, he hadn’t even sent a small glance in her direction since she’d dodged his gaggle of admirers in the outer office to follow him into his private chambers. No, the judge saved all of this wrath and attention for the other man in the room, his older brother by one year, Mark Walker.

“This isn’t up for discussion, Ben.” Mark said in a clear attempt at reason. “You have a target on your back.”

“I’m not the one in danger.”

Mark shook his head. “Your job is to rule on cases. Leave the law enforcement decisions up to me, will ‘ya?”

Callie knew Mark could handle the worst. He had turned his tenure at the FBI into a position with an undercover division within Homeland Security charged with protecting high profile targets in the D.C. metro area. Callie wasn’t sure what the job entailed, but she knew it was a big one. The kind where her record would likely disqualify her for regular duty, which explained why she was an independent contractor doing Mark a private favor on this job.

Since the judge hadn’t acknowledged her presence except for a brief nod after Mark’s introduction, she decided to force the issue. She was standing right there next to the judge. Hard to imagine he could miss her, what with his big brain and all.

“Did you forget the part where someone blew up your car?” she asked.

Silence slammed through the large room. For a second, nothing moved. Callie was pretty sure even the wall clock stopped ticking. Then the judge turned in his seat and glanced up at her with a blank expression. “Hard to do that since it burst into flames about ten feet away from me.”

“A smart guy would take that as a sign,” Mark said.

With that, the judge went right back to talking to his brother. “Emma was the target, not me.”

The long breath eased from Callie’s chest. Something about having the man’s sole attention turned on her made her nerve endings jump and twitch. An odd shakiness flooded through her. And she didn’t like it one bit.

She watched the brothers argue, marveled at how different two men who were raised in the same household could be. Mark sounded reasonable, smart, focused. The judge came off as a pompous jackass. Attractive in a make-your-eyes-cross kind of way, but still a pompous jackass.

He tried to put her in her place by pretending she barely existed. She had seen the tactic before. A woman didn’t rise in the ranks of the FBI without throwing a few elbows. Sure, she’d thrown one too many, which explained why she was here without her badge instead of sitting behind her desk in an office nearby, but she could fight back. If the good judge wanted attitude, she could shovel plenty of it right on top of him.

“Look, Your Honor,” she said in the least respectful tone she could muster. “Your girlfriend has security protection. You’ve refused it. From what I can tell, that makes her the smarter of the two of you.”

He smiled. “Emma Blanton is not my girlfriend.”

Not exactly the response Callie expected, but at least he finally bothered to stare at her for more than two seconds. And without throwing her in jail, that had to be considered a success. “You and your girlfriend would be barbeque right now except that the bomb went off too early.”

Ben folded is hands together in front of him on the desktop. “True, but she’s still not my girlfriend.”

Talk about fixating on the wrong point. “Fine. What do you want me to call her?”

“You could try Judge Blanton.” Ben glanced at his brother. “And the bomb was meant for her.”

Mark just shook his head. “It was your car, genius.”

“Emma doesn’t drive. The fact we’d been attending the judicial conference together is not exactly a secret. We were on the same panel when she made the inflammatory comments that resulted in all of the bad press. Her speech has been all over the news. I’m assuming that’s how this lunatic tracked her down. I just got in the way.”

Callie thought calling the other woman’s talk “inflammatory” was like calling Ben sort of good looking – a wild understatement. “Judge Blanton told a criminal defendant he was ‘filth’ as part of her sentencing decision and then reiterated her position in front of a room full of reporters at your conference,” Calllie pointed out.

Ben’s eyebrow lifted. “I was there for the latter.”

“Then you know what I’m talking about.”

“Steve Jenner was a pretty bad guy.”

Callie knew that. Despite what Ben might think, she read a newspaper now and then.