Ari slipped her keys into the large, beige purse hanging on her shoulder. She released an exasperated exhale. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
The hell she didn’t. She should have realized her limitations and let someone else climb the ladder for what she needed.
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re doing me a favor.” Brooke laid her backpack on the yellow couch. “I have an important paper to work on for my history class. My roommate doesn’t understand the definition of quiet, and I hate studying late at the campus library on weekends. Besides that, Celine would kill me if I didn’t take care of you.” The twenty-two-year-old, college junior smiled as she flipped her brown hair. “I’m staying.”
“So am I.” Dalir stood in front of Ari.
Her jaw tightened as she gave him a withering stare. “In that case, you’re welcome to stay, Brooke. I’ll make up the guest bedroom.”
“No need. Just tell me where to find a pillow and blanket. I can crash out on the couch. Not that I’ll be getting much sleep. I have a lot to do.” Brooke straightened the hem of her white T-shirt over the waist of her skinny jeans. She shooed Ari toward the hallway.
“I’ll work on dinner while you get cleaned up.”
“I didn’t make it to the store this week. Just order pizza. The menu is on the side of the fridge.” Ari stalked away. The mid-thigh length of her dress and her high heels emphasized Ari’s toned legs. Her hips swayed with every step.
Awareness flared. Dalir tamped it down. He needed to know what was going on. She had to stop blowing him off.
He phased down the hall and blocked her path into the bedroom. “It won’t work. I know you can hear and see me, Little One. Talk to me.”
Ari maneuvered past him. The chain shoulder strap on her purse jangled when she dropped it on top of the natural wood dresser. She slammed the door. “One. You do not boss me around. Two. I got stuffed into a space the size of a soda can because I talked to you, so as far as I’m concerned, we’re done communicating. And three,” she advanced on him, “call me Little One again and you’ll regret it.”
Difficult. Mouthy. She was definitely friends with Lauren and Celine.
“I’m not leaving, Little One, until I get answers.”
She socked him in the stomach.
Caught off guard, Dalir hissed out a short breath. “You think you can take me?”
She glared up at him. “Say it again and find out.” One good junk punch and you’ll drop to your knees.
Her thought stung like a phantom slap to the cheek. He backed her up against the edge of the dresser.
The mirror shook. Perfume bottles rattled.
He planted his palms on either side of her. “I don’t think so.”
She lifted her chin. Too bad he’s such a jerk. Her thoughts grew louder in his mind. Look at all those muscles. I’m going with figment of my imagination over ghost. I hit my head. That makes better sense. Doesn’t it? Is it weird for me to be attracted to a figment of my imagination? Wait. What am I doing fighting with him in the first place? He’s my fantasy. I should be stripping him naked and getting my hands on all that goodness.
What should I call him? Yummy should definitely be his middle name.
He caught a view of her conjured up image of him, shirtless, and her yanking down is zipper. Lust snaked through him. “Be careful what you wish for.”
She snickered. “You wish you knew what I wanted.”

Nina Crespo lives in Florida where she indulges in her favorite passions—the beach, kickboxing, a good glass of wine, and dancing. Her lifelong addiction to romance began in her teens while on a “borrowing spree” in her older sister’s bedroom where she discovered her first romance novel. Curiosity about people and places, including what’s beyond the stars, fuels her
writer’s imagination. Indulge in her sensual contemporary stories and steamy paranormal tales to feed your own addiction for love, romance, and happily ever after.

Conn slowed his descent as treetops came into view beyond the fading mist, which had thinned to nearly nothing in the past hour. Whipping open my wings, I landed softly on the hard ground among a grove of evergolds. Even in this frozen tundra, the giants famous for their flora of fire-gold leaves grew tall and thick-branched in abundance. I lifted my visor to a brilliant burst of color that contrasted against the brown earth and snow-swept embankments.

Bowen landed quietly behind me. “How about some lunch before we set out on foot?” He removed and tucked away his visor and unpacked his crossbow from its sheath on his back for the first time on this journey.

“Let’s get into the cover of trees,” said Conn, moving along the natural path. “And lunch sounds perfect.”

“Benta’s breakfast wasn’t enough for you?” I asked, meeting his long stride.

“I always have an appetite, sweetheart.”

“While you two continue flirting, I’ll find some small game nearby. Set up the hotpad over near that big evergold.”

Without a sound, Bowen disappeared into the trees.

“Flirting?” I scoffed. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“I was.” Conn grinned.

“Stop it.”

“I haven’t even gotten started yet.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“So you’ve said before.”

“Listen—” I put up both gloved hands to stop his snarky banter for just one second. “I’m glad we’re finally alone.”

“Me, too.” His lopsided grin made my heart flutter.

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I stopped under a thick oak with ample coverage from above and unhooked my chest pack before dropping it to the ground. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about…about last night.”

“Mmm. Last night.”

He removed his own pack and gloves, then pulled out the small, electronic hotpad. After opening the tripod that kept it off the ground, he turned it on. Gisa ordered us to use the hotpad instead of fire when we were in the open to avoid alerting predators or criminals to our presence.

Conn stood and propped his hands low on his hips. “Would you like a second round?”

“No…no.” I cleared my throat and shook my head, my ponytail sliding on the smooth leather of my jacket. “Actually, that should never have happened. I shouldn’t have let that happen. But I—”

“Couldn’t resist,” he finished, a devilish smile brimming his beautiful face. “It’s okay. It happens a lot.”

“You’re such an ass.” I rolled my eyes. “I could’ve resisted.”

“Could you?”

He broke his rigid stance and sauntered closer, a feral glimmer in his gaze. By instinct, I backed up a step, my wings scraping the rough bark of the evergold behind me. He moved into my personal space.

“What are you doing?” I asked, heart hammering.

He flattened one hand against the tree above my head, his finger grazing the arch of my wing. I shivered.

“Are you sure you could resist?”

I cleared my throat. “Of course,” I said, trying to sound confident, but my voice betrayed me and broke.

“Well…I couldn’t.” He brushed the back of his knuckles along my jaw. I held still, caught.

“Actually, I want to taste you again. Right now.”

Even stone-cold sober, I felt drunk from a single touch, longing to fall back into his arms and let him show me what his hazel-gold eyes promised without a word.

He leaned close, his warm breath grazing my ear. “Let me taste you again, Valla.”

I planted my hands on his chest, wishing there weren’t the layers of thermal suit and leather between my palms and his rock-hard chest.

He nuzzled the shell of my ear with his nose, then his lips. “Let me.”

His darkened voice pleaded and demanded at the same time, spreading warmth between my legs. What had gotten into me? I pushed him out of my way and stormed toward a densely wooded area.

“Where are you going?” he laughed. “Running away?”

“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom,” I yelled over my shoulder.

“Not by yourself, you’re not.” His footsteps crunched across the thin blanket of snow and leaves behind me.

I whirled, heat burning up my neck, now from anger not lust. “Whoa, there, big boy.” I threw up a hand, halting him several feet away. “Look. You’re not my keeper. And just because we shared one kiss doesn’t mean anything. I’m going to relieve myself by myself. Do you understand?”

His wings twitched at his back. Agitated. Whatever.

“And stop scowling at me,” I called back as I spun and trekked off the path into the brush.

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I’m delighted to be here today and want to thank Jen for allowing me to take over her blog with my newest release MYTH AND MAGIC, a story of romantic suspense and mystery set during Halloween. As an author I’m often asked what inspired me to write a particular novel.

In the case of MYTH AND MAGIC, there was a house in our neighborhood when I was a kid that everyone said was haunted. There were always whispers of strange things going on there, and we (the kids) invented stories to feed those rumors. With Myth and Magic I wanted to capture the same feeling I had when I wondered if there really were ghosts roaming the house.

I also wanted to write a story with a lavish Halloween party.

Mae Clair opened a Pandora’s Box of characters when she was a child and never looked back. Her father, an artist who tinkered with writing, encouraged her to create make-believe worlds by spinning tales of far-off places on summer nights beneath the stars.

Mae loves creating character-driven fiction in settings that vary from contemporary to mythical. Wherever her pen takes her, she flavors her stories with mystery and romance. Married to her high school sweetheart, she lives in Pennsylvania and is passionate about cryptozoology, old photographs, a good Maine lobster tail and cats.


You can find Mae Clair at the following haunts:

Website
Blog
Twitter (@MaeClair1)
Facebook Author Page
Amazon Author Page
Kensington Books Author Page
Goodreads
Pinterest

Thanks for having me here today. Lately I’ve been asked a lot about how I started writing and why I write in the genres I do. I understand. It’s a strange occupation with very little in the way of thrills and glory. Most people think we make a lot of money, but for most of us, that’s not true. So why do something so hard? I admit I’ve asked myself that question more than once. The truth is, even if I never sold another book, I would still write them. The stories are in my head and they have to come out.

But that’s not how or why I started writing. I started reading romance and sci-fi in my early twenties. My husband was working nights and I was bored and lonely. The girls in my office started bringing me books. One brought me a stack of Star Trek novels. I ripped through them and ran to the books store to buy more. Then some other girls convinced me I had to read Sandra Brown. They were right, of course. I love Sandra, Jude Deveraux, Judith McNaught as well as Kit Rocha, Karla Doyle and the ultimate Historical writer of all time, Jane Austen.

So I found a love for reading kind of late in life but it was an instant addiction. It fed the stories that had always been in my head. Those daydreams that had gotten me into so much trouble in school were coming faster and with more detail. So I wrote them down. I was terrible at it, but I did it anyway. I took classes on writing, read books and joined organizations. It took me years to hone my craft and write a decent book that might be published.

My first novel was contemporary. It was never published and will never be. It was a sweet story though and very dear to my heart. I wrote two more, this time epic fantasy. One day I may go back and turn those into something publishable. Right now they are just a novice attempt, but the stories are great. I kept on looking for my perfect genre, the one that would get me published. I wrote time travel and past lives. Yes, there are a lot of books gathering dust on my never-to-be-seen-in-public shelf.

I loved historical romance, but was always afraid to write it. All that research and what if I got it wrong? But I don’t like to let fear guide me, so I wrote one. It’s good. It will be published soon I think. I loved writing it and the think that scared me most, the rules, is the thing I love best about writing historical.

Still part of me wanted to write paranormal. I love the idea of what might be but just isn’t proven yet. I love mythology and when End of Days was approaching it was the perfect time to write books that speculated on the aftermath of December 21, 2012. That’s when I fell in love with writing demon stories. I love to write historical because of all the rules and then I also adore breaking all the rules, which is great to do with paranormal. The Demon Hunter series is the perfect vehicle for rule breaking and I promise you I broke them in the most spectacular ways.

I love a strong, independent heroine. I hate whining women who can’t make a decision. It makes the rest of us look bad. For the heroes, I like them to be strong. They have to be to stand up to the KickAss women I write. I also want them to be sensible. I love a man with a good mind as well as good abs.

Deception is my latest release. Lillian Dellacourt is freaking awesome! She can really beat down some demons, but she also needs love more than any character I’ve ever written. She’s so full of need, but too tough to take kindness from anyone. Her sordid past has soured her against anyone with a title. Even a marques who denies his title. Dorian has his work cut out for him.

Dorian’s brother, Brice is the instructor at the demon hunter school. He wrote Dorian about Lillian when she was still a student and the poor guy has been smitten ever since.

So, why do I write? Did I ever answer that question? I write because there are stories in my head and they need to get out. I write for the love of books. I write for that moment when a reader tweets me, “I just read you book, and I couldn’t put it down.”

I hope you enjoy reading Deception as much as I loved writing it.

Thanks for having me here today!

A.S.

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In this scene, Gabby and Frank’s relationship tentatively begins moving beyond best friends… until they are interrupted by Gabby’s older sister Esperanza:


        The fire crackled, and Frank joined me at the window. Lamplight pooled around my socks, and rain rat-a-tatted on the roof.
        “Rain, rain, go away. Come again, another day,” Frank said.
        “You go from Lester Ruben to Mother Goose. I guess Shakespeare’s a stretch.”
        “Oh yeah? ‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’”
        “English 101, right? One of the sonnets?”
        “Sonnet 57, to be precise.”
        “I’m impressed.”
        “Never underestimate me.” His hand brushed mine, and a charge ran up my arm. “You know, you don’t need to be jealous of Esperanza. You’re as pretty as she is.” He stammered over the last few words.
        My cheeks grew hot. No guy had ever called me pretty.
        Frank put his arm around my waist.
        Surprising myself, I leaned against him. Frank understood my complicated feelings for Esperanza and Abuela, how they shut me out and acted like nothing mattered except knitting. Our friendship went back forever. Words were unnecessary.
        “What are you two doing over there?” Esperanza said from behind us.
        Frank and I disentangled and whirled.
        Esperanza, balancing a tray holding three steaming mugs, winked at me. She placed the drinks on the coffee table and handed Frank a mug. Eyes downcast, he sipped the drink, fire flickering behind him.

Website - www.erinfanning.com
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Twitter - @WriterErin