I bought this little brainstorming tool years ago at some writers’ conference. I’ve used it only three times—here! “Story Cubes” is a brainstorming game. You roll the dice and whatever pictures appear, face up, are the ones you use to riff off a story.
To make this fun, I’ll offer a prize—a $5 Amazon gift card—good for purchasing one or two stories…
Have fun with this! Don’t overthink! Here’s the roll…
UPDATE: The winners are… Delaine McLafferty, Misty Dawn Cecil, and Elaine Swinney!
*~*~*
Besides my series, I have written some very sexy standalone stories, too! I forget about them because I’m so busy trying to keep up with series, but I shouldn’t. In fact, I should go back and look at my workplan, because I deserve to write something completely fun and one-off!
If you haven’t read the books below, now’s your time to peruse, and I’m including an excerpt from one of them so you can sample some of the fun. Several of them are menage stories, so if that’s your thing, be sure to check them out!
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Click on any cover to learn more about the story!
Excerpt from Handy Men…
The impulse came like a flash of lightning—hot and searing—all the way to the bone. An idea born of a need she hadn’t felt in a long, long time…and inspired by one red-hot handyman in butt-hugging jeans and a snug T-shirt.
The man fired the militant gleam in her eyes as she brushed bronzing powder across her cheeks and swiped carmine “eat me” red lip stain across her mouth.
She didn’t give herself time to rethink the decision, reaching for the phone before her usual, cautious self reasserted control. No more couch potato cry-ins for her. No more self-imposed exclusion while she figured out what to do with the rest of her life. Today, a new Pamela Dwyer was reaching for the goddamn gusto.
The anger felt good. Especially after the shock she’d received moments ago when she’d surfed the internet for the latest gossip about her ex.
One glance at Andrew’s Facebook page, and Pamela’s confusion over what the hell had happened to her life dried up. He’d blocked her from his page, but his profile picture had been changed from Andrew’s handsome, craggy face to the soft innocence of his newborn son’s.
The picture said it all. And no doubt every one of their friends here in Austin, who’d rallied around her when he’d left, would now pour out their congratulations to him, while privately agreeing he’d done the only thing he could do to be happy.
Tears had stung her eyes, but she’d refused to let them fall. Instead, she’d blinked them away, closed out the screen and glanced through the blinds at her immaculate lawn. The perfect lawn and landscaping to surround the perfectly appointed house she’d won in the divorce settlement.
But back to that lightning strike…
Across the street, a man had stood atop a ladder while he fished leaves from old Mr. Johnson’s gutters. It wasn’t the fact the old man had spent money to hire someone to do odd jobs around his place that caught her attention, although that was plenty unusual all by itself. It was the way the sunlight glinted on the younger man’s hair. Glints of gold she could see from over thirty feet away. And once her attention was snagged by that halo-like glow, her gaze couldn’t help but trail down the long, lean, buff lines of his healthy frame.
From the back, the man was perfection. Then he’d turned to the side, no doubt to say something to Mr. Johnson who hovered at the bottom of the ladder. The old skinflint would supervise the handyman to make sure he got every nickel’s worth of his money. However, not a hint of irritation showed in the handyman’s expression. His smile had been quick—a flash of white teeth against a tanned face.
Pamela had breathed deeply, enjoying the surge of heat flowing through her veins. So much better than the cold, hollow feeling in her womb. Arousal had bloomed, fresh and unexpected, washing over her, lapping away the disappointment. Leaving her…expectant. Feeling younger than her thirty-eight years.
There were times in a woman’s life when she had to grab the bull by the horns or she’d never taste passion again. Pamela decided then and there that her time was now.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell chimed.
Christ, do I really have the guts? She’d had twenty minutes to get icy cold feet.
She held her hand in front of her face and blew against her palm then sniffed. Mouthwash still works.
Before opening her door, Pamela bent over, shook her head then straightened, giving her straight blonde hair an extra fluff. She pasted on a smile—not too wide or eager—one she’d practiced in front of the bathroom mirror to make sure it reflected just the right amount of casual interest. She didn’t want to scare him away. At least not before she had a chance to practice being a femme fatale.
However, after opening the door, her smile faltered just a bit. Up close, the repairman was more of a rangy lion than a bull, and even more attractive than her secretive glances through the blinds had revealed. Thickly muscled arms and a broad chest stretching a green Handy Men tee filled her vision.
Maybe she should have targeted someone more in her league—and at least fifteen years older. However, when she’d seen him working on the rain gutters of her neighbor’s house and watched the way he moved gracefully up and down the ladder, a plan had begun to form. One she was too invested in to back out of now.
“Your neighbor said you were havin’ trouble with a garbage disposal?”
Good Lord, his voice was deep and sinful. Her greedy glance shot up to meet his, and she noted the crinkles of amusement at the sides of his eyes. Blue eyes with golden coronas around the pupils. Yum.
Realizing her mouth hung open, she snapped her jaw closed. “Uh, yes. Trouble with the disposal. That’s why you’re here.”
It was the truth, so she didn’t stutter over it. However, she didn’t mention she’d thrown a handful of screws into the sink to make sure the old disposal seized. Her plan to lure him into her house was working like a charm. She wished her ex could see her now. Plain Pam, reliable Pam, boring, defective Pam had a few tricks left.
“I’m Jeff McCaffrey,” he said, and held out his hand.
Blowing out a little breath to release her tension, she gave him her hand and shook. “Pamela,” she said quickly.
His palms were callused and large. She slid her hand slowly from his, enjoying the scrape. Even if things didn’t work out, she’d have plenty of sensory details to savor later to go along with the lovely picture he made.
“Um…” He lifted the toolbox with a flex of impressive biceps and raised his eyebrows.
It took a second to register that he needed her to move away from the door. Feeling flustered, she stood back and waved him inside. She closed the door behind him and followed eagerly on his heels into the hallway.
He halted abruptly.
Unable to stop her forward momentum, Pamela held out her hands to brace herself—and cupped his ass.
His head swiveled to glance back at her, a slight, dazed smile curving his mouth.
She paused a second too long before removing them, but it was his own damn fault. His ass was too much temptation for her to resist a little squeeze. “Sorry about that,” she muttered, palms and face burning. Lord, she was thirty-eight, and he had her blushing like a teenager. Her flirting skills were woefully rusty.
He cleared his throat and pointed toward the door on the left. “The kitchen?”
“Yeah,” she said, sounding a little winded, but her fingers tingled and her skin felt on fire. She hadn’t wanted to come on to the younger man like a cougar in heat, but he was fine-fine-fine.
He swung open the door and walked to the counter, where he set his toolbox beside the sink. “What sort of noises was it makin’?”
“Crunchy?”
“Crunchy?” His lips twitched.
She shrugged. He was the “Mr. Fix-It”. He’d figure out soon enough what the problem was. Maybe he’d think the screws in the disposal had gotten there by accident.
He reached beneath the cabinet next to the sink and flipped the switch.
Metallic grating made her wince. The poor thing ground worse than her ex’s teeth.
Without looking back, he said, “Don’t touch the switch. I don’t have my tongs, so I’m gonna stick my hand down there to see what’s happenin’.”
In his hand went, and he turned slightly to the side, his gaze meeting hers while a frown drew his honey-brown brows together. When he pulled free, he held a screw. “Wonder how that happened?” he drawled.
She grinned brightly. “Serendipity?”
“Wha—?”
So maybe not a brain surgeon, or even much of a reader, but the calculated stare he returned told her he wasn’t stupid. He pulled out another and laid it on the countertop, and then another. “Somethin’ you wanna tell me, Pamela?”
For a chance to win your choice of story from among my Night Fall or Beaux Rêve Coven series (both paranormal with shifters!), solve the puzzle then tell me your favorite flavor of shifter!
I’ve been working like a fiend for the past week. Whether helping my dd sort through my mom’s lifetime accumulation of stuff, writing the next bounty hunter, editing pages for author-friends, and reading shorts for the next Boys Behaving Badly anthology, I don’t have time for TV. So, I missed this year’s Grammys. However, this video of one of the performances during that show is inescapable. I saw it on a Twitter feed, watched it once, and I swear I’ve probably watched it twenty more times over the past few days.
There’s so much to love about it.
First, you see Demi Lovato in a gorgeous dress, looking angelic. Immediately, I was struck with gratitude that the overdose she suffered didn’t kill her and that she’s standing on stage looking beautiful and strong.
Then you see her begin to sing, and she does that thing that anyone who’s stood on a stage fears most—making a mistake and having to start over. My stomach sank, and I was cheering inside for her to go on. She did.
As a writer and editor, I love her words. They are few. But every single one matters. The lyrics are raw from Word One. I love the melody. It plays in my head. I can’t hum it; it starts low and quickly rises way outside my limited range, but the music makes my heart soar.
And then you see the tears, hear the tears. If you’re one of those lucky people, like me, who gets goosebumps when music moves you, then you know how I feel every time she gets to that searing crescendo. It’s glib to say, but it’s a wonderful performance.
If you haven’t seen it, get ready. If you have, enjoy another look…
Those of us who have multiple pen names usually use them to differentiate one type of writing from another. For instance, I have Dee S. Knight for erotic romance, Anne Krist for non-erotic romance, and Jenna Stewart for ménage and shifter books.
When I first conceived of Anne and later, Jenna, I thought I would use them so readers could avoid confusion as to which kind of book they were picking up. I didn’t consider that writing such different kinds of books meant I would actually be using different personality traits. When a friend pointed it out to me, “What fun!” At her suggestion, I’ve played on the three, whom I’ve termed sisters.
Anne: Dee is the older sister. Dee: Only by a few minutes. And being older makes me wiser, you know. Anne: In your dreams, perhaps. Jenna: I’m the baby and get all the attention, so go ahead and fight it out. Dee: Keep quiet, Jenna. This discussion is for Anne and me. Jenna: I’m telling!
Girls, settle down. Years ago, when I conceived Anne, I gave interviews as the two sisters and had such fun I started a blog that featured their opposing personalities, A Little Sisterly Advice, kinda like Dear Abby. Each Sunday night/Monday morning for six years I choose a question and had some fun with it, answering as each author. Anne, is usually reasonable and—
Anne: Did you hear that? She said I was reasonable. Dee: She’s too nice to say boring.
Ladies, really! Stop sniping. As I was saying, Anne is reasonable in her answers and Dee is…well, not quite so.
Anne: *chuckling* You’re not reasonable. Dee: *proudly* Damn straight.
*Shaking head* Anyway, I was always looking for good questions mand passed on an eBook for readers who sent one in that I used. I had to remind readers that I am not a psychologist and that my answers were strictly for entertainment. Here’s a sample of a previous question.
Q: My boyfriend of two years says he loves me and has invited me to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. On previous visits, they’ve made no secret of the fact that they hate my clothing, my hair, my job (beautician)—virtually everything about me. What should I do?
~Not Too Thankful for Dinner
Anne: Talk to your boyfriend, Not Too Thankful. He says he loves you so he should step up to the plate and defend you to his parents. I’m sure he will! And maybe this will be what they need to see the light and realize how important you are to their son. Happy holidays!
Dee: It’s Thanksgiving, so be thankful you’re about to get better advice from me than Anne just gave you. If you’re thinking of marrying this man, remember that it’s better to have a turkey of a Thanksgiving without him this year than to be served up a platter of rejection every year from now on. The fact is, they’ve made “no secret” how little you mean to them. If your boyfriend hasn’t already straightened them out about how he feels about you, your goose is cooked, girl! Get out before someone starts pelting you with cranberries.
This is what I meant when I said I took on the personas of both authors, Anne and Dee. Lord only knows what Jenna would have responded if she’d been around back then!
What do you think of authors having more than one pen name and then revealing them? Should I have kept them secret? Do you enjoy the different personalities, and would they stop you from reading a book from one of the authors? I’m curious!
Burning Bridges by Anne Krist
Letters delivered decades late send shock waves through Sara Richards’s world. Nothing is the same, especially her memories of Paul, a man to whom she’d given her heart years before. Now, sharing her secrets and mending her mistakes of the past means putting her life back together while crossing burning bridges. It will be the hardest thing Sara’s ever done.
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. She is the primary persona of three pen names—triplets, if you will: Dee, Anne Krist, and Jenna Stewart.
As noted above, Dee S. Knight writes erotic romance—emphasis on the romance! She was part of an anthology named a Top Pick in Romantic Times magazine (Resolutions) and the sole author of another Top Pick designation, for the paranormal erotic romance, Passionate Destiny.
“Sister” Anne Krist does not write erotic romance. Her book, Burning Bridges, has received high praise and multiple 5-star reviews because of the depth of the romance and emotion. Burning Bridges is Anne’s first book but she has a series planned that she hopes to have out soon.
Third of the triplets is Jenna Stewart. Jenna has tried her hand at ménage—in both historical and shifter books. She wrote the Sisters O’Ryan series set during the westward migration in the U.S., the Great Wolves of Men-Edge, and Unlikely Bedfellows.
Regardless of the name she uses to write during the day, their dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy. What happens during their nights are their secret.
For romance ranging from sweet to historical, contemporary to paranormal and more join the girls on Nomad Authors. Sign up for Dee’s newsletter with Jan Selbourne and have access to fun free reads. Also, once a month, look for Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity.
Following the same theme as my last post, where I introduced or reminded you about an older series that’s been updated, I’m including an excerpt from the second book in the Danger Zone series, Mutiny’s Bounty. It’s my favorite story in the series because of the shark cage scene, which I share a bit of below. And of course, it’s sexy as hell. The hero’s a SEAL, and my heroine falls quickly into insta-lust (who wouldn’t?) then love, because again, he’s hot, heroic, and knows just how to turn a girl inside out.
Remember, the first book, Dangerous Liaisons, is on sale for just $0.99! That price is not going to last long!
But then, you really don’t have to read the stories in sequence, although I think you’d enjoy the series better! Or if your reading time is limited, you could just jump straight to Mutiny’s Bounty, because, again…sexy as hell, SEALs, danger at the bottom of the sea, an excursion on a billionaire’s yacht…
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Excerpt from Mutiny’s Bounty
Dex strode aft and glanced over the side of the boat to the escort skiff bobbing on a gentle sea.
Justin raised a hand to wave.
Dex touched his earpiece. “How’s everything going?”
“No worries. Except Johnny thinks something’s up with the engine. It’s been hiccupping a bit.”
Damn. Dex blew out a breath. “If he’s worried, radio back to shore to muster another boat. Halloran has a cruiser we can put to use.”
“Will do. Is your lady friend nervous about the dive?”
“Not too much.” Dex grinned. “She’ll have me in the cage.”
“No worries then. No Great White’s a match for a SEAL.”
Dex gave the men another wave then pushed away from the side. There wasn’t a cloud in the clear blue sky. The sea was calm. Shrugging off his momentary frisson of unease, he went in search of Lace. She’d be his focus throughout this adventure. Still, he ran up the metal steps and entered the bridge, eyeing the captain who gave him a little wave and the other white-suited crewman, who was one of Halloran’s guards.
Dex nodded toward the screen, free of any blips. “No other boats in the area?”
“Screen’s been clear since we left the island. We’ve got it covered. Enjoy the dive.”
The other man’s grin was friendly enough. Unworried, Dex nodded then headed out the door. The other white-suited guard was probably serving drinks while keeping watch. All the activity of the staff and the dive team seemed to be business as usual. Dex didn’t know why his gut was telling him something wasn’t right, but he trusted his instincts. Always.
After taking more steps to the highest platform where a couple of guests were sunning themselves, Dex gazed out over the ocean. The water was calm and a deep, dark blue. Still nothing on the horizon. Looking down, he spotted Lace, holding onto the rail while she made her way toward the back of the yacht. Likely, she was beginning to get jittery about the dive.
Shrugging off the bad vibes, he took the stairs to the lower deck. The cage holding the first pair of divers was being winched up. They dropped their breathing apparatuses and grinned at Troy and his crew, the female bubbling an excited, “It was awesome!”
Dex glanced at Lace. She stood in the raised, caged platform, the spotter’s cage, gazing downward, likely counting fins. While her attention was drawn there, he went to the diving gear, chose a BCD, and then grabbed a tank, regulator, and weight belt. He checked filters, attached the regulator, then checked the tank’s pressure, assuring himself he had plenty of air for the short dive. He inspected the regulator and the alternate, checked inflation and deflation of his BCD.
Everything was in order, all the equipment well-maintained. He stripped off his tee, toed off his shoes, and placed his earpiece atop the folded bundle. Gearing up, he noted Lace heading down the ladder from the spotter’s cage and walking over to Troy.
Dex joined her, giving her a quick grin. “Still time to change your mind.”
She shook her head. “I watched the others. The cage is sturdy. And I have no wish to stick my hand outside the bars to try to pet them.”
Troy laughed. “We’ve got tiger sharks and Whites. Should be a good show.” He turned to Dex. “You ready?”
Dex gave him a nod, and then handed Lace goggles and a weight belt. “This will keep you from floating to the top of the cage.”
Her smile stretched across her face. “I actually think this will be fun. I didn’t much like swimming above them, but the cage is almost like wearing armor.”
Minutes later, the second couple exited the cage, and one of Troy’s team opened the cage door and signaled for them to enter. Dex followed Lace as she ducked through the entrance. Once inside, she donned her goggles and belt, and then reached above her for the hookah tube with the mouthpiece.
“Anything goes wrong with the air in the tube…” he held up the alternate regulator, “I have this. Just remember to breathe in through your mouth, exhale through your nose.”
“Got it,” she said, her expression tense but happy.
Dex glanced behind him just as the cage door swung closed.
Troy stood outside the cage, giving him a hard stare. “You take care of her, and no one gets hurt.” He turned the latch to close it.
Dex cut a glance around him, noted that the dive crew members were opening plastic tubs, pitching aside spare BCDs, and pulling out firearms, pistols and rifles. Dread clenched his gut. Trapped inside a cage, he couldn’t make a move.
Lace’s fingers curled around his wrist. “What’s happening?”
Through the bars, Dex’s gaze locked on Troy’s grim smile. “They’re taking the boat. My crew—”
“Will be busy fishing you two from the bottom of the sea,” Troy said. “They won’t be able to follow us because their engine’s about to seize. While they’re occupied, we’ll be rounding up Halloran and his rich friends, and inviting them to wire funds to our accounts. By the time that second escort boat headed this way arrives, we’ll be long gone.”
Lace curled her body against his. Automatically, he grabbed her waist.
“You’ve got another boat coming,” Dex guessed, his heart beginning to race as he realized there wasn’t a thing he could do. Already, the chain holding the cage was tightening, lifting them off the deck.
“Like I said, if your men don’t try anything stupid, everyone lives. I’m not a murderer. I’m just looking out for my retirement.” Troy gave another grin, one that was tight. His eyes gleamed beneath lowered brows. “Stop worrying about what’s happening up here. You’re gonna have your hands full.” He angled his head toward Lace.
The cage rattled and shook as the crane swung it out over the water. Another chum bucket was lowered over the side. Dex’s attention went to the sharks circling beneath them, and then to the woman standing beside him, her eyes wide as saucers, and her body beginning to shake. “Grab tight to the cage, baby. Hold your breath as we go down. Soon as we’re in the water, I’ll share my tank. We’ll be okay.”
With the cage poised above the water, Dex knew what was about to happen. He grabbed the rail and sank to his knees.
Lace did the same, staring back at him.
The moment the crane released the cage, chain rattling through the winch, they dropped into the water. A second later, they were fully submerged and lowering fast, Lace’s eyes widening behind her mask, her lips pinched closed and cheeks billowing as she held her breath.
Counting the seconds of their descent, Dex cleared his mask, put his regulator into his mouth, purged the water from it, and sucked in air. Then he slid his hand down the hose to the alternate regulator. With the cage still sinking, he held the rail with one hand and moved toward her.
He held up the yellow alternate regulator, but before allowing her to put it in her mouth, took out his own, showing her how to insert it, then hitting the purge button to let out water, before exaggerating an indrawn breath.
Lace followed his lead, at last breathing through the alternate. The panic in her face lessened as she breathed, and they both gazed upward. The chain rolled out, snagged at the end, then released. The cage free-floated the last few feet to settle in the sand at the sea bottom.
A couple of days ago, I was archiving my 2019 author interviews and guest blogs and it occurred to me that every interview began with the question — “What inspired you to write your book?” The next question asks about our characters — “Are they based on people we know or pure imagination?”“Was the story planned or did it grow as the chapters increased?” And, every author has a different story concerning what inspired him or her to write their story. That’s the beauty of books, each one is new and unique for the reader, taking us on an adventure from the first page.
My first attempts at writing were full of enthusiasm and scenes in my head but lacking in the essential substance – inspiration.
It was by chance while sitting in the doctor’s waiting room that I picked up a three month’s old journal and read an article on how a person’s true character emerges when faced with life-threatening danger or massive upheaval. For example, the tough guy turns to water and runs, the small insignificant person steps up and takes charge. An idea was forming in my head, and again, by chance, I was sorting through old family papers and came across my grandfather’s World War One military record. He served with the Australian Imperial Forces in Belgium and France and was involved in some of the bloodiest battles. He came home but was never the same, and it was years before he could talk about the horrors of that war. I decided to research the events leading up to the German invasion of Belgium in August 1914, and what followed was called The Rape of Belgium. I was reading the atrocities my grandfather spoke about. There was the inspiration and the setting for my first book, Behind the Clouds.
Behind the Clouds
Barely tolerating each other, Adrian and Gabrielle Bryce are trapped in Belgium as the clouds of war loom over Europe.
Plunged into a nightmare of lies and betrayal they flee for their lives as the Germans cross the border. Narrowly avoiding capture, witnessing death and atrocities, they reach safety as two different people – only to face charges of treason and a woman who’ll stop at nothing to see Adrian dead.
Excerpt…
He’d barely slept because of this throbbing foot, and he was as thirsty as hell. Hobbling to the canal he drank the murky liquid, then dipped both his feet into the cold water. He let out a slow sigh as the cool water soothed his aching extremities. Gabrielle knelt at the water’s edge beside him to wash her face and push wet fingers through her hair to slick down the untidy curls. Her voice was low and angry.
“What was she like?”
“What are you talking about?” he scowled, dreading what was coming.
“Sigrid, Maryanne, whatever her name was,” she snapped back.
“What are you trying to do Gaby? Force an argument?”
“No, I’m not forcing an argument. I really want to know. You preferred that woman’s company to mine and your children’s and because of her and my uncle and your unbelievable stupidity, two innocent people have died, and we are forced to rely on each other to stay alive. Are you proud of yourself? And was her beauty and obvious bedroom expertise worth all of this?”
Adrian clenched his jaw and turned away, angry and embarrassed.
“I’m waiting,” she persisted. “I presume you also showered her with gifts and expensive baubles while we would be lucky to see you on our birthdays.”
Something snapped inside him. His face was tight with fury as turned back to face her.
“If I could get up and walk away, I would. Just what are you trying to achieve? We’ve avoided capture by the skin of our teeth, we have no idea how to get away, the Germans are pouring into Belgium, thousands will be killed, and you want to know if I showered her with gifts. Why don’t we concentrate on getting out of here and then you will be free of me? Now for Christ’s sake leave it alone.”
“You want to get up and walk away?” her voice dripped scorn. “Did I walk away from that lonely empty life in that big lonely house? Making excuses to your children, visiting neighbours on my own. Did I show such contempt for our marriage vows?”
“You forgot to mention entertaining Charlton in my home,” he snarled and flinched as Gabrielle’s hand slapped his face.
“Yes, your home,” she yelled. “I may have lived there and given birth to your children there, but it was always your home. I pray to God we will return to England and you can enjoy your home and your expensive, treacherous harlots!” Her hands clenched into fists. “Yes, Brian did share my bed. You were never there. You couldn’t care less about me or our children. You were so besotted with that German harlot’s devious charms you had no idea what was going on. She was exceptionally clever, and you were exceptionally stupid.”
Adrian rubbed his cheek and pointed his finger at her. “If you hit me again, you will be sorry. You want to know what she was like. I’ll tell you…She had long wavy auburn hair, a figure that made men’s eyes water and yes, she had expertise in the bedroom. She could drink me under the table and she could discuss politics like a man. She was exceptionally clever and yes, you are right, I was exceptionally stupid because I hadn’t a clue she was German or she’d bedded a cabinet minister, or she’d been on other assignments for your uncle. I’ve answered all your questions and I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not, but I’m bloody ashamed of myself. And I hope to God we’ll get back to England so you can do whatever you want, and I won’t have to listen to your harping sarcastic tongue. Are you happy now?”
“Oh yes, very happy, thank you. Who wouldn’t be, sitting here with you on the damp ground beside a canal without food or clean clothes,” her eyes glittered with contempt. “How does it feel you, a cabinet minister and my uncle shared her? I wonder if she kept an inventory of her jewelry and gifts to remember who gave her what.”
He pulled his feet from the water and stood up. “I’m not listening to your ranting anymore, nor am I waiting here for them to find me.”
“You can’t face the truth, can you?” she shouted at him. “Well, unpleasant as it is, you need me and I need you to survive. When we reach safety, you can go back to the life you enjoyed with your sophisticated women without the inconvenience of an unwanted wife. And, if we get out of here, I don’t want anything to do with you. Not even a Christmas card.” Her lip curled. “A gentleman never breaks a business contract but it’s of no consequence to break your marriage vows.
Adrian reached down and roughly pulled her up to face him. “I can’t face the truth? It’s a pity you didn’t marry that useless fop Charlton eight years ago, because he’d have been the target for your sainted uncle’s lunacy instead of me! Christ, you haven’t shut up about your miserable marriage but look where it’s got me! Stitched up like a bloody weaver’s loom, set up as a traitor, hiding like a fugitive. And why? Because I had the temerity to marry you.” He turned his back and hobbled over to the grazing horse.
“I’m leaving. Are you coming with me or staying here?”
Gabrielle’s face mirrored the shock she felt at Adrian’s words. Her foot lashed out sending a small log into the water and she walked up to Adrian, her fists clenched, then without warning, she burst into tears. “I have no choice,” her voice was raw with emotion. “All I want is to get out of Belgium and go back to my children and never see you again.”
Adrian gripped her arms, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You’ll get your bloody freedom one way or the other. If we get out of this, I’ll gladly give it. If I’m shot, you can play the grieving widow for a day or two. Now shut up and help me get this horse into the shafts.”
He heaved himself up onto the driving seat knowing damn well they were suffering huge reactions to the events they had witnessed. His insides were ripped apart enough without her rubbing his face in it again and again. How could he have been so bloody naïve? It wouldn’t matter how loudly he protested his innocence, the fact remained his mistress had wheedled far too much information from him and a senior government minister named Edmund. Good, God! Sir Edmund Charters! Close to the Prime Minister, related to the Foreign Minister. That old fool must be nearly seventy, and you Bryce, are the biggest fool of them all.
Let’s get this party started!
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. She is the primary persona of three pen names—triplets, if you will: Dee, Anne Krist, and Jenna Stewart.
A couple of days ago, I was archiving my 2019 author interviews and guest blogs and it occurred to me that every interview began with the question — “What inspired you to write your book?” The next question asks about our characters — “Are they based on people we know or pure imagination?” “Was the story planned or did it grow as the chapters increased?” And, every author has a different story concerning what inspired him or her to write their story. That’s the beauty of books, each one is new and unique for the reader, taking us on an adventure from the first page.
