Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

ÌýÌýMerry, Did You Know?


By Jennifer St. Giles


Your heart is free, have the courage to follow it. ~ Braveheart
Chapter One


December 1st


St. Simons Island, Georgia


MC Love listened as her sister, Summer Love, relayed the latest dysfunctional drama to riddle her family. Her stepfather, whom she called Steppy (because she couldn’t remember his name or what number he was, fifth, sixth, seventh?) and her mother, True Love, owner and CEO of Love International Resorts, had relationship issues.


Actually, all the Loves did.


“Steppy passed out drunk at NeNe’s wedding,� Summer said. NeNe was short for Never Ending. MC had seven sisters, one full the others half, all with the last name Love. Besides Summer and Never Ending, there was, Sweet, Timeless, Pure, Forever, and Madly Inn. That was another dysfunctional story.


Summer continued. “He didn’t just slouch over in his chair, mind you. He face-planted into the groom’s cake!�


MC made an appropriate noise of shock.


“The groom freaked out over his cake being destroyed and threw drunk-Steppy into the fountain. NeNe took issue with her new husband’s lack of respect for Steppy and threw cake at him. He then dropped her, wedding dress and all, into the fountain as well. That’s what you get with a hot-headed New York Italian! I kept telling NeNe that if she wanted the real thing, she had to go to Italy and find a younger version of Gianluca. Long story short, NeNe has filed for an annulment. She will now hold the Love record for the shortest marriage. Mother isn’t too happy.�


Summer had been in lust with Italian Rockstar Gianluca Grignani since the age of thirteen. No man Summer dated ever matched up to her idol. MC had often told her to go to Italy and find her own Italian. It ran in the family though. No man matched their mother’s ideal, so True changed husbands as often as she changed shoes. MC knew what would happen next. “Mother will now divorce Steppy, marry again, and annul after a minute of wedded bliss just so she can reign queen again.�


“I thought you said you haven’t spoken with her today?�


“I haven’t. Just a guess.�


“She mentioned something along those lines a few hours ago. So all in all, we missed seeing you but you didn’t miss much of a wedding. How is the French Riviera?�


MC gazed out over the Atlantic kissing the Georgia coast with wave after gentle wave. “Delightful.�
“Any deliciousness in sight?�


Code for hot male. “I haven’t been looking. Still recovering from he who shall remain unnamed.�
“Well, you know the Love motto. Can’t let a bad man keep you down. You’ve got to get back in the saddle and ride again.�


Looking down at her very pregnant stomach, MC grimaced. She wouldn’t be riding any time soon. A Grand Prix racer from Monaco, Mr. Unnamed’s only response to her, “I’m Pregnant� bomb had been, “Take care of it.� He’d then raced out the door and on to more fast cars and faster women.


MC had been relieved. Mr. Unnamed would make more of a lousy father than she a mother. She was sure his old-school, old-money family wouldn’t agree, but that wasn’t her problem.


“—I’m flying over.�


MC jerked to attention back to Summer. â€�°Â³ó²¹³Ù?â€�


“I said, either you find a man or I’m flying over and help you do it. Where are you exactly?�


“Oh…in a villa outside Cannes. The view is perfect for painting. Honestly, no need to fly over. If you must know, I heard a singer last night who intrigued me. As soon as I-uh-finish with my current project. I plan to check him out.�


That wasn’t exactly a lie.


Since she moved in a month ago, she had heard her neighbor singing most nights. Usually about two or three in the morning on his balcony. Lately, she’d set her alarm and would wake up and read until she heard him. Then she’d sneak downstairs onto her porch to hear him more clearly.


“Do that. I will call you next week. Hopefully we won’t have another Steppy by then.�


“Tell Mom I will not be coming to any weddings until I get this project done.�


“It must be spectacular. You’ve been working on it for months.�


MC frowned. “I don’t know. Art is art. We’ll have to see.�


“Okay. I want a full descript and name of your singer or I am coming. Bye.�


Summer hung up before MC could reply. She groaned. Now she’d have to get on the internet and hunt down a man performing somewhere near Cannes that Summer would believe MC had an interest in. Oh, the tangled web�


She hadn’t wanted anyone to know she was pregnant. Once the father bowed out, MC had made the wise decision not to bring an innocent child into the Love family’s mess. Her oldest sister, Timeless, had divorced. She had two boys, Chance and Lucky. Yes, their last name was Love, too. It was True Love’s crusade that any child born into the Love Resort dynasty had to bear the name Love or they’d forfeit their inheritance.


She would now have to make up a lover for Summer to believe in.


Everything MC needed, she ordered on line. The only time she left the condo was for her pre-natal checkups. She currently didn’t even have the heart to say hello to anyone, much less have another Love misadventure.


She just needed to survive the next month, see the adoption through, and then reassess her life. At twenty-six, most of life apart from her art had lost any appeal. Lovers were never true. Friends were shallow. Family was screwed. At least she found beauty and purpose in art.


Cannes is where her old self would go to relax and have fun. She’d come to Georgia to hide. No paparazzi would be camping out anywhere, anytime soon. Once she’d made the delivery then she’d�


The phone rang, but not hers. She moved to the French Doors that led to her private patio and walkway to the beach. She’d left the doors cracked to bring some fresh air in during the warmth of the day. A man dressed in plain black sweats and worn running shoes stood with his back to her at the edge of the sand dunes. The breeze from the ocean carried the sound of his voice to her as he held up his phone and faced his caller. She recognized the man’s deep, and somewhat haunting tone. Her midnight singer.


His brown hair rustled in the breeze. He had broad shoulders and a trim muscular shape. She’d only need a few more details to satisfy Summer for a bit. Pressing her ear to the crack, she gleaned what she could.


***

Three years had passed, and Doug Warren still had to force himself to breathe sometimes. Usually it happened in the middle of the night, in the dark, whenever the rushing wind from the ocean made a sharp cry. He’d sit up in bed, his heart racing as he threw back the covers.


He’d then see the moonlit ocean beyond the glass doors and know he no longer lived in the mountains. His wife Lucy no longer lay by his side and his daughter Annie didn’t sleep in the next room. The crushing blow of reality always stole the air from his lungs, the spirit from his heart. Sleep after the flood of memories was impossible.


Last night had been no different. He’d gotten up, grabbed his guitar, and headed for the balcony. There, he’d huddled in the cold, with the waves crashing to the shore somewhere below, and sang. He hoped the wind would carry his love and spirit to their home in heaven.


Today he had played until the sun rose and the bright light of a new day burned his eyes. Then he had crawled back into his room and slept for an hour or two more. Most of the year, he had handyman projects lined up to fill a nine-to-five work week. But, not much happened in the winter on the island. Vacationers followed the warmth south like flocking geese and islanders hibernated for the most part.
This year—like last year—he planned to finish recording his first CD during the seasonal downtime. And this year—like last year—he couldn’t seem to pull it all together. So, once he pried his eyes open with a pot of coffee, he dressed in sweats and headed out for a run on the beach.


Before he slogged through the dry sand, his cell rang. His brother Brad had FaceTimed him. Doug hesitated answering. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone this morning. And he sure didn’t want to look anyone in the eye either. But guilt hit him and he answered, holding up the phone to see his brother’s mug—the poster man for badass State Trooper. Make that commander of field operations Major Brad Warren. “Yo, bro.�


“I see you’re already bumming the beach.�


“Catching the rays. You?�


“Catching the bad guys as usual. Thought I’d give you the heads up. Overheard Mom and Aunt Betty talking on the porch last night.�


“A²Ô»å?â€�


“Christmas planning. Seems that if Mohammed—you—won’t come to the mountain—here. Then the mountain—us—are coming to Mohammed—there—for Christmas.


“Seriously?� Doug exhaled as his stomach clenched. He couldn’t go there. Not yet. Too many reminders haunted every corner he turned. Here he’d reached a level of survival.


“I’m afraid so. They’re really worried about you. And in all honesty, I can’t blame them. I’m worried, too.�


“I’m hanging in there. Really, I am. I’m just different now. After losing Lucy and Annie, I won’t ever be who I used to be, but I’m finding my way. A day at a time.�


Brad stayed silent a moment. “Nobody is expecting you be anything.Ìý They just want to see you. Put their arms around you and let you know how much they love you. It’s time. You missed last Christmas.â€�


Doug exhaled hard. He knew his brother was right. “Here,� he said, forcing the words past the tightness in his chest. He feared all of his family’s well-meaning empathy would sink him. He did better when folks didn’t know about Lucy and Annie. “Y’all come here. We’ll do the works. Bonfire. Smores. Christmas Tree. Fish fry.�


“I’ll let them know.�


Doug winced. “Tell them, I’ve got all bases covered. They don’t need to do or plan a thing, but just show up and cook, okay?�


“Will do.� Brad rolled his eyes. “Hope that works for you, bro. I can already hear the multiple calls you’ll get as they worry about every detail.�


“Joy,� Doug said dryly. “Anything else you want to tell me before I go run off my frustration?�
Brad hesitated then shook his head. “Nah. It will be good to see you in person. Technology makes distance way too easy these days. But it can’t replace real face time. Catch you later.�


Doug disconnected, wishing he hadn’t answered. He could have at least had his morning run in peace. Now as he raced along the beach, memories chased him. Smiles. Laughter. His fire truck rolling up to the head-on collision. The moment he recognized the mangled car crushed by the truck, he knew their lives had been taken in an instant.


Breathing hard and heavy, he ran three times his usual distance before heading back to the condo.


***

MC paced the floor, her pregnant laden back ached a bit, but she couldn’t sit still. She couldn’t paint either. She’d eavesdropped on her neighbor’s FaceTime conversation with his brother and couldn’t get the words out of her head…or her heart.


Every song he’d sung in the night, now had heart-wrenching meaning put to it, and she didn’t know what to do about it.


I’m hanging in there. Really, I am. I’m just different now. After losing Lucy and Annie, I won’t ever be who I used to be, but I’m finding my way. A day at a time.


She couldn’t seem to let it go.

***
Love, Christmas Box Collection
Coming Oct 2016






USA Today Bestselling author, Jennifer St. Giles, aka Jennifer Saints, J.L. Saint is no ordinary Georgia Peach. She’s a Golden Heart, three-time Maggie, two-time National Reader’s Choice, Marlene, RT Reviewer’s Choice and Daphne du Maurier award-winning author. Jenni writes in multiple genres, including: romance, paranormal, contemporary, historical and military and time travel. She is a passionate patriot, event planner and the Vice-President of a charitable foundation which helps women and children’s causes. Jenni believes fervently in following your dreams and never giving up.

Putting your books in a lot of different places could do the trick. That makes a lot of sense, right?

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I tried that a few years ago when I scattered my books over all the various venues like Kobo and Apple and sat back thinking, okay � now I’ll have a bunch more sales, things will take off and I’ll be rich�maybe star on the Oprah show.

Ìý

Yeah� Not so.

Ìý

I didn’t take into consideration that it takes time.

Ìý

Just like it did when I first joined Amazon and worked my butt off to get the readers to take a chance with me. I put in the effort and spent scads of money with numerous promoters and then got busy with self-advertising on Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter.

Ìý

And you know what? It paid off. Things were going well. I could see my sales bloom and every month, I made more than the month before.

Ìý

Then along came Amazon Unlimited and poof!! My bubble burst.

Ìý

Within a month, my sales were cut in half. All that work and struggle was lost. Readers flocked to pay their $9.99 and get free books � as many as they could read.

Ìý

I did stick it out for the next few months but I knew the change was there to stayÌý and so like many other authors, I decided to try a few of my books on Amazon Select and see what happened. In no time, I transferred them all to Select and watched the ‘pages-readâ€� start to climb.

Ìý

Slowly, I built back the profit to where I had been over a year earlier.


But � I learned something from that bump in the road. I learned that I had no control over what Amazon or the other publishers might chose to do in the future. I was at their mercy.

Ìý

Okay� what's the next step?

Ìý

I had been involved in a lot of box collections; some did really well, while others barely paid back their initial investment. When we decided to try the collections in Select, the sales were much better. But again, nothing’s for certain. Some sets do really well yet others flop.

Ìý

Join a group and work with a lot of other authorsÌýwith the goal of building the group so in the end, it serves everyone. Yeah, well it’s a good concept, might be the perfect answer if everyonein the group worked as hard as the next guy. I began Authorsâ€� Billboard over a year ago. Some of the ladiesÌýstarted offÌýbeing very generous with their time and found that others weren’t so generous. It’s to be expected â€� many are in different circumstances and have that time to share while others are stretched with young families, full-time jobs and deadlines. Butâ€� eventually, the workers spent less time too.

Ìý

So� what’s an author to do?

Ìý

Getting a BookBub placement would be nice, especially if you could rely on doing so every few months. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to want to accept my work. Not sure why, but it’s been months since they accepted one of my books�.yuk!! So, can’t rely on finding my new readers that way.

Ìý

It's true, I could pay for other promotions and I do - often - but the benefits are short-lived. And those advertisements can add upÌýwhere the ROI isn't always obvious.

Ìý

People say you need your own newsletter. Done that! I have a lovely group of friends/readers who are very supportive. But how many times can you rely on the same people to come to your aid unless you have a new book to plug for every newsletter. I tend to only write newsletters for that reason so I’m already doing that.

Ìý

I’m active on most social media platforms. Have stretched myself past where it’s comfortable and my working hours are ridiculous. Is it paying off?? I’m not sure I want to find out. It would break my heart to discover that all those hours were just a waste of time.

Ìý

Then I got to thinking, maybe it’s a good idea to find an agent who likes my work, believes in me and will find me a contract with a publisher. Become a Hybrid author... hummm!!Ìý

Ìý

Who knows whether what I write will be accepted? I mean, face it, as an Indie author, I take a lot of liberties with the rules� make my own. Will that be a problem? Can I overcome it? Do I want to? I don’t know. What I do know is that there are a lot of readers out there who don’t know about me and I’m determined to get to them if it’s possible.

Ìý

On the other hand, if you check these on Amazon, is it such a great idea? Look how well Indie authors have done so far�

Ìý

Do you have any suggestions?
Have you found avenues that have worked for you and not for just as a short time gain?

Ìý

Please share�


Ìý

Let it SnowBook 9 � Beachcomber Investigations Seriesby Stephanie



EXCERPT
Chapter 1
Was it strange that a grown man—scratch that—middle-aged man should feel like impaled gutter trash, so devastated by the death of a mother he’d seen only a handful of times in the last decade?
The bullet that killed Dane’s mother may as well have hit him. It left a cannon hole in him, obliterating whatever had been left of his heart and soul. Maybe there hadn’t been much there anyway. How could there have been? Seemed he’d spent a lifetime fighting the soul killing hurt in all the most hellish places on earth to no end. Saving people, but not saving everyone.ÌýNever saving everyone.ÌýBut he’d survived.
In body anyway.
This wasn’t about his past catching up with him. No. Dane knew what the devastation, the pain and now the numbness was about. It was because he felt responsible for his mother’s death. Any shrink would have told him this.
The problem was—heÌýwasÌýresponsible for his mother’s death. She’d been murdered on his watch. At the hands of his enemies. It didn’t matter how much of the devastation he felt was guilt. It should be pure gut-gnawing guilt. He deserved to feel guilty as hell.
He should have been able to protect her. Least he could have done. She’d protected him all those years. Without his father. She saw that he got to adulthood when it was not at all a likely thing.
He stared out his kitchen window again. This time snowflakes filled the sky, obscuring his view of the bay and the ocean. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going anywhere. Or maybe he should pack his bags and leave this place. Head for the next hellish place and destructive mission. Leave a mark. Try to make up for allowing his mother to die by saving someone else’s mother.
He may as well leave. It wasn’t like his beach shack or Martha’s Vineyard held the solace for him that they once had. Too many things happened here. Too much violence. And now death.

“I invited Cap over for eggnog.� Shana’s strident voice cut him.
Dane turned around to face her standing on the threshold of his kitchen. The glint of her beauty cut into him further. She stared him down with her arms folded like she expected an argument. Like she expected to win the argument.
He didn’t bother arguing. He’d retreat to his bed. Bring a bottle with him. Then he remembered she’d hidden or tossed all the bottles. No matter. She could celebrate the season with innocent eggnog and Cap if she wanted.
The thought of Cap—Captain Colin Lynch—and Shana together stirred an ember in him, but not much. Nothing like the spark it might have created before. There was no fire to be had in his belly. Not today.
“Go for it, girlie.� He smiled. It cost him to muster that much for her. But she deserved whatever he had. She tried hard. Probably too hard. He walked by her and headed to his room half hoping she’d follow him and he could seduce her, lose himself in mindless sex with her. But he’d drawn the line short of letting her put up her body for his use to cure him of his self-pity. Besides, sex was never a simple matter with Shana. He’d end up feeling guilty about it. More guilt. If it were possible.
She’d been trying to save him from himself ever since she’d come to the island. It was a matter of time now—a very short time he’d guess—before she realized the futility. Then he’d be left to himself. The only company he was fit for.
He shut his bedroom door behind him and didn’t bother pulling the blinds. It was barely mid-afternoon but the storm had darkened the sky to near nightfall proportions. It suited him. He’d sleep through the storm. Maybe when he woke again all the darkness would be gone.

Shana wished she had some kind of miracle to get Dane out of his depression. She looked at his closed bedroom door. There was no way she’d go that route. Then she’d end up as depressed as he was and there’d be nothing left of Beachcomber Investigations.ÌýOr her. Or him.
Cap thought Dane needed a shrink or heavy medication. But short of hitting him over the head and dragging him bodily, Dane couldn’t be convinced to see a professional. Now weeks later, Shana had hoped the Christmas season would cheer him, but if anything he was worse.
So far, today being Christmas Eve hadn’t cheered her much either. Anxiety had moved into her bones. She’d never worried over anyone or anything the way she worried now about Dane. Cap wasn’t the only one who felt the same way. The governor—his special ops unit commander and friend–called almost daily. Acer, a member of their special ops unit and as far as she could tell, his closest friend–texted her every other day. Sassy and Ronnie, their local twenty-something junior investigators came by often and she was lucky they did. Sassy brought pies from her shop and Ronnie brought pilfered food from the restaurant where he worked. If they hadn’t brought the food and forced her to eat, she would have diminished to a stick figure by now. As it was, her clothes hung on her.
And Dane didn’t notice. Nothing stirred him. Nothing made a difference to him. If she left now, would he care? Would he notice? Would he be better off?
Would she be better off?
No. She’d never forgive herself. It was just as much her fault that his mother was murdered. On her watch. She should have been able to protect Dane’s mother, to prevent the murder—should have seen it coming and have been able to do something.
A rap on the back door saved her from sinking further. She’d hidden the bottle from herself just as much from Dane. She hoped she could enjoy a splash of brandy in her eggnog tonight without succumbing to sobbing. But Cap had been a shiny spot in the bleakness, like her north star, for this past month.
Cap pushed open the back door and stepped into the kitchen with a rush of fat wet snowflakes riding on the cold wind.
Behind Cap, in a bright red snow covered sweater and white knit hat, a stranger stepped forward. Shana jumped back and automatically felt for her gun on her hip and then the back of her waistband.
“Don’t worry—he’s with me.� Cap smirked and moved forward. The man stepped inside behind him and pushed the door closed. Shana shivered. Then she remembered she ought to smile at her guest. She was turning into her crazy aunt Shirley and she wasn’t yet thirty years old. She noticed the man had a bag. She looked at Cap for an introduction or an explanation or something.
“This is Father Pedro.�
She looked closer at the man. He had wet graying hair and dark eyes. Maybe they were kind eyes, but right now they were non-committal. Intelligent and searching like he was looking into her soul and sizing her up.
“I’m Shana. Have a seat. I’m about to put the final touches on the eggnog.�
“Do you have anything hot?�
“Of course—you must be cold.� He had no coat and his sweater was wet.
Cap took off his coat and looked around. She knew he was looking for Dane.
As if by thinking about him they had some cosmic pull, Dane’s door banged opened and a second later he appeared on the threshold of the kitchen. Shana was surprised he wasn’t aiming his old Glock at them, but the look he leveled was threatening enough.
“Dane—� she said.
“Who the hell are you?�
Padre Pedro stepped around her and his face transformed to warm beautific saintliness. He went to Dane with his arms extended. He had to be nuts.
Dane put his arms out too—to stop the man in his tracks.
“Whoa there, fellow—answer my question. Who the f-ing hell are you?�
The padre stopped an arms distance away as Shana went to Dane’s side—or as close to his side as his porcupine mood would allow. She might need to step in to protect one of them.
“Dane—� Cap began.
Dane glared at Cap to silence him. The Padre stood and took his time studying Dane—brave for a man with Dane the Demon expecting an answer. All the while Shana figured what kept the Padre safe was the new look on his face. It was like he was heartbroken, like seeing Dane made his heart weep. In fact he looked like he was about to cry when he spoke in a sad, deep ominous voice.
“Oscar sent me.â€� ÌýStephanie Queen - Ìý About USA Today Bestselling Author Stephanie Queen A romantic at heart and a writer by nature, Stephanie Queen has the enthusiastic soul of a cheerleader. So of course she loves creating stories where the good guys always win. Although she’s lost count of all the jobs she had before she settled on being a Novelist, her favorite was selling cookies as a Keebler Elf. She is a graduate of UConn (go Huskies!) and Harvard U and lives in New Hampshire with her family, her cat, Kitty, and her (real or imagined?) chauffeur, Myren.







Ìý

Do you have a favorite Christmas carol?


That was the question we posed in our recent Fresh Fiction contest. More than seven hundred people shared their choices with us, and from that we chose twenty lucky winners to give us the titles for our holiday novellas and the books will be dedicated to them. Exciting!


My winner, Deb Philippon, chose Silver Bells, which is perfect because I love that song too!
The premise of the story isÌýa single mom raising a diabetic child who meets a lonely mystery writer. I hope you’ll enjoy this excerpt.


CHAPTER ONE Excerpt Love, Christmas Collection: Silver Bells by Jacquie Biggar




Christy Taylor smiled at the teens performing skateboard tricks on a set of iron rails, the screech-scrape of their wheels a musical accompaniment to the slap-slap of her sneakers hitting the pavement as she jogged past. Though it was early December on Vancouver Island the sun was a warm treat on her shoulders. Snowberries lined the pathway on the Goose Walking Trail, crunching beneath her feet. The unparalleled beauty of the Pacific Ocean lay off to her right. A salty breeze carried the scents of wood, brine, and soil to clear the fog from her brain. The past couple of years had been tough. Between Jill’s illness and the increasing costs in rent it was a never-ending battle to keep everything afloat.
She followed the snaky course through Beacon Hill Park, dodging dogs and children and couples holding hands. At the boat pond a father patiently taught his young son how to run the remote control for a jaunty red sailboat, while Mallard ducks paddled nearby searching for scraps.
She turned left and took the path that led her to the seawall, her favorite part of the run.
And there he was.
Every time she’d come by here for the past two months the same man crouched out on the furthest edge of the breakwater, staring out to sea.
He fascinated her.
She’d sit on the little spit of sand several feet away and create stories in her head about him. Maybe he was a Russian prince cast out of his homeland. Or a spy awaiting a boat bringing him information meant to save the world. Or maybe even a merman cast upon the shore and unable to find his way back to his watery home. The last brought a wry smile to her lips. Her mom always said she had a writer’s imagination.
She opened her fanny pack and drew out a bottle of water, a strip of homemade peach fruit leather, and her drawing supplies. She loved capturing nature on paper with nothing more than a few graphite pencils in varying grades and Caran d’Ache Luminance colors for shading. Her art was slowly gaining recognition, though it was taking more time than she could afford.
Sunset gradually lightened the horizon from chilly winter’s grey-blue to neon orange, brilliant fuchsia, and canary yellow. Fingers flew over the page, eager to catch every nuance as it occurred. Her unsuspecting model never moved, his silhouette perfectly captured by the dying rays of the sun.
When it became too dark to draw, Christy set the pad aside and twisted the cap off her water bottle. The liquid was a benediction going down her parched throat. She drank most of it before replacing the lid with a satisfied sigh. The day hadn’t begun well, but at least it was ending on a high note. She felt good about the work she’d just produced. It would be easier to tell after she returned to the shop and finished the shading of course, but she was off to a decent start.
Shivering a little now the sun had gone down, she returned everything to the bag and zipped it closed, then stood and brushed the sand from her butt and thighs before bending to pick up the fanny pack. Time to head home, Jill would be waiting.
A pair of dark brown hiking boots—size enormous—came into her line of sight. Her heart skipped a beat. Most people on the island were friendly and kind but she was a woman on her own and it was rapidly getting dark. How stupid.
She tightened her grip on the bag and cursing the fact she’d been so irresponsible, slowly rose to her feet, her gaze following the long, clean line of jean-clad legs, dark cotton shirt, tucked in and belted at the waist, open leather jacket, and chiseled jawline covered in a day’s worth of stubble. Glittering eyes stared at her from a deeply tanned, aloof-looking face.
“Quit following me.� The voice matched his visage, cold, harsh, and unforgiving.
So much for her fantasy hero. Christy stiffened and glared. “Kind of full of yourself, aren’t you?�
He leaned back and crossed his arms, his stance unforgiving. And to think she’d found him intriguing. Ha, more like infuriating.
“So it’s just a coincidence every time I turn around, there you are?� He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. The rasping sound along with the backdrop of the swishing waves made her—restless.
“Look, I don’t do interviews, okay? Not even for cute little pixies. Tell your boss, next time I’ll call the cops.�
Incredulity overrode her apprehension. “Are you serious? I have as much right to be on this beach as you do, buddy. Trust me, you’re not half as fascinating as you seem to think you are.�
In between one breath and the next, Mr. Personality seized the bag out of her grip and delved inside.
“Hey, give that back,� she cried, trying to wrestle it out of his grasp.
“If you have nothing to hide…� He pulled the drawings free and turned his wall of a back on her.
Christy couldn’t believe this was happening. Adrenaline zipped through her body, leaving her feeling more alive than she had in a long while. And it was all due to this� this jerk ripping pages out of her workbook while she stood by helpless to do anything about it. All that work—gone.
“Please,� she begged, her throat husky. “I meant no harm. I draw for a living. That’s all they are, drawings.�
At least the shredding stopped.
He leveled his gaze on her again, as though deciding whether to throw the whole bag out to sea or not. She really hoped not. It had taken months to save for those pencils. They were the very best and made a huge difference to the level of her workmanship.
“Please,� she said again.
He hesitated, then folded the sheets of paper he’d taken and shoved them into his jacket pocket before handing over her bag.
“Next time you might try asking,� he said dryly.
As he clumped away in those heavy boots his voice floated back to her on the breeze. “The answer would’ve been no, by the way.�
Was it too much to ask that he trip over his enormous—arrogance?










JACQUIE BIGGARÌý is a bestselling author of Romantic Suspense who loves to write about tough, alpha males who know what they want, that is until they’re gob-smacked by heroines who are strong, contemporary women willing to show them what they really need is love. She is the author of the popular Wounded Hearts series and has just started a new series in paranormal suspense, Mended Souls.
She has been blessed with a long, happy marriage and enjoys writing romance novels that end with happily-ever-afters.
Jacquie lives in paradise along the west coast of Canada with her family and loves reading, writing, and flower gardening. She swears she can’t function without coffee, preferably at the beach with her sweetheart.




Free reads, excerpts, author news, and contests can be found on her web site:

You can follow her on at ,
Or email her via her web site. Jacquie lives on Vancouver Island with her husband and loves to hear from readers all over the world!

(Originally posted on )




Okay, I know I’m taking things a bit too far when I compare a book title with a baby’s name � I’ll confess, it was an attention grabber.


Butâ€� trust me; us authors really have to giveÌýour book titles a lot of thought.

Remember, we don’t have nine months to change our minds and come up with multi choices. Buy “Name Your Baby� books� scour the internet for just the right one…end up giving in to husband’s demand, LOL.

But we do have to take into consideration what the book is about. What will honestly relate the plot to a potential reader, and� most importantly, that it hasn’t been used by a number of other authors within the last few years.

Now my dilemma is this. I want to put together a three book collection of my own work and have it focus on my books where the main protagonists are feisty women who won’t back down from any man.

Two of the books feature law enforcement officers and the other one is about a Chilean girl who had to make a life in a new country and surmount a lot of obstacles to do so.

Coming up with this idea was easy. Trying to decide on an appropriate title � not so much!

Three-thirty in the morning, I jolted awake with a brilliant solution � “Red-hot Mamas�!I could see the cover in my head: brilliant red, fiery gold for the words, a special font that stood out and, of course, highlighting an eye-catching female.

Happy as a lark, I went to an author’s book launch later in the day and met up with some of my colleagues. Excited about my new project, I told them my brilliant idea. Much to my disappointment, they weren’t as enthused about my title � said mamas would date the book � that it was old-fashioned.

After thinking about what they said, (took me all of 20 seconds), I realized they were right. They next thought that came to mind was that these kick-ass girls needed to have a better introduction. Of course, that led me to brainstorm with the others and these were the favorites.

Red-hot Gals

Red-hot Ladies

Red-hot Divas

Then I got another brilliant notion. Since these were kick-ass girls why couldn’t I just name the book using that as my title? Kick-ass Girls! When I gleefully mentioned it, they all rained on my parade. Said that Amazon probably wouldn’t go for it.

Soâ€� as soon as I got home, I looked to see if the word “assâ€� appeared anywhere on Amazon’s site. And it did! Not only in various places but also in a that had a cover of aâ€�. you got it!ÌýA lady’sâ€� ahh derriere.

But� still not 100% sure I’d be allowed, needing to stroke the big guy so he wouldn’t take away my publishing rights ;-), I wrote to Amazon. Sadly, they sent me back a lot of mumbo jumbo, with this one sentence standing out:

Please ensure that your book’s title accurately matches the content of your book.

Okay - Check!

Then they referred me to this page: Content Guidelines

Pornography

We don't accept pornography or offensive depictions of graphic sexual acts. (Oh yeah?)

Offensive Content

What we deem offensive is probably about what you would expect. (This sure helps, doesn’t it? :-))

So what I need to know is this: If I go ahead, which of the three titles works the best.

I’m inclined to go with Kick-ass Ladies because of the contrast in the words, but the others liked Kick-ass Gals or Divas.

Help me make up my mind…let me know what you think.

Also, do you feelÌýthat wordÌýmight be offensive in any way to the readers?

Keep in mind, wanting to be realistic to the suspense genre and the way detectives actually would talk, I do use real language inside the book. Therefore, anyone who dislikes swear words, probably doesn’t want to readÌýthose books anyway.... just sayin'!





ÌýOne of the books I intend to add into this collection is my very first Romantic Suspense called which is book #2 in the Vegas Series. The first short introductory book is a permanently free book called Partners and can be found here. (See side panel!) All six book in the Vegas Collection, plus the collection itself, is #FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

SUMMER LOVIN�Book 5 of the Wounded Hearts seriesbyJacquie Biggar

Cover Designer:ÌýOfficial genre of book:ÌýContemporary Romance



Mitch Taylor and Rebecca Sorenson share a secret.Rebecca’s job as secretary of Cascade Elementary, the same school she attended as a child, is rewarding. She has a great group of friends, many of whom are married now. And if sometimes she wished it were her up there in that sparkling white dress…Except, wait—she did get to wear bridal white. Granted, it was a slinky party dress and the justice of the peace was Elvis in a gold lame jacket, but still, the deed was done.She’d tied the knot.Mitch Taylor doesn’t do regrets. It would be a waste of energy bemoaning the mistakes he’d made in his life. The end of his promising football career taught him nothing in life was a guarantee.Like love.What were the chances two people from the same po-dunk town in Washington would end up together in a nightclub in Las Vegas? A few too many drinks later, a hasty ceremony performed by the king of rock ‘n� roll, and they’d been hitched. The night that followed lived on in his dreams, but when he’d woken the next morning she was gone.Can these two mismatched lovers find a way past their mistakes, or will they keep their lonely hearts forever guarded?

Mitch’s gaze zeroed in on her lips and darkened. “You and me—later. I’m tired of waiting. It’s time we settled our past so we can move forward with our lives.â€� He leaned in and gave her a quick, hard kiss, their breath co-mingling and tasting of the coffee he’d stopped and bought for her.Rebecca sighed and gave herself up to the moment, though in the back of her mind his words nipped and stung, warning her that it was going to hurt when he left. How did this happen? When did Mitch Taylor become necessary to her happiness?God.ÌýShe was in love with him.Her mouth slackened. Mitch sat back and looked at her quizzically for a moment, then he turned away to help young Jasper, and she tried to pay attention, she really did. But, all the time he was asking Tommy what happened, and running gentle fingers over the injury, and she was smiling and murmuring reassurance, her heart was breaking into a million tiny pieces.


Ìý✯ÌýÌý✯ÌýÅ·±¦ÓéÀÖ



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I live in paradise along the west coast of Canada with my family and love reading, writing, and flower gardening. Oh, and I can’t function without coffee! Preferably at the beach with my sweetheart.[image error]I write Romantic Suspense with tough, alpha males who know what they want until they’re gob-smacked by heroines who are strong, contemporary women willing to show them what they really need is love.I’ve been blessed with a long, happy marriage and enjoy writing romance novels that end with happy-ever-afters.Ìý✯ÌýÌý✯ÌýÌý✯ÌýÌý✯ÌýÅ·±¦ÓéÀÖÌý✯Ì�





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I’m in love–with my new story and characters in LAST CHRISTMAS, the novella I’m writing for our LOVE CHRISTMAS Romance Collection.
Ìý
I can’t think of anything more fun than throwing a man and a woman together and proving to them that they are made for each other. Oh, and creating the small towns in my stories is great fun too. In LAST CHRISTMAS, I found Estacado, an old ghost town in the Texas Panhandle that was perfect for my needs. I renamed it New Estacado, a Spanglish combination that made it perfect for the Texas setting.
Then there’s the…oh, wait. Why don’t I just post the first chapter since it’s my turn to give you a sneak peek from my unedited manuscript? I’m excited about LOVE CHRISTMAS, our 2016 Holiday Romance Collection. I hope you enjoy this excerpt because I’m having a blast writing this story.

Last Christmas_1000x1500LAST CHRISTMAS by Joan Reeves © 2016



ÌýCHAPTER 1

How long did it take for a broken heart to heal? Annabelle Cooper stared at the framed photograph she’d pulled from the packing box. To her dismay, her hand trembled and her chest tightened, making her lungs feel as if all the air in her bedroom had been sucked out into the cold December night.
Her heart pounded so hard she swore she could hear it over the blustering north wind that swept down through the Texas Panhandle and rattled the old-fashioned windows in her grandmother’s Victorian house. Annabelle couldn’t stop herself from lifting the photograph and studying the smiling couple, each wearing a Santa hat. She looked so happy, so…innocent, in the photograph taken last Christmas at her friend Mary Beth’s party.
Innocent? She gave a snort of derision. She hadn’t been innocent. She’d been pathetically dumb. Scorn at her naiveté dampened the pain as Annabelle stared at the photograph. Her eyes stung, but she wouldn’t allow herself to shed another tear over what had been the worst mistake she’d ever made.
Why did it still hurt so much?
Despite all she’d done to banish Rick Lassiter from her mind and her heart, the photograph shattered the illusion that she was over the man who’d swept her off her feet and into a weekend of passion, unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She blinked rapidly. The trouble was she had experienced very little in her twenty-five years. She had been nearly as virginal as a heroine in the Regency romance novels she’d always loved. In all honesty, an urban teen probably had more sexual experience than Annabelle had possessed a year ago.
Even in the photo, Lassiter drew her as no man ever had. His ebony hair was hidden by the Santa hat, but his laughing eyes—so dark they appeared black—drew her gaze even now. His smile compelled a smile in return. Her hands were clasped on his shoulder, but his arms were folded, his chin resting on his hands. She was the one clinging to him. The clinging was not mutual. That should have been her first clue.
“Annabelle?� Her grandmother’s voice warbled up to the second floor.
Annabelle took a deep breath and released it slowly before answering. “Yes, ma’am?�
“Come on down, sugar. The first guests are getting out of their cars.�
“I’ll be right there,� Annabelle called. She imagined her grandmother, the original Annabelle Edna, was peeking through the lace curtains over the front windows like an excited little girl instead of like the white-haired senior citizen she was.
Annabelle looked back at the framed photo she still held. Her hand tightened on the wooden frame until her knuckles whitened. She wanted to fling it against the wall and smash it into a million pieces the way Rick Lassiter had smashed her heart.
“Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance,� she whispered as if they were her mantra. “You are at acceptance. You will not regress,� she vowed in a fierce whisper. She loosened her fingers and let the framed photograph fall to the jewel-toned oriental rug. It landed with a soft thud. Deliberately, Annabelle stepped on the photo and heard glass break.
Okay. Maybe she hadn’t yet graduated from the anger stage of grief.
Not in a rush to join the elderly early arrivals since she saw them just about every day now that she’d moved back to New Estacado, Annabelle lingered over the box. She found a “Playbill� from Houston’s Theater Under the Stars, a ticket stub from the blockbuster movie that had been showing last December, and a menu from her favorite Mexican restaurant. Damn. Everything in the box was a memento of—what? Her love affair?
Mary Beth, her friend and neighbor in the Houston apartment complex, had called it a fling. Mary Beth had lots of flings so she hadn’t understood why Annabelle had been so distraught when Rick had disappeared. When she’d learned that much of what he’d told her were lies, she’d been devastated.
Ah. Realization dawned. Mary Beth had packed all of this rather than consigning the lot to the dumpster as Annabelle had instructed after the April flood had invaded their respective ground-floor apartments and destroyed everything in its smelly, muddy path.
Annabelle had lost her heart in December, and the swollen Cypress Creek had taken most of her possessions—even her little Toyota in the parking lot. Aggravated that she was again obsessing over what had happened with Lassiter, she folded the flaps of the cardboard box closed. Maybe Mary Beth liked dwelling on her old flings, but Annabelle didn’t. She’d left Houston, hoping to leave her mistakes in the past. That’s where a…a reprobate like Lassiter belonged. In the past.
Annabelle snorted. Maybe reprobate was old-fashioned, but she was old-fashioned too even if her strait-laced morality was over-compensation for the apathetic neglect of a mother who was the embodiment of promiscuity.
Reprobate. Scoundrel. No-good waste of skin walking the planet. That’s what Lassiter was. She’d certainly treat him differently if she met him today. She’d recognize him now for what he was. A lying, manipulative scum of the earth man-slut. Annabelle slapped the carton. After the party, she’d toss the photograph and everything in the box into the trash where it belonged.
A quick glance at her reflection in the Queen Anne cheval mirror told her she hadn’t messed up her hair or wrinkled the full skirt of the emerald velvet evening gown. Fortunately, her exterior didn’t reveal the emotions seething within. She looked fine. She practiced a smile, took a deep breath, and left her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Laughter and holiday greetings floated to her as she started down the steep staircase. The college girl who had been hired to play Christmas carols on the baby grand piano situated in front of the bay window in the living room had begun with a jazzy version of “Jingle Bells.�
Annabelle took the steps carefully , in deference to the black silk evening shoes with four-inch heels. Sexy shoes weren’t necessarily safe on steep stair treads. When she’d been a child, she’d never bothered with the steps when going downstairs. She smiled at the memory of riding the banister from her turret bedroom to the black and white marble tiles of the foyer.
A frigid blast from the front door heralded more guests arriving. Chilled, she stepped onto the polished tiles. The noise level wasn’t uncomfortable. Yet. The pianist segued into “O Holy Night.� People in various styles of holiday dress—some in evening attire, some in cowboy shirts and stiff blue jeans—milled around, propelled inward every few minutes by new arrivals. Waiters, college students home for the holidays, circulated with trays of champagne flutes and platters of finger foods.
Annabelle smiled at her grandmother. Her Namesy. When she’d been a child, she’d heard the word namesake often and had come to think namesake meant her grandmother. Her toddler’s effort to pronounce the word namesake had come out as “Namesy� to the delight of her grandmother who immediately adopted the name as being far more original than any of the other grandmother nicknames.
“I’ll man the door,� she murmured in Namesy’s ear. “Go to the living room and hold court.�
Her grandmother smiled and strolled away as the pianist launched into “Blue Christmas.�
Glad her grandmother had acquiesced so easily, Annabelle assumed the duties of hostess at the door. “Merry Christmas and welcome to the Gazette’s Christmas Open House,� she greeted, taking a minute or two to chat with each guest and direct them to the buffet in the dining room. By the time Vince Sanchez, her late grandfather’s best friend, arrived, Annabelle was convinced that the house couldn’t hold another person. She was beginning to think the velvet might have been a poor choice because she felt overly warm in the crush of the party guests.
“Merry Christmas, Mayor Sanchez, and welcome to the Gazette’s Christmas Open House.� The portly Hispanic man who’d been mayor for as long as she could remember, bellowed a holiday greeting to her and chucked her under the chin as if she were still ten years old.
Annabelle winced. “Is your hearing aid turned on, Mayor?� She pantomimed the question.
He laughed and pulled two small devices out his coat pocket and put one into each ear. “Is that better?� he asked, his voice starting loud and then lowering. He cocked his head and listened. “Hey, Edna did get that kid to play her piano for the party. Nice.�
The pianist did a slow run on the piano keys and then launched into “The First Noel.� Annabelle smiled. “Yes the music is good and so is your volume now.�
The Mayor chucked her under the chin again. “Funny girl. I’ve got a scoop for you, Annie Belly.�
At hearing the name her grandfather always called her, Annabelle’s throat tightened. “And what might that be, Mayor?� she asked, smiling fondly at him and at the memory.
Before he could reply, the door opened again and a blond woman Annabelle’s age rushed in, shutting the door behind her with a bit more force than was needed.
“I swear. I don’t see why Daddy won’t move to Miami, or at least Galveston. These Panhandle winters are too damned cold. It’s already iced over out there. I might as well be on a mountaintop in Montana,� the blonde complained.
Annabelle firmly repressed a sigh. Namesy called Brianna Walker the town’s richest daughter. Annabelle had a different noun to describe the whining party girl. She’d oped Brianna would have had a red carpet in Hollywood to strut or a late dinner at Tavern on the Green in the Big Apple to jet off to. But, no. Apparently, the daughter of one of the richest men in the Texas Panhandle had nothing better to do than bring her pseudo sophistication to Namesy’s Christmas open house.
Annabelle welcomed her the same as she’d done the other guests. She wasn’t surprised when Brianna shrugged out of the full-length mink coat and tossed it to Annabelle. “Take care of this for me, will you, Annabelle? Put it where I can get it when I’m ready to leave,� she ordered. “And be careful with it. You wouldn’t be able to pay for it if you damaged it. I’m in serious need of a drink to warm me up.�
Annabelle bit back a retort and said only, “Sure thing, Brianna. Excuse me, Mayor. I’ll be right back to discuss your scoop.�
Annabelle walked to the right of the front door and opened double doors that led into what had been her grandfather’s domain, the library. She wadded the coat into a rough round shape. “Here you go, Brianna,� she muttered and hurled the coat at the small sofa against the windows. The coat landed halfway between the doors and the sofa. Annabelle nodded. “Coat taken care of.�
The song changed to “Last Christmas.� That had been one of her Annabelle’s favorite Christmas songs. She loved the Wham version and the more recent Taylor Swift version too. Or she had loved it until last Christmas when she’d been foolish enough to give her heart to a man who truly had thrown it away. Lassiter. Was everything about Christmas going to make her think of him? She snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and found the mayor who hadn’t moved very far from the front door.
“Here you go, mister Mayor. I know it’s not beer, but you know champagne and eggnog are the only drinks Namesy serves at her Christmas party.�
The Mayor grimaced. “Just hold onto those two glasses. I’ve got someone I want you to meet. You can give him that soda pop with the bubbles.�
Annabelle laughed. “Someone to meet? I already know everyone in the three towns that make up the Gazette’s circulation.�
“Believe it or not, we’ve got a newcomer in town. He just got in today. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Brianna roped him into bringing her to the party. I guess he’s parking the car since she came in alone.�
Annabelle gave an exaggerated sigh. “The only new male in the Panhandle, and Brianna already has him lassoed. I didn’t even get a shot at him,� she joked.
“You know what they say, sugar.� He shrugged his broad shoulders. “You snooze; you lose.�
“I wasn’t snoozing. I’ve been busy since moving back.�
“Well, you haven’t been to any city council meetings. Your grandmother is still covering those. If you had, you’d have met the new guy because he was at the last two monthly meetings.�
“Right. Like Brianna met him at a city council meeting?�
The Mayor laughed. “I’m pretty sure it would be a sign that they were ice skating in hell if she ever came to a city council meeting. Personally, I think the girl has guy radar that picks up any male within a hundred miles.�
The Mayor’s smile broadened. He waved at someone standing behind her. “Here he is. Annabelle, I want you to meet our new Sheriff.�
“Interim Sheriff,� a husky masculine voice corrected.
That voice short-circuited Annabelle’s brain. She forgot to breathe. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose in alarm. Buzzing like that of a million bees filled her ears. She couldn’t turn to see the source of her danger. From the corner of her eye, a man entered her field of vision. Her eyes widened as he stopped in front of her.Ìý
“Annabelle, this is my score of the century. I’ve got us a guy with actual law enforcement background,� the Mayor prattled. “Say hello to…� The mayor’s voice trailed off. “Annie Belly, are you all right? You look kind of funny.�
Annabelle’s eyes connected with the nearly black eyes of the handsome man in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt, and red-patterned silk tie. She could only stare as she felt every last drop of blood drain from her face. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think.
“Hello. It’s nice to meet you,� the man said gravely, as if he didn’t know her from Adam.
Fury flowed into the vacuum created by the absence of thought and words. Annabelle murmured, “So nice to meet you too.�
Then she flung the contents of both champagne flutes into Rick Lassiter’s face.Ìý

The End…For Now


ÌýNY Times and USA Today bestselling author Joan Reeves makes her home in the Lone Star State with her hero, her husband.They have 4 children who think they are adults and a ghost dog, all the ingredients for a life full of love and warmed by laughter.Joan lives the philosophy that is the premise of her romance novels: “It’s never too late to live happily ever after.â€�


Post Script
You can find all of my romance novels on my (also available at most other ebook sellers). In fact, I’d be delighted if you follow me on my , , , and . I’ll happily follow you in return.
Sign up for , my email list/newsletter for readers and be the first o hear about new releases and swag bag giveaways. Plus, you get a free book for subscribing!Ìý

I have to share an experience with you � one that I consider has changed my ability to get more words written each time I sit down to work.
It all started at a six-week boot camp put on by local author, . It happened last October until mid-December. Each week she bullied us into doing what she called writing sprints. She’d set the alarm for half an hour and we’d put our heads down and just create. We had no time for editing, or thinking, certainly not when everyone around us was pounding the keys.
Trust me, we all wanted to have enough words on the screen so we wouldn’t feel as if we hadn’t accomplished what the rest could do. Let me tell you, that old challenge routine worked really well.
Amazingly, each week, every one of us managed to get higher word counts during these crazy sprints. We knew it because she’d listed our numbers after each time. We got so good at it, that it just became a matter of us focusing on whatever scene we were working on at the time and� ready � set � go!
I know it worked for me because I managed to write a 65,000 word novel called Sweet Retaliation � one I want to sell to a publisher � and I did so under a deadline from December 4th to December 31st. About killed me � but I don’t believe I could have done that without using my new sprinting skills.
I find now that I can zip off 500-1,000 words easily in 30 minutes if know exactly what the scene will be for that next chapter. It's given me the ability to aim for and easily achieve my 2,000 words a day.
It’s totally awesome!
Try it.
Set your alarm and write. Better your times every day.
E-mail a friend, set up a challenge and go for it…ÌýÌýÌ�

Save 75% for a VERY limited time!
June 16th - 21st Only
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Ocean City Boardwalk Series, Book 2
Loss and betrayal have caused Heather Phillips to give up on love. She’s thrown herself into running The Lonely Loon, her Bed and Breakfast located on the boardwalk ofÌýOcean City,ÌýMaryland. The “off seasonâ€� in this tourist town is usually a time of rest and reflection for her; however, DB Atwell, a famous author, arrives at The Loon for the winter to finish his long-overdue novel. Daniel, too, has faced grief, and tragedy continues to haunt him. Once Heather and Daniel meet, their lives will never be the same.
Reminiscent ofÌýNights in RodantheÌýby Nicholas Sparks and culminating in a happily-ever-after similar to the great Nora Roberts,ÌýTwo Hearts in WinterÌýis a story about learning to let go of the past, about realizing that, though hardship affects us, it need not define us, and about coming to understand and truly believe that beauty is sometimes covered in scars. The human heart has an amazing ability to forgive, to heal, and to hope, especially when touched by love.

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Available at regular price:
PaperbackÌý
Other titles in the Ocean City Boardwalk Series:
, Book 1
, a spin-off novella

Ìý Meet my friend, Donna Fasano: ÌýÌý
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR DONNA FASANO is a three-time winner of the HOLT Medallion, a CataRomance Reviewers Choice Award winner for Best Single Title, a Desert Rose Golden Quill Award finalist, a Golden Heart finalist, and a two-time winner of Best Romance of the Year given by BigAl's Books & Pals Review Blog. Her books have sold nearly 4 million copies worldwide and have been published in two dozen languages. Her books have made the Kindle Top 100 Paid List numerous times, climbing as high as #5.
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**** I’ve decided to give you all a little treat each Friday from now on.
You see, 20 of our girls from the Authors� Billboard are working to produce brand new novellas for a fabulous box collection for 2016 called Love, Christmas to be released in Oct. We’ve decided that each story will be titled by a favorite Christmas carol. And to tickle everyone’s curiosity, we’ve been posting Chapter One excerpts from each of the books for the last while on The Authors� Billboard blog.


Today I got to thinking; those blurbs have been enjoyed thoroughly by those followers, so why not introduce the same chapters to my own friends here on Believe.
Therefore, today we have USA Today, best-selling author, Taylor Lee, with her story called Santa Baby.









Chapter 1

Zach took a hefty swallow of Makers Mark draining his glass. Plunking the empty schooner on the table top he reached for the bottle and poured himself a healthy portion. Not waiting for his buddies� certain approval, he refilled Danny’s and Mark’s glasses with the amber liquid and raised his tumbler in a mock salute. “Here’s to what, men, our fourth, or, is it our fifth Christmas, celebrating at the Xpose? Damn, I never thought anything could be worse than canned Christmas music everywhere from Walmart to the barber shop.� He shook his head and pointed with his chin at the stage. “But two nearly naked faux reindeer pretending to have sex to the beat of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? Damn, that’s over the top even for the Xpose!� When his buddies roared in agreement, Zach tried to remember when he’d been amused, hell, even a little intrigued at the Xpose’s Christmas decorations. Leave it to Lecherous Lenny, as he and his men had named the proprietor of the sleazy strip joint, to create the scene in front of them. Who else would decorate his fake Christmas trees with gargantuan silver and gold phalluses? Not to mention every kind of sex toy the most perverted imbiber of kink could imagine. Zach admitted that once he’d even been amused by the plastic breasts decorating the trees. In an apparent imitation of Rudolph’s nose, they were topped with pointed red nipples that blinked on and off. Zach took another slug of the potent whiskey welcoming the harsh burn in his throat. With a heartfelt sigh he acknowledged that the garish sex-saturated displays were no longer funny, they were sad. Watching the women gyrating on the stage he shook his head. He knew that their glassy eyes and occasional stumbles confirmed that they’d deadened their bleak lives with the plentiful crystal Lenny provided to keep his girls in line. Disheartening as the women were, the ugly hoots of the drunken men egging them on, was sickening. Zach was about to finish his drink and call it a night when the girl-on-girl reindeer tableau came to a merciful end. As he rose to his feet and was about to slap down a bill, another song hit the PA system. Instead of a cheerful, inappropriate children’s tune, it was Eartha Kitt’s taunting tribute to materialism, Santa Baby. But it wasn’t the saucy lyrics that made Zach change his mind about leaving. Rather it was the long-limbed dancer sauntering across the stage toward the brass pole in the center of the stage. Deciding that leaving was premature, Zach allowed himself to sink back in his chair and appreciate what was an anomaly at the Xpose: A stripper who knew how to dance. Zach marveled that the woman not only moved her beautiful body in the expected, provocative fashion but she did it with a sinuous grace that snagged his breath. Danny’s appreciative whistle and muttered expletive confirmed that Zach wasn’t the only one agog at the apparition before them. “Wow! I haven’t seen that little piece before. Don’t tell me Lenny the Lecher is adding quality to his lineup. Fuckin� A, that babe looks more like a beauty pageant contestant than a stripper.� He added with a hearty laugh as the music throbbed, “Bet she’d win the talent portion if not the whole damn crown.� Gratified that his cohort was as flummoxed as he was, Zach tried to figure out what was different about the dark haired woman working her way to the pole. Like all the other strippers, she was wearing Lenny’s sexy de rigour Christmas attire. A tight red low-cut halter captured her full breasts and skimpy boy shorts cupped her curvy ass. The red velvet stocking cap with the sassy white fuzzy ball on the end perched on the shiny curtain of curly black hair streaming over her slim shoulders and back. But unlike the other women, who looked sleazy not sexy, the new dancer almost looked proper. More like one of Santa’s prettiest elves, not a woman who was about to shed her clothes for the voracious men who were screaming at her to “take it off�. The girl-next-door morphed enticingly when the dancer responded to the crowd’s lewd demands. With a flick of her fingers she allowed the straining halter to fall to the floor. Bodacious breasts topped with sparkling rhinestone pasties revealed a tantalizing glimpse of rosy nipples that stole Zach’s breath. The gasps from his hardened teammates confirmed he wasn’t the only one stunned by her lush body. He almost didn’t want her to lose the boy shorts, not wanting to share more of the erotic vision with the leering men. He was glad that the City fathers had decreed that no matter how loudly the crowd insisted, the remaining G-string would stay in place. Zach watched in amazement as the stripper-turned-erotic-gymnast skillfully used the shiny pole to display her stunning athleticism as well as her beautiful body. She shimmied up and down the pole twirling from one gravity defying move to another. When she landed a flying breathtaking leap and stood once more upright on the floor, Zach captured her gaze. The look in her eyes when she met his open appraisal surprised him. It wasn’t only the sudden shyness that flickered across her face. Rather it was the fact that her expression changed dramatically. If he was any judge of women who shed their clothes for a living, and Zach most certainly was, he recognized her startled wide-eyed expression. He’d seen it far too many times in his line of work. It was fear, pure and simple. Seeming to realize that her mask had slipped, the accomplished performer quickly recovered her poise. She turned back to the chanting crowd and showered them with a cheeky grin. Tossing her head she shook her booty eliciting a thunderous roar from the appreciative audience. Then with an impudent wave she turned and literally dashed from the stage.

Meet :


USA Today Best Selling author Taylor Lee writes Suspenseful Mystery Thrillers � with a heavy dose of Sexy to Sizzling HOT Romance.

In the less than four years that she has been writing, Taylor has written more than thirty books. Her seven series track her Special Operatives, Covert Agents, Cops, Firefighters and other iconic heroes and heroines, through the harrowing situations that make up their lives. From human trafficking rings to corrupt politicians, Taylor investigates the underbelly of society and the criminals who flourish there.

Taylor says: “From the residue in my personal blender of mixed races, cultures and world views, my characters emerge. It comforts me to know that while evil slinks in the shadows, the “good guys� of the world sniff it out � and snuff it out.

My characters are arrogant alpha males and the feisty women who bring them to their knees � and vice versa� They fight hard, love hard and don’t mince words. They are dangerous men and women in dangerous times. Love, passion and ridding the world of evil? What’s not to like?�