Friday, September 26, 2014

Haunted Heart Now Available!


M/M Paranormal, werewolves
27,700 words

Available Now From:

Convinced a clean break was the only way to protect the man he loved, Micah Hayden shut down, closed himself off, and spent more than a decade running from his mistakes. Twelve miserable years later, he’s come home to take his rightful place as Alpha, and if he has his say in the matter, reclaim the love that was stolen from him.
When Micah kicked him out and crushed his heart, August Tucker didn’t think he’d ever heal from the loss. Slowly, though, he rebuilt his life—a life far away from the painful memories of the past. So, when he learns Micah is back in town and wants to see him, August knows he should refuse, because even a brief reunion could destroy the walls he’s built around his heart.
Unfortunately, he may not have a choice. Someone wants him dead, someone willing to go to any lengths to succeed. With his list of allies growing thin, he has no choice but to turn to his old love for help.
But can Micah put aside his own uncertainties to be the hero August needs? Or will history be repeated when ghosts of the past resurface determined to finish what was put into motion all those years ago?

Available Now From:

Reclining in his office chair, August Tucker kicked his shoes off and propped his feet up on the desk with a silent groan. 
“Ok, you’re definitely going to be here Thursday, right?”
It felt like the hundredth time the question had been posed in the last twenty-four hours, and August barely bit back his sigh. “Yes, Meredith,” he answered into the phone. “My last appointment is at noon Thursday. I’ll be on the highway before rush hour.”
“I still don’t get why you’re driving all the way from Tulsa.”
Considering how little they had in common, it still amazed him that they’d ever become friends. Maybe it had something to do with the fact they were both too stubborn to let those little differences stand in their way. Whatever the reason, they’d made it work and had been inseparable since junior high, even after August had packed up his things and moved halfway across the country to nurse his broken heart.
“It’s not that far to Indianapolis.”
Most people probably wouldn’t agree, but nine hours didn’t feel like a chore. If nothing drastic happened, he could probably make it in eight.
“Besides, I like to drive,” he reminded her. August found the hum of the tires over the highway peaceful, and driving gave him the time and space to think.
“Yeah, yeah,” Meredith conceded. “Well, I’m closing the shop for the weekend, and Lucas will be at his dad’s house in Fort Wayne until next Thursday because of fall break. Starting Friday afternoon, I’m all yours.”
“Sounds like a plan, but you really don’t have to entertain me.”
“Oh, oh!” Meredith exclaimed, completely ignoring his subtle plea for a nice, quiet visit. Honestly, he should have been used to it by now. “You are never going to guess who’s back in town!”
Wincing as he jerked the phone away from his head to avoid a ruptured eardrum, August scrolled through his mental Rolodex, trying to figure out who could make his friend squeal like that. “I don’t know, Mer. Peyton Manning?” A lame guess, perhaps, but he had nothing.
“Funny,” Meredith answered, her tone dripping with sarcasm, “but no.” She paused for a long time, likely for dramatic effect, then squealed again. “Micah!”
She said it as though it should mean something to him, but he only knew of one Micah. Surely, she didn’t mean…
“Micah Hayden?” Barely able to speak through his trembling lips, August winced when his voice broke and prayed his friend hadn’t noticed.
“Yes! I saw him in the pharmacy last weekend when I was visiting Mom. I guess he’s in town for the closing on his parents’ farm out by Booker’s Pond. Remember it?” She didn’t give him a chance to respond before continuing. Hell, she didn’t even take time to breathe. “Now that they’re getting older—his parents, not Micah—they’ve decided to move to Florida. It’s clichĂ©, I know, but there you have it.”
August blinked twice, replaying the monologue in his head, because he’d definitely missed something. “His parents are moving to Florida? What does that have to do with Micah?”
“Oh, well, they signed over the farm to him, didn’t they? He finally found a buyer over in Greenfield.”
“Ah, I see.” August drummed his fingers against the gleaming oak of his desktop and swallowed hard, trying to force his heart out of his throat and back into his chest where it belonged. “So,” he began, hoping he sounded casual, “how is he?”
“Good, from what I could tell.” If Meredith sensed his growing anxiety, she didn’t say anything. “He’s been back in Indianapolis for a few months now, and he said he just signed a lease with…”
“Yes?” August dropped his feet to the floor and sat up straighter in his chair. “With what?”
“His partner,” Meredith answered. The glee had disappeared, replaced by a more somber tone, and perhaps even a hint of pity. “He moved into an apartment with his partner.”
If his life was a movie, August might naively think Micah’s return meant a second chance for them. They’d meet somewhere for coffee, just for old time’s sake, one thing would lead to another, and they’d stroll off into the sunset together. Roll end credits. August lived in the real world, though, with real-life disappointments, and Micah Hayden had turned out to be one of the biggest.
“I have his number.” Meredith’s voice pulled him back to the conversation. “He asked about you. Actually, he had a lot of questions about you.” Smugness saturated her voice, and August could just picture his friend’s bow shaped lips curling into a smirk. “He asked me to pass on his number. Want it?”
“Uh, Mer, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not such a good idea.” Part of him, the part that had been desperately in love with Micah wanted to say yes. A louder, more logical voice chastised him for even considering it.
“Auggie, c’mon. I know things ended badly between you, but he’s your alma.”
Fate. Soul. Heart. Intended. Mate. A sacred and cherished bond within the paranormal world, especially amongst his particular breed of werewolves. No one came between a Lobos and their mate, not without violent consequences. Apparently, that only applied to lesser beings, not to someone as self-important as Micah Hayden.
Yeah, I’m not bitter at all.
“You just said he was seeing someone else.”
“But he’s your mate!” Meredith repeated, as though that would suddenly make everything okay.
Knowing she wouldn’t let it go, August sighed as he shifted through the clutter on his desk for a pen and scrap of paper. Nothing said “I’m available and desperate” like getting wound up over the guy who’d dumped him. “Fine, let’s have it.”
Meredith rattled off the number twice, and then made August recite it back to her. After being repeatedly forced to promise he’d call the minute he left for Indiana, he said his goodbyes and disconnected. Picking up the slip of paper with Micah’s number on it, August leaned back in his desk chair and stared at the digits.
After all this time, he couldn’t imagine why Micah wanted to talk to him. They’d had little in common when they’d been together, and he guessed they had even less in common now. It would definitely be awkward.
“For crying out loud, August,” he berated himself, “you’re a grown man, not a heartsick kid.” Without a good reason not to call, he just looked like the jaded lover he was.
Sucking in a deep breath and praying for courage, August snatch his cell phone off the desk and dialed before he could change his mind. Then he sat on the edge of his chair, his shoulders back and his spine rigid, gnawing on his bottom lip while he waited for an answer.
“Hello?” a voice answered on the fourth ring in a deep, resonating bass.
Whoa. Shivering at the current that rippled along his spine, August tugged at his slacks and shifted in his seat when the tingles traveled to places they had no business occupying. “Umm…I’m looking for Micah Hayden,” he stammered.
“This is Micah Hayden. Who’s calling?”
“You probably don’t remember me,” August began but stopped when he realized how stupid that sounded. The guy had crushed his heart into a million pieces. Oh, and he’d asked about him. Either way, of course Micah remembered him. “It’s August. August Tucker. Meredith gave me your number.”
Okay, great. This is going well.
Even after all these years, the silly nickname had the ability to stretch his lips into a warm, indulgent smile. “Yeah, it’s me.” Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he’d dreaded. “How are you, Micah?”
“Wow. It is you. I wasn’t sure you’d call, but I’m glad you did.” An echoing smile tinted Micah’s voice, and he sounded genuinely happy. “How long has it been? Twelve, thirteen years?”
“Something like that.” Some days, it felt longer. Other days, it felt like no time had passed and the pain nearly suffocated him. “So, you’re back in Indy now?”
“Yes, sir. I bought The Garage, so that’s where I’ve been spending most of my time.”
Micah had started working for old man Aikens in junior high, cleaning up around the shop and fetching parts for the mechanics. Gods, he’d loved that place, and he’d talked nonstop about owning his own garage one day. August was truly happy his old love had fulfilled his dream.
“That’s great, Micah, really. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” A measure of uncertainty floated over the line. “What else did Meredith tell you?”
“Just that you found a buyer for your parents’ farm. Are they really moving to Florida?”
“Well, Mom is moving down there to be closer to her sister. Dad passed a couple of months ago. I’m not selling the old place, either.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I know you two were close.” It seemed callous to ask, but August did question what that meant for the pack. He also wondered how Meredith could get her facts so horribly wrong. “Are you living at the farm, then? I thought you’d just signed a lease on an apartment?”
Silence hung over the line before Micah groaned under his breath. “Some things never change, huh?”
“If you’re referring to the fact that Meredith hears a quarter of the conversation and makes up the rest, you wouldn’t be wrong.” Gods, Micah had a great laugh, and even through the phone line, his voice washed over August in all the right—er, wrong?—places.  “Okay, so what am I missing?”
“Well, I just terminated the lease on my old apartment. Mom did sign the farm over to me, but I’m not selling the house or any of the land. Seems like it would be a waste of resources to turn over seventy acres of pack lands.”
“You’re converting the farm to pack lands?” August sat up a little straighter and cocked his head to the side. The pack had never had a place of their own to run, not that August could remember, anyway. “Why now? Why the sudden change?”
Micah cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he sounded a little too casual for it to be authentic. “It’s just time for some changes.” He paused, a little hesitation that anyone else probably wouldn’t have noticed. “You’re living in Oklahoma now, right?”
 He was definitely hiding something, but after so long apart, it wasn’t really August’s place to ask. So he ignored the tightening in his gut and pasted a smile on his lips when he answered. “Yes, sir, I have my own office here in Tulsa.”
To date, it was his biggest accomplishment, and he’d worked his ass off, scrimping, saving, and sacrificing to be able to open his own practice. It hadn’t been easy in the beginning, but he’d seen steady progress, especially in the past couple of years. His exclusive clientele required a certain level of…discretion, and they were willing to pay top dollar to protect their privacy.
“Wow, I’m impressed.” Micah’s tone held just the right amount of sincerity without being over the top. He didn’t quite pull off the same subtlety with his next question, though. “I guess that doesn’t leave a lot of time to make it back home, huh?”
“It’s not my home, Micah. It hasn’t been for a long time.” It had been fourteen years since his parents had passed, and with no other family, August had no reason to return to Indianapolis permanently. “However, I’ll be in town this coming weekend to visit Meredith.”
“You’ll be in town for your birthday? We should celebrate.” Micah stopped and swallowed audibly. When he continued, some of the enthusiasm had vanished. “I mean, if you’re not busy, of course. If you’d rather not, I’ll understand.”
August didn’t know how he felt. The part of him still hopelessly in love with the guy wanted to move back to Indianapolis, buy a house, build a picket fence, and live happily ever after. The rational part of him, however, knew that would never happen, and being near Micah without actually being with him sounded plain miserable.
“I’d love to see you.”
What? Wait. I would?
“I look forward to it.” Micah’s reply felt more intimate than his previous excitement, and August clenched his fist on his thigh as his breath quickened. “I should get back to work.”
August glanced at the clock on his computer and opened his schedule of appointments for the day. “Yeah, same here. My four o’clock will be here any minute.”
“What is it you do, Ant?”
“I’m a therapist,” August answered distractedly as he pulled his patient’s file from the bottom drawer and placed it on top of the desk. “Sex therapy to be more specific.”
“Right then.” Laughter colored Micah’s voice, and he paused for a heartbeat before composing himself. “Well, you have my number now. Be sure to use it.”
“I’ll call when I get into Indy.” Gods, he didn’t know how he’d convinced himself it would be a good idea to see Micah again, but he blamed Meredith. If she hadn’t been so quick to gossip, none of this would have happened. “Take care of you.”
Their old goodbye came without thought, rolling smoothly off his tongue as though he’d uttered it a thousand times in the last twelve years. In truth, it was special, and he never used that parting line with anyone except Micah.
Thankfully, Micah didn’t comment on his Freudian slip. “Goodbye, August.”

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Welcome Alexis Duran!

I knew Touch of Salar was going to be special when I first started writing it.  I've never had a story come to me so easily or fully formed before.  I wrote like a woman possessed and finished the first draft in about two weeks.  The story excited me so much I stayed up way too late with my laptop propped on pillows as I huddled in bed. After I turned out the lights, I often had to turn them back on to make more notes.
The secret behind all this joyful creativity is that Touch of Salar was the first full blown m/m erotic story that I allowed myself to write.  Yes, I'd dreamed up these stories for years, but I'd never put them on the page.  I believed I was part of a very small sub-group of women who maybe love men a little too much.  I had no clue there was a huge market for the stories I ached to write.  I owe it to my friend Draven St. James for showing me the light.
After investigating Loose Id's submission policies I decided to take a risk and combine my man love obsession with my usual genre, fantasy.  Once I gave myself permission to follow my heart, the story poured out of me.  I had an amazingly fun time writing it and it was so, so thrilling to get that acceptance email from Loose Id.  You mean I can do what I love, have a great time, and get published? Wow.
Part of the reason Touch of Salar was such a kick to write is because the character of M'lan existed before the novel came into being.  M'lan, the monk with the power to heal with his touch, gradually formed out of a fantasy I've entertained for a long time. 
I have a small curve in my spine that's caused me a lot of pain since I was a teenager and I've come to view a massage as an essential, nearly sacred form of self-care.  As I recline on the table and the strong hands of the masseuse explore my body in highly intimate ways, I often indulge in a meditation that involves visualizing a magical healing energy extending out of their fingers into the deepest parts of my body, probing and releasing the pain locked inside. 
Being a writer of fantasy, I began to build a character based on this experience.  Wouldn't it be beyond fabulous if the masseuse with the magic touch were also a gorgeous man?  A man who was so sensitive he knew exactly where our tensions lurk and how to unlock them?  And what else could he do with that power?  It's a good thing my masseuse (and chiropractor and physical therapist) never knew what was going on in my mind.
Massage is so intimate, and I admire those who can remain entirely professional while rubbing their hands all over someone's body. But what if they can't? What if that certain someone comes to them, disrobes and stretches out in a completely vulnerable position?  I imagine it could be difficult.  A key ingredient in M'lan's story came to me one time when my masseuse was massaging my hand. For some reason that specific part of the body struck me as more intimate than any other.
Holding hands is so basic, so sweet, and yet so powerful.  The experience brought to tears to my eyes, revealing to me a longing for human intimacy I'd been repressing.  I wondered about the power of simple touch to reach deep inside, beyond physical wounds, to emotional secrets and basic longings for touch that we all have buried deep within us.  And so M'lan's lover began to emerge, someone with deeply buried wounds that had never been exposed and that made him a very dangerous person indeed.
I love to write romance mainly because I find it thrilling to take opposites, throw them together and see how they react, how they threaten, anger, dazzle and eventually complete each other.  M'lan stepped fully formed out of my head and into the healing temple of Salar.  Jamil the assassin wasn't far behind.
The healer and the killer—the monk and the warrior.  Once I introduced them the story literally spilled out of me, because along with massage, writing and releasing these fantasies has become an essential form of self-care for me.  I hope that readers can take a deeper sort of enjoyment from the fantasy as well

In a world ruled by tyrannical kings and fickle gods, the young monk M'lan finds himself at the center of royal intrigue as his healing powers attract the attention of his superiors. When he learns the handsome warrior whose body he’s tending to is not only a noble, but a king's assassin, any attachment to him might prove fatal. Despite the danger, he can't stop himself from falling in love. Can he risk the abandon of passion when a slip of the tongue might force his lover to execute him?
Major Jamil Jarka comes to the temple with one intention—heal his wounds so he can return to the fight against the rebellion. When the monk assigned to him turns out to be stunningly attractive, he sees this as a pleasant distraction, no more. But soon he finds himself becoming obsessed with M'lan and is torn between the fear of betrayal and the lure of love.
Sinister forces strive to turn the monk and the warrior against each other—a conflict neither will survive if they cannot trust their lives to love and the healing power of Salar.

The sun pierced a crevice in the mountains, and M’lan raised a hand to shield his eyes. He stood on a desert battlefield littered with the wounded, the dying, and the dead. He held a blood-smeared sword in his other hand. He let it drop.
Dawn cut across the broken earth in a fiery lance, the anger of Salar, god of light, exposing man’s cruelty in shocking, vivid detail. Blood everywhere, limbs hacked, horses screaming. Hundreds of cold, sightless eyes, all turning toward him.
M’lan stepped forward and tripped over a body at his feet. He fell, not onto a rock-strewn desert, but marble steps.
As his palms hit a cool stone floor, he shook his head in confusion. His vision wavered between illusion and reality. On his hands and knees, he breathed deep and tried to remember who he was and where he was. He raised his head, and the tentacles of the night terrors recoiled into the shadowed corners of a temple, chased away by the sun that was indeed cresting the mountain. He was not a warrior but a monk, a healing monk, and he was in the temple of Ka’alar, not some hideous battlefield.
He let out a shaky breath and climbed the last few steps on hands and knees. The nightmares were getting worse, and so powerful that they chased him all the way out of his cell into the blessed light of day. He thanked Salar for the dawn, then groggily staggered to his feet. He dimly recalled rising and dressing before dawn, but the dream had hunted him down and reclaimed him on his way to the temple.
The fading aroma of night-blooming cacti still sweetened the air of the healing room. Clay ovens had been fired to heat it, but a chill remained in the open space. M’lan was grateful, because the nightmare had left him drenched with sweat. He leaned against a marble column and soaked in the rose-tinted glow of the sunrise. Morning was his favorite time of day, a fresh start, a new beginning. Every day, he channeled divine energy to mend fallen warriors. Every night, as if he became a warrior himself, he relived the horror his patients experienced in real life.
His heartbeat slowed, and he took a moment to clear his mind and prepare for the first patient of the day. He’d trained for years to calm his mind and cool his passions. While he was busy treating his patients, passion was not a problem. Despite the array of beautiful bodies he worked on, he stayed as cool as a mountain lake, his mind still as he concentrated on sinews, muscles, tendons, and ligaments. At night, though, his passions erupted in those violent dreams of war, killing, and terror.
The monks of Ka’alar Healing Temple exclusively served the noble classes of the kingdom of Rakkan. In recent years, most of their clients were soldiers, officers who’d been injured in the ongoing battle with Jirnan Province to the south. The monks also treated elite forces of no particular rank or designation—spies, assassins, sons and daughters of the nobility trained to serve the king in secret and deadly ways. The only reason M’lan knew this was because of the nightmares. He saw what his clients did, where they went, who they killed. If anyone ever found out, he’d be executed on the spot.
Cobwebs clearing, he hurried to wipe down the soft-padded table in the middle of the room with essential oils and snapped out a fresh cloth to smooth on top of it. Today he was to begin the healing process on a new patient. For the sake of secrecy and discretion, patients were referred to by title. Today’s client, if spoken to, was to be addressed as Major. He was male, twenty-eight passages of age, and had been in the intensive-care ward of the temple for three weeks.
M’lan’s role came into play after the most grievous injuries were patched, wounds closed, and vital functions stabilized. He put the final touches on a body to make it as fine and fit as before whatever trauma had broken it. He aligned the chi as well as the bones, muscles, and nerves. He released locked-in trauma, allowing the body to flow naturally again, maybe better than before, if the connection was right and the patient willing.
Some warriors only wanted to be patched up so they could return to the fight. Others believed a complete healing cycle would make them better at what they did and less likely to fail again. They all took injury as a personal failure.
The entry chimes sounded, and M’lan bowed his head, as was custom when nobility entered. The patient wore a black silk robe, head covered with a hood. He moved with grace and a lightness of foot, unlike most of the warriors M’lan worked on, who tended to be heavyset and muscle-bound. By the tang of sulfur salts, M’lan knew the man had already warmed up with exercise and soaked in the healing pools. Good. A committed patient was so much easier to work with.
The man crossed the tiled floor without a sound and stepped up to the table. From behind him, M’lan watched the silk robe drop to the floor before he raised his eyes, ready to assess what he saw.
His breath caught. Even though he was used to seeing well-sculpted, muscular bodies, this one was exceptional. Faint scars crisscrossed the truly beautiful almond skin but were obscured by the swirls and tangled vines of an elaborate tattoo that climbed from the crease beneath the man’s left buttock to the base of his neck. His torso tapered from the broad shoulders to a slim waist. The arms and legs were lean yet muscular, and the buttocks tight and hard. He had glossy black hair that flashed red in the sunlight. M’lan glimpsed a fine high cheekbone, sculpted jawline, and aquiline nose. A true son of Rakkan.



Has your perspective on the writing process changed since you became published?
I'm much more aware of the presence of the reader.  I'm always asking myself how my readers will feel about where I'm taking the characters, especially with the series.  Before being published, I guess I'd say was more self-indulgent and if I wanted to change things or take them in a radical new direction, I would. Now I have to think about the expectations I've created and the story questions that need to be answered.

Do you work best on a deadline, or do you need freedom from time constraints? 
Deadlines work well for me, as long as I don't set unreasonable ones.  I absolutely love NaNoWriMo and my best writing is fast and furious.  Deadlines stop me from lollygagging.
Is there a word or phrase you catch yourself overusing? 
I have a couple pages of notes just on that.  The list became much funnier after the first time I had a sex scene professionally edited.  Let's just say that there are a lot of synonyms for "hard" and I'm working on using all of them.
How do you know you’ve written a good book?
I re-read the entire manuscript before each rewrite.  If I still enjoy it after the fifth or sixth time through, I think it must be pretty good.
Are you a Swooper (write first, edit later,) a Basher (edit each sentence as you go,) or both?
I never heard those terms before.  I'm definitely a Swooper.  The most valuable advice I ever received as a budding novelist was "fix it in the rewrite".  If I tried to perfect every sentence or scene as I went, I'd still be working on the first novel.  During the first draft, it's all about the story trying to get out of my head and onto the page.  I know I'll be able to make it pretty later. 
What are you currently working on? How is it different from other books you’ve written?
I’m working on an erotic space opera. It's the first time I've really given my quirky sense of humor full reign in the erotica stories.  I love to play with how silly our culture is and in science fiction you can really do a lot of humorous social commentary.  It will also be my first erotic SF as well as my first full length novel in the m/m erotic genre.
Is there anything you haven’t written that you would like to try some day? Why have you avoided it in the past? 
I really want to write a write an erotic romance set in the Victorian Era. I've already plotted it out in my head and tried to start it once, but I stopped when I realized I didn't have a good handle on all the nitty gritty details, including everything from currency denominations to the evolution of undergarments.  It's funny, you grow up reading Sherlock Holmes and Charles Dickens and think you really know the time and culture, but when you try to write it, suddenly you find great gaping holes in your vocabulary.  I'm intimidated by all the research and the process of incorporating a zillion facts into my mind so that it will flow when I need it, but I really love that story so someday I'll knuckle down and do it.
When and where can readers look forward to seeing you this year? 
I'm attending the Gay Romance Northwest Meet-up in Seattle this September, as a participant, not a presenter, but I'll be there.  That's the only thing on the calendar so far.
What do you feel are the most important aspects to a good romance?
Strong, well-rounded characters.  Even if they're not physically or emotionally strong, they've got to have unbendable passions and desires.  A great romance character will fight to overcome his or her weaknesses in order to achieve their ultimate desire, which in romance is almost always an intimate relationship with that certain someone.  Once you have your interesting, amazing characters on the stage, then you need conflict, conflict, conflict.  That is where the tension, anticipation, frustration and release comes from that makes romance so sweet.
What is your least favorite part of the writing process? 
The first rewrite, when I have to make sense out of the crazy mess of the first draft.

How do you feel about being the center of attention?
I don't like it!  Makes me squirm (and not in a good way.)
How do you feel, generally, about the opposite sex?
I adore them. That's why I write gay romance!
What is your worst habit?
Descending into despair whenever things don't go my way, like if I get a so-so review or a story rejection, it's the end of my world for at least several hours.
How deeply does your job / social role define you as a person? 
Being a writer, a creative person, is extremely important to me. It's my raison d'ĂȘtre.  The day job, not so much.

Book:  Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins
Movie: Blade Runner
Band: The Clash
Quote:  "Whatever you can do, or think you can do, begin it. For boldness has Magic, Power, and Genius in it."  Goethe
TV Show: Firefly, and more currently, Castle.
Guilty Indulgence: The next story. I have a huge stack of first drafts and projects nearing completion, but I just can't say no when new characters come knocking.
Dessert:  Caramel ice cream with the salty bits in it.
Time of Day: Dawn. I don't see it that often, but when I do it's awesome.

Alexis Duran was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. At the University of Oregon, her fascination with people and relationships led her to major in Sociology, but her main love has always been creative writing.  She has worked in museums, in fashion, in finance and film production. Her favorite job so far was Administrative Assistant in a haunted Victorian Mansion.  She's had several short stories published in the mystery, horror and literary genres, and one contemporary fantasy novel.  Her fiction has won several awards including the Rupert Hughes Award from the Maui Writers Conference.  She's thrilled to enter the realm of erotic romance with the publication of her novel Touch of Salar.  She lives with one dog and four and half cats.  She is currently working on the next Salar novel and several other erotic novellas.

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