Why can't vampires and werewolves be friends?

It's a common theme, the rivalry in fiction between vampires and werewolves: we saw it in Underworld, the Anita Blake books, the Crimson City series, and Twilight, to name a few examples. It makes sense from a biological perspective. Predators tend to be territorial, because it takes a certain number of prey animals (that'd be us humans) to keep each predator well-fed.

Put two predators in a space too small, and it's only natural for them to compete with each other for food. But since we're talking about thinking, feeling creatures, it makes sense that the competition would go beyond food. They'd compete for all the same things we mundanes do: power, wealth, women...and in the paranormal romance genre, readers.

They each have their own appeal. Vampires tend to be more human than human, to quote the Rob Zombie song. They're smarter, stronger, more experienced, and more charismatic than a normal human being. They're also more civilized: many vampire stories focus on intrigue and the fine nuances of vampire politics, which are often governed by intricate and sometimes-confusing rules. Also, they're dead.

Werewolves, on the other hand, are wildly, passionately, ferally alive. They embrace their animal nature. Better sense of smell, stronger instincts, more attuned to nature and the outdoors. They're earthy, less civilized than humans, and their politics are centered around the most basic of social instincts: dominance and submission.

In essence, vampires and werewolves represent the two ends of a continuum of civilization: supercivilized vamps at one end, animalistic werewolves at the other, and plain old ordinary humans in the middle. Vampire fiction explores the complexities of culture and what it is to be civilized; werewolf fiction explores our animal nature and how biological imperatives can conflict with the drives of intellect and cultural pressures.

Of course vamps and werewolves have trouble getting along. They represent our intellectual selves and our biological selves, respectively. Vampire-werewolf wars are symbolic of our own struggle to tame our wild sides in the name of civilization, without losing that spark that makes us truly alive.

Would you rather be a vampire or a werewolf?

Leave a comment and you're entered to win a copy of Blood Hero!

She's Sex, He's Death: A vampire and a succubus join forces in ancient Babylon

When Rihat discovers that his village is being terrorized by an akhazu demon, he seeks help at Marduk's temple. He meets Iltani, a demigoddess who's been cursed by Ishtar to live as an ardat-lili, enslaved by lust, a night-maiden who feeds on sexual energy.

Iltani offers Rihat the power to slay the akhazu, if he'll agree to serve her every need without question. But will the price of that power be more than Rihat can bear to pay?

Available at:

Excessica (http://tinyurl.com/2fuobmz), All Romance Ebooks (http://tinyurl.com/2fmv7a3), 1 Romance Ebooks (http://tinyurl.com/2czypvy), OmniLit (http://tinyurl.com/24lt3jc), Smashwords (http://tinyurl.com/22jmog5), Fictionwise (http://tinyurl.com/2bv8ugo), Amazon (http://tinyurl.com/2eomyed), Amazon UK (http://tinyurl.com/29g4r9n)

Excerpt:

Rihat knelt before the limestone statue of Marduk, more out of despair than reverence for the stern-faced war god. Tomorrow, Rihat would seek out the monster that was ravaging his village, and tomorrow, he would die.

Once he was dead, who would protect his sister from the beast?

Anger tightened its hold on his throat, and he growled, trying to clear the ache that threatened to choke him. He'd wasted too much time already, first begging his fellow soldiers to fight with him, then trying to bribe palace staff to give him an audience with the king of Babylon, and finally spending his last few shekels on a scrawny pig for Marduk's priests to sacrifice on his behalf, hoping they could tell him how to defeat the monstrous akhazu by himself. All for nothing.

What could he do now but face the beast himself and die with his honor intact? If he died well, perhaps Marduk would protect his sister.

As he opened his mouth to repeat his prayer, a fierce prickling crawled over his skin. Invisible, fiery needles pierced every inch of him, stinging his arms and legs, burning his belly, inflaming his cock. The air turned thick and heavy, and he gasped, blood pounding in his temples, a sudden, involuntary erection straining against his loincloth, lifting his kilt. His strength ebbed; the muscles in his thighs trembled.

Had Marduk noticed the frustration behind his plea, and chosen to punish him for it?

Behind him, a scuffing sound. Rihat jumped to his feet and whirled, lightheaded with the effort, grunting with the pain of stiff knees forced to move too quickly.

A woman.

Not just a woman. A beautiful woman. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

She wore a robe of white linen so sheer he could see the red-brown circles of her nipples and the dark, furry triangle between her legs. Her skin shimmered gold, like the desert sand at midday. Her hair, black as pitch, was unbound, flowing down her back to brush against the back of her thighs like a veil. A huge carnelian, like blood turned to stone, hung from the intricate chain around her neck.

His cock throbbed harder, as if trying to tear through his clothes to get to her. If he were naked, it would be pointing straight at her.

Why hadn't he heard her enter the room?

She examined him deliberately, head to toe. When her kohl-lined eyes paused at his groin, she smiled and licked her lips with a delicate pink tongue.

"Who are you?" he rasped.

"Rejoice, Rihat," the woman answered. "Your prayer has been answered."

* * * *

She could smell his arousal with every breath, a musky, salty scent far more pleasing than the smoky-sweet myrrh permeating the temple. He was clearly a soldier, dressed in the standard leather tunic reinforced with bronze scales, a fringed wool kilt and battered sandals. Alert brown eyes over his straight nose, broad cheeks tapering down to his strong chin, wavy black hair pulled back with
a cord--she would have found him attractive even if she hadn't been half-mad with the need to feed.

Iltani reined in her hunger, ignoring the deep ache in her core, the dampness between her legs. She'd finally found a warrior who might suit her purposes. She couldn't risk frightening him off before she'd had a chance to talk to him.

Even if he doesn't accept your offer, he might let you feed anyway. Few men had the willpower to resist an ardat-lili. As much as she hated what she'd become, Iltani could only restrain her hunger for so long.

He looked like he was about to speak. "It won't help to call out," she said. "No one will hear anything until I'm finished with you."

"Who are you?" the tall, well-muscled warrior demanded again. His fingers twitched, clenched into fists. "How do you know my name?"

"I heard you praying. You may call me Iltani."

The warrior took a sharp breath. Sweat beaded on his brows, highlighting the rapid pulse at his temples. "What are you?"

"My father is Ea."

"A goddess," he breathed, fear flickering over his face. He banished it with a scowl that in no way distracted Iltani from the prodigious lump beneath his kilt.

She was so hungry. "Half-goddess. My mother was human."

"What do you want with me?"

The prayer Iltani had overheard was for his sister, and Rihat was clearly prepared to die in order to protect her. A man who could love that deeply deserved the truth. But was he brave enough to look that truth squarely in the eye? Or would he recoil with disgust as soon as he learned what she really was?

"I served as one of Ishtar's handmaidens, until the goddess caught her consort Tammuz ogling me." Even the anger roused by the memory of her exile wasn't enough to eclipse her swelling hunger for Rihat. She wanted to push him down, to kiss him, to drink in the vitality he radiated. The delicate linen of her robe, soft as it was, seemed to scour her swollen nipples with every breath she drew. The tingling between her legs grew stronger. "Ishtar cursed me to be an
ardat-lili and banished me to live in your realm."

Rihat didn't back away, or start praying, or make that silly gesture humans believed would protect them against evil spirits. Was he that brave? Or did he simply love his sister that much? He asked, "Why me?"

Hope welled in Iltani's heart. Had she finally found a man who would help her? She'd already released three others from their vows of service--two because she caught them abusing their newfound abilities, and a third because he'd proven too squeamish about her curse to be reliable.

"I require a warrior to help me break the curse. In return, I can give you the strength to defeat your akhazu."

Rihat regarded her in silence.

"Once the curse is broken," Iltani added, "You'd be free again. But until then, you must serve me without question."

"Free," he repeated dubiously. "Why would you release me once I've agreed to serve you?"

She shrugged, tried to hide the trembling thrill she felt as his eyes followed the movement. "That is not your concern."

* * * *

"How?" Rihat asked, barely able to think for the thunder of lust through his veins.

"How what?"

"How would you help me kill the akhazu?" It was a mistake to bargain with her. How many men had she killed, seducing them and feeding on their souls? Sucking them to husks and abandoning them, the poor bastards still crying for her touch with their dying breath. No matter that her father was the God of Wisdom, this woman was a demon, and any sane man would run from her.

But if she could save his sister, he'd give up his sanity as willingly as he'd give up his life.

Iltani licked her lips again and the muscles in his thighs shivered, his aching cock shifting beneath the fabric that restrained it. He was certain all the blood in his body was gathering in his groin. Even knowing what she was, he wanted her more than he'd wanted anything in his life.

"The blood of the gods still flows through my veins," Iltani answered. "Drink from me, and you'll have the strength of fifty men. For a while."

He could barely talk, he was working so hard at restraining himself. He wanted to seize her, to back her up against the wall and take her. Right now. "How long is a while?"

"Long enough to save your sister."

"While I serve you, you'll...feed from me?" he asked.

"I won't take enough to weaken you. I need you to be strong."

Did he believe her? Did it matter? She was the only hope he had of defeating the akhazu. A deal with a demon. It was foolish, but he was desperate.

No doubt, he would enjoy serving her as much as he would regret it. "I'm ready."

The ardat-lili smiled. "Take off your tunic."

* * * *

Madeleine Drake writes feisty, fast-paced paranormal romance and erotica that spans the space-time continuum. Raised by a pride of cats, a friendly mutt, and the Sonoma County library system, she loves to read about ancient history and mythology, anthropology, gender roles, and sexual archetypes. Her homeworld is located out past the constellation Orion, but she currently resides in Texas. You can find her online at www.madeleinedrake.com.

Lust or Love? Which Sells More Books

Lust: "uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness."

While I can't say I've been reading romance all or even half my life, I have been around long enough to notice a change in trends. Certainly the growth of sub-genres and cross-genres has had an effect on the romance story, broadening the appeal to a greater number of readers. But what about the heat?

When it comes to sex in a novel, reader interest comes in all levels; from mild—behind closed doors and intimation—to red hot, where nothing is left to the imagination and eroticism reigns. Review sites often rate the level of heat, categorizing books as "sweet," "sensual," "very sensual," "explicit," etc. Book covers are showing more flesh than ever before. Erotica, erotic romance and "romantica" are widely accepted genres, and with the added discretion of ebooks, readers no longer feel they have to hide their choices behind plain brown wrappers.

Here as excerpt from CAPE SEDUCTION, In this short "clip" from 1948, young starlet Darla Foster is having sex with her married, megastar boyfriend, Jordan Kent, after having talked him into rowing a small boat against dangerous seas so that they could make love in the lighthouse. And by the way, this is the most graphic scene in the book:

The bedsprings squeaked and groaned. Darla grasped the brass headboard tightly as Jordan slammed against her, into her, in a prolonged ritual of carnal joy. She let herself go, let herself abandon, for one time only, her careful and calculating ways. This was purity, intimate love with Jordan, and he belonged to her. Despite what she'd told him, it was only the beginning. Because she would not stop, would not rest, would not go away until she had him all to herself. The small victory of persuading him to make the treacherous trip in the dinghy was evidence enough that she had a chance.

She whispered obscenities as he pumped, because she knew he liked it. Cecelia, she suspected, was too big a prude to ever get dirty enough for a man like Jordan.

"Ooh, yeah. Oh, yeah, baby. Come on. Come on." Jordan quivered, and Darla met his rhythm, stroke for stroke. She let go of the headboard and wrapped her arms around him, nipping his earlobe, sucking on his neck, panting in a bigger passion than she'd ever known.

"Ah, Darla, Darla…God damn…I can't…I can't…"

"Don't hold back, Jordie! Come, you nasty boy! Come hard!"

If Jordan heard her, Darla couldn't tell. They were lost in each other, lost in the moment, lost in time.

The reviewer who first reviewed this book is a seasoned reader. The rating? "Sweet." What does that say about the ones at the three higher levels?

Don't get me wrong, I like reading about intimacy between lovers. I just don't particularly enjoy the play-by-play, detailed graphic descriptions of love-making. I'm more interested in how the characters relate to each other, and sometimes scene after scene of sexual carnage is just too much for me. One well qualified reader describes some of what's published as nearly pornographic. And yet, sex sells. I don't have statistics, but lust attracts readers who fully expect the H/H to be tearing up the sheets before, say, chapter three. So I have to wonder: is there still a place for stories that focus more on the plot, the characters, the tale, than on the build up and subsequent release of sexual tension?

I guess it would be correct to say... there's something for everyone.

****

Today kicks off my two week cyber tour celebrating the release of CAPE SEDUCTION! Be sure to stop over at Sean Hayden's blog for a fun interview, and don't forget to enter my easy-peasy contest to win a bunch of free books from Echelon Press! (Do it NOW so you don't forget!)

Anne Carter (aka Pam Ripling) is a self-proclaimed Lighthouse Nut and the author of Beacon Street Mysteries, CAPE SEDUCTION and POINT SURRENDER, available in paperback and Kindle versions. Also for your nook, iPhone, Sony eReader and other formats at Omnilit. Visit Pam/Anne at Beacon Street Books.

Paranormal Angel Romance e-book - Her Dark Angel - Out Now!

Sexy new paranormal angel romance e-book out today! Get it while you can at Amazon.com for the special price of $0.99 (usually $2.99) or Amazon.co.uk for only £0.72

Her Dark Angel is the first story in a three part series. All of the stories cross-over by characters and world only, not plot, so you're free to enjoy them in any order. Keep your eyes peeled for Her Fallen Angel (coming October 2010) and Her Warrior Angel (coming November 2010)

Her Dark Angel
by Felicity Heaton

An angel without a mission, Apollyon lives trapped in Hell guarding the bottomless pit. Surrounded by endless darkness, he longs to fly free on Earth once more but his master hasn’t called him in centuries. When the call finally comes, it’s to serve a new master, a beautiful woman he has often watched over, a woman who has always captivated him.

Serenity is shocked when a gorgeous black-winged angel shows up in her city of Paris claiming that she called him when she was only casting a simple vengeance spell. He’s no other than the angel of death! When Apollyon offers to obey her and help her have revenge on her cheating ex-boyfriend, she can’t resist the temptation, but can she resist him? Can an angel as dark as Apollyon ever fall for a mortal woman like her?

Their charade as lovers quickly becomes reality when one dance leads to another and Apollyon proves that he’s as sinful as he looks. His sensual and hungry touch brings Serenity back to life, freeing her from the hurt of being betrayed and reigniting her passion, but she can’t ignore her growing fear. Lost in their moment together, Apollyon realises that there is a reason he heard her call—he’s in love with her.

But will Serenity see past the wings and believe that Apollyon returns her feelings and won’t hurt her? When her ex-boyfriend asks her to forgive him and be with him again, will she take the easy route or will she find the courage to fly away with her dark angel?

Dark, passionate and sensual, Her Dark Angel is a tale of intense desire and deepest forbidden love guaranteed to get your heart racing.

Read the excerpt... http://www.felicityheaton.co.uk/herdarkangel/

Buy at Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/Her-Dark-Angel-ebook/dp/B00408AQ98/ref=sr_1_17?ie=UTF8&m=A7B2F8DUJ88VZ&s=digital-text&qid=1282589354&sr=8-17



Buy at Amazon.co.uk
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Her-Dark-Angel/dp/B00408AQ98/ref=sr_1_13?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1282589405&sr=8-13



Buy direct from author's website
http://www.felicityheaton.co.uk/ebooks.php?title=Her%20Dark%20Angel



Buy at Alinar Publishing
http://www.alinarpublishing.com/books.php?title=Her%20Dark%20Angel

TANYA HANSON: Is it possible to combine “spicy” and “sweet” outside of the kitchen?

Is it possible to combine “spicy” and “sweet” outside of the kitchen? Can these two tasty adjectives co-exist in the romance-writing world?

Well, I’m sure hoping so, because I’ve got releases fitting both descriptions coming out at just about the same time this summer. I’m using the same author name on all of them…and even though I share the same name as a porn star, (although she at least spells is HanSEN) I’m right proud of it.

First off, my second book in the sensual “Paradise Brides” series from The Wild Rose Press, Marrying Mattie, is described as “spicy.”. It features a handsome horse doctor, Call Hackett, who makes his first appearance in Paradise, Nebraska, circa 1880, in Marrying Minda (also available now), when he tries to woo the mail-order bride Minda Becker away from her reluctant bridegroom. When her hottie cowboy husband Brixton Haynes falls head over heels in love with her, I reckoned Call Hackett deserved a love story all his own.

Hence, Mattie Carter, Minda’s sister, steals his heart. He’s rightfully nervous on the night of their wedding..he’s a a virgin, and she’s been married before. Fortunately, she manages to assuage his doubts and inexperience in just the right away…in an opening scene that gets this book the description “spicy.”

Okay, so what’s the “sweet” part in all of this?

Well, in 2008, my family experienced a true nightmare, my husband’s diagnosis with testicular cancer. It was during these trying, desperate months that I first entertained the notion of writing inspirational romance. My faith was tested almost beyond endurance. When my hubby was declared “cancer-free,” praise God! I thought I’d give the inspy circuit a whirl.

I entered the “Hearts Crossing” contest at the inspirational house White Rose Publishing and was thrilled beyond words when my contemporary Western entry, Hearts Crossing Ranch, a finalist in the contest, received a contract. As well as a contract for a follow-up about one of the siblings, Redeeming Daisy, out September 10.  

 

So I’m comfortable in both worlds. Life is good. God is good. It doesn’t get any better than this. In future, the third in the Paradise Brides series Marrying Molly, and stories about all the Hearts Crossing Ranch siblings should hit the presses.

Tomorrow I’m having a Release Party at The Romance Studio and giving away a signed copy of Marrying Mattie. I sure hope to see you there. For a second chance to win a signed copy, please sign my website guest book

Oh, in parting, please get the guy in your life to check his family jewels on a regular basis. That’s my new mission in life. It could save his life. It’s called TSE… it’s not rocket science any more than your BSE is, but there are directions on line and from his doctor.

Quick blurbs: Marrying Mattie, available today, The Wild Rose Press and Amazon

Caldwell Hackett knows everything about horseflesh and nothing about women, yet he's managed to snare beautiful Mattie Carter's heart. With their wedding coming up, he's nervous about his inexperience in the bridal bed, but his lovely fiancee manages to ease his worries in just the right way.
Mattie Carter is hopelessly in love with the handsome horse doctor and knows this marriage will be wonderful, unlike her first one that was fraught with her wealthy husband's infidelity. Eager to begin her new life with Call, Mattie is heartbroken when her former husband halts their vows, claiming to the whole church she's still his wife.
Can Mattie regain Call's trust? Can Call, whose livelihood is threatened when an epidemic hits the horses in Paradise, figure out the truth with Mattie's help? Or will these star-crossed lovers be destined to live apart?

Redeeming Daisy, available September 10:

Veterinarian rancher Pike Martin has no choice but to advise putting down the fatally ill dog. Daisy Densmore swears it's revenge for her mistreatment of Pike's brother years ago. Although stung by her insult at his professionalism, Pike finds himself drawn to the troubled young woman who flounders in faith and aches for love and acceptance.
Costly mistakes years back have sent Daisy down an unrighteous path. Abandoned by her ex-husband, humliated and broke, she'd had no choice but to return to Mountain Cove, Colorado to put her parents' roof over her heard. As soon as she saves some money, she'll be gone. Until Pike Martin's soft voice, caring manner. and downright empathy for her wounds tempt her to stay.
With God on his side, can Pike help Daisy along the path to forgiveness, trust, and whole-hearted love?

Hearts Crossing Ranch, available now White Rose Publishing and Amazon:
Cowboy Kenn Martin bears the guilt for allowing a coach to ruin his younger brother’s bright athletic future. Feeling unworthy of any happiness, he’s lost his faith in relationships and in God. When he meets Christy Forrest, he begins to hope for redemption but soon learns his past mistakes aren't something she'll easily forgive.
On the Colorado wagon train adventure planned by her late father, landscape designer Christy Forrest seeks to find peace in the nature she loves. However, she can't let go of her anger at the drunk driver who killed her dad—or the woman who did nothing to stop the man from driving. Falling for Kenn Martin begins to lighten her heart…until she realizes the handsome cowboy carries heavy a burden all his own—a burden she’s not sure she can accept.

Just Let Go

The other day on one of my discussion groups, a writer was lamenting bitterly over her WIP. It was one she’d written a while ago then put aside. Now she wanted to come back to it and get it in shape, but each time she sent in a chapter to her critique group she ended up getting lots of negative comments. She knew it was rough—after all, she’d written it ten years ago. How should she get them to be more helpful?

A more experienced writer had a simple suggestion: trash the book and go on to something new. During the past ten years, the writer herself had changed. By now, the book either needed radical surgery (which this writer was apparently unwilling to do) or it was beyond saving. That’s what the negative comments were trying to tell her. She should just accept that the book was a lost cause and move on.

I think writer number two was absolutely right, but I can also sympathize with writer number one. Like most of us, I’ve got a cache of manuscripts written during the early days of my determination to become a novelist that will probably never see the light of day. I have one in particular that I was very fond of when I first wrote it several years ago. I even managed to interest a couple of publishers at the time (although, obviously, that interest never developed into an offer). Every once in a while I resolve to redo it. I know what it needs. I know how to fix it. Yet every time I’ve tried to do that, I find myself giving up after about five chapters. I just don’t write like that anymore, and I can’t really make the book fit with the way I write now.

The decision on whether a story is worth pursuing, particularly after it’s sat around for a while, is one of the toughest ones a writer can make. Your first books have a place in your heart, but frequently they don’t deserve much more than that. Sometimes those old manuscripts should simply wither away. But sometimes they shouldn’t.

Long Time Gone, published by Samhain in July, is actually based on an idea I had a few years ago. The earlier version didn’t have the same cast of characters and the hero was radically different. But when it came time to tell Erik’s story, I found myself gravitating back to my earlier concept even though I only used the bare bones of the original story—the toxic waste dumper, the winery, the crooked mayor. The story just seemed to fit with Erik and the Toleffsons. In this case, I was very glad I hadn’t trashed the earlier book because parts of it were still usable.

Still, I think in many cases we’re better off just accepting the inevitable. Yes, we spent a lot of time and tears writing that story. Yes, it was something that convinced us we could actually write. Nonetheless, chances are that story, beloved though it may be, is never going to amount to anything. Time to just tuck it in that trunk under the bed, dry those tears, and let it go.

Networking with Teenagers

Long before I wrote my first YA fantasy, I began networking with teenagers. Well, actually, I started teaching them. I taught middle school for several years and loved it. In fact, when I was teaching, I was one of their youngest teachers, and I think because of that the kids liked and confided in me.

                When I revealed to others that I taught middle school, they would give me this almost pitying look. I’d let them know that I really liked it. Those early teen years can be lots of fun. This is when kids start to come into their own. They gain the capacity to think, feel and understand like an adult. We were able to connect through similar interests in music, movies, tv, etc…

                After my YA title, Struck by Conscience released from Whimsical Publications, I knew I was going to have to market it differently than I had with my other romance books and stories. It had been a few years since I taught in the traditional classroom, but I still had a few contacts. I used those contacts to network with teenagers.

I sent the story out to be reviewed by a few teen readers and in exchange they posted their reviews on Amazon, their social networks, and talked it up with their friends. I didn’t know when I started this venture if it would work, but I figured what could it hurt? It’s been fun connecting with teenagers again and seeing that we still like the same music.  And more than that—they really liked the book.

                I’ve also started a Teen Fiction blog and I hope to get some teen readers over there as well as have teens start posting articles on topics of their choice. If anyone is interested in being a contributor just send me an email.

**********

Here are a couple teen reviews of Struck by Conscience:

C.K. Green did an amazing job with this book. The storyline is flawless. It was cute, and romantic, without being too sappy, and it had a little humor thrown in there. I loved the characters. They were all very relatable, and they had realistic personalities. This book was great, and I would definitely recommend it. ~ Kate

When I first read “Struck by Conscience” I thought it would be just another teen book about a girl trying to decide between two guys she really likes.  But this book surprised me by being more than that. While I read it, it was like I was Charisma saying goodbye to my Dahlia and hello to a whole new stage of life.  This book made me chuckle, cry, and smile so big.  I desperately wanted to be Charisma so I could be with Heath.  That is how real he was for me. Cindy creates characters you fall in love with.  As with a few of the other books I’ve read from Cindy, she always manages to squeeze in references to her love of classic literature.  In this book its Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.  I promise that when you finish reading this book, like me,  you’ll want a sequel! ~ Bluann

**********

Blurb of Struck by Conscience:

I, Charisma Mansfield, do solemnly swear that... I never asked to be popular. I never asked to be voted Prom Queen. I definitely never asked to have an invisible pixie perched on my shoulder whispering her opinions into my ear 24/7. But of all the things I never asked for, this is the worst one yet—when brooding but gorgeous Heath Ruvelas (my next door neighbor and the guy I used to be best friends with before jr. high) rescued me from drowning in the school pool. My already bizarre life would never be the same.

Excerpt:

There was something mesmerizing about the way Heath moved. Spiritual almost. Like a dance. He was one with his sword, and I couldn’t look away even though it felt wrong to keep watching. This wasn’t something he’d want observed. Heath was private even if he was an actor. He could perform before an audience and then he needed his privacy. I envied him for that.

Rarely did I ever have any solitude. What was I saying? This was the first time in the history of my memory that I’d been without Dahlia. She would definitely have scolded me for staying here and watching.

Muscles contracted in Heath’s back as he stretched his arm out and prepared to attack. En Garde and all that. Moonlight shimmered off his perfect, olive skin. He swished the blade and his graceful movements nearly took my breath away. Who knew Heath Ruvelas hid such a sculpted body under the Stanbridge school uniform. He was beautiful. Yeah, he was one-hundred percent Greek male. Now I understood those Grecian statues. They weren’t kidding; a work of art.

While trying to gain a better view, I slipped on some rocks near the wall and then crunched down on a couple twigs. Heath swiveled around at the sound and stared at me. The dim light reflected off his deep brown eyes, and I froze in place almost forgetting to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” I finally blurted out.

“No problem…Charisma.” He lobbed my name at me like an insult. Then he laid down his sword, flipped off the music and tossed a t-shirt over his head before heading for the back door to his house.

“Heath, really, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. You’re just so good. I…I couldn’t look away. It was amazing.”

Dahlia would probably have stopped me from heaving that speech at him. I almost wished she was here. I’d spent my life with her voice in my ear, guiding me, leading me. It was odd not sensing her presence at a moment when I would have enjoyed knowing her opinion, especially with Heath responding like he hated me.

“I’ll go.” I straightened my top, trying to gain courage. That’s when I remembered I was dressed in a pale pink cami with matching shorts which sported the word ‘sweet’ across my backside. Not exactly the attire to meet up with a guy like Heath at midnight. No time to worry about that now.

“I just wanted to say thanks for saving me yesterday.” Something thick lodged in my throat, choking me up. Tears formed in my eyes and a couple slid down my cheeks as I turned from the wall. Why was I crying? Just because Heath treated me like an outcast was no reason to break down like a baby. I made it to the wooden steps leading to the porch when I heard Heath hop the wall and land in my yard.

“I don’t want your thanks, Laney.”

I faced him, my heart picking up rhythm and feeling just a little bit scared at the sight of him—all six feet of him. His dark eyes pulsed in the porch light and stared me down. Every quivering bit of me. And I was quivering. Why was I quivering? It was just Heath. The guy I used to spend the night with in his tree house when we were eight. The one who’d shared his lunch with me when mine had spilt milk all over it. The same guy who’d morphed into a Greek god since the last time I’d noticed. Yeah, like some kind of Adonis. No exaggeration.

Available at Whimsical Publications & Amazon

******

C.K. Green is a mother to two boys, a wife to her sweetheart, a teacher to her children and a writer to all who will read. She spends her days cleaning house and teaching school while wondering when her fairy godmother will arrive and return her to her rightful place. Supposedly she was born in California, but she’s since transplanted to North Carolina. She loves history, reading, photography, Period Dramas, and spending time with her kooky family. C.K. Green’s stories are fun with a touch of romance. She aims to make you laugh and stir your heart.

__________________________

C.K. Green

Author of the Faery Guardian Series

Book 1: Struck by Conscience—Out Now!

Book 2: Sold My Soul to a Frog—Coming Soon

Book 3: Coming Soon

Website  Blog Newsletter  Twitter

The Definition of Romance

How do you define romance?

When I decided to write on this topic, I thought of things like candlelight dinners or a moonlight stroll along the beach. I had all these wonderful visions of romance in my head.

Then I got out our old dictionary and looked it up.
Webster’s definition of romance says:
Noun: 1, a tale or novel of extraordinary, not real or familiar, life. 2, a fiction; a falsehood. 3, a love affair.
Adjective: denoting a language almost wholly derived from Latin, as Italian, Spanish, French/
Verb: 1, make up fanciful tales. 2, (Colloq.) make love.

I was shocked. You mean, there’s no romance in real life? It’s all a fanciful story? Say it isn’t so! I write romance. And yes, it’s fiction. But I believe all authors draw from real life emotions when they write.

So I went searching through my past and present for romance. I found it. In the times when my rugged “jeans only” electrician husband puts a suit on so we can have a nice dinner out. Or when he delivered flowers to me at work and then stood peeking around the corner to see my delight.

I found it walking through the park last week when an elderly couple passed by, her hand firmly settled in his. I know that’s a cliché’ out of the movies, but it really happens.

My step-mother has had some stints in the hospital over the past few years. And every time my father, a man with a rather strong aversion to hospitals, will barely leave her side. Now if that’s not romance, I don’t know what is.

There are a lot of ways to define romance. Romance is fun. Romance is caring for each other. It’s doing tiny things that make her smile. Or him. It’s opening doors, or coming home to a home cooked meal after a long day at work. Or bringing home dinner so neither of you has to cook.

Every time we work to make our partner’s life easier, we are showing our respect and love for them. That’s romance, in my opinion. And that’s not in my imagination. Romance is real. If it weren’t, I doubt we could write about it with such intensity.

I’d love to hear more examples of romance in real life. Do you have a better definition of romance than Webster does?


Laurie Ryan writes contemporary romance and women’s fiction. Her recent release, Pirate’s Promise, is available now at Amazon.com or BookStrand.com.
Website: http://www.laurieryanauthor.com/
Email: laurieryanauthor@gmail.com
Publisher website: http://www.bookstrand.com/laurie-ryan


Pirate’s Promise

Three promises.
Two Lives on the edge.
One undeniable love.

Everything attorney Julia Branholt has worked for is about to tank thanks to one stubborn, bull-headed pirate named Hakon “Hawk” Thoralssen. It’s not enough that she’s forced to take him on as yet another pro bono case, but someone bails the man out in her name. This ethical nightmare could mean disbarment...and the end to a promise she made her father. So Julia goes rogue and follows Hawk.
When sabotage threatens to destroy the home of his late wife, Hawk rushes to save the village. He didn’t bargain on a hot-tempered attorney following him. Especially not one who fills him with a heat he’s chosen to deny.

The only way to save Tierra Bonita means working together. Can this village of kind-hearted, affectionate people draw Hawk and Julia out of their self-imposed isolation and open their hearts to new promises?

"Take a Bite Outta This"

Winning Virgin Devotion, Book Five in the Winning Virgin Series is coming to Siren Publishing on Monday, August 23, 2010. Pre-order your copy of Winning Virgin Devotion now through Sunday, August 22, 2010 and you could win a snazzy Winning Virgin T-shirt like the one found on the blogs below!

How to enter:

Visit one of these blogs and find out how you can win a Winning Virgin T-Shirt!

www.sandysullivanauthor.blogspot.com

http://cindyspencerpape.blogspot.com/

http://darkcravings.blogspot.com/

http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com

http://authorsbyauthors.blogspot.com/2010/08/contest-by-destiny-blaine.html?zx=dfc55c37ac4897a2

http://myfoolishwisdom.blogspot.com/ http://rainedelightbooknook.blogspot.com

http://honeybunnypromos.blogspot.com

http://destinyblaine.blogspot.com/2010/08/winning-virgin-devotion-is-coming-to.html

http://lovesbooksandmore.blogspot.com/

http://novelsisterhood.blogspot.com/

http://mahalia2010.wordpress.com/

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/destinyblaine_romance/

Contest ends at 12:01 AM PST on Monday, August 23, 2010.

Good Luck!

Destiny
www.destinyblaine.com

Excerpt from short story -- leave you with a laugh.

This will be the last post of the day. I hope folks wander in late and read them. Please comment in an email if you wish. This is the opening of a short story that's not a romance. It's just funny.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lawyer, the Ghost, and the Cursed Chair
by Ruth Sims
available from Untreed Reads
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Time and Age. They make bottoms sag, legs shake, and arms wobble. Every time the old chair was moved it left a trail of little Hansel-and-Gretel tufts of ancient gray stuffing. In the world of furniture it had once been a duchess. Now it was a bag lady.

H.L. (Horatio Lamar) Snodgrass IV never gave the old chair another thought after he placed it in the storage room of his office to await the junk man. He was too busy sniffing and stroking its replacement, experiencing almost orgasmic pleasure in the smell and feel of the tall-backed chair made from the hides of Pamplona fighting bulls, a chair fit for a king. Or a damn good lawyer. He was the best. When he spoke judges melted. When he spoke Justice took off her blindfold, winked, and hiked her skirt to the thigh.

His clothes were custom made. One car was foreign and expensive. Another was American and expensive. His favorite was old, low, and expensive. His wife, who was visiting her wealthy mother at the time, was petite and expensive. His boyfriend was not petite in any way, but neither was he cheap.

A series of bone-shattering blows against the door interrupted his thoughts. Normally he would have let his secretary answer the door, but since this was Saturday she was not there.

On his way to the door, H.L. had to pass the time-faded oil portrait of his Great-great-great Grandfather, Hawkins Forsythe Snodgrass and he felt a brief twinge of conscience. After all, the old fellow had brought the chair from England generations ago. Hawkins had been a famous barrister in his homeland and he became more famous in his adopted country. Part of his fame was due in part to the eccentricity of never abandoning the English wig and robe even after becoming an American citizen. This eccentric gentleman was the primogenitor of six generations of Snodgrass lawyers, each more successful and richer than the last.

“Perhaps,” H.L. thought, “I should keep the chair as a memento...but what the hell.”

The explosive knock came again. H.L. opened the door and came eye-to-Adam’s-apple with a hulking individual who sported a turned-about Chicago Cubs cap and a bushy beard. A fine gold chain led from the gold hoop in his left nostril to a large gold hoop in his left earlobe. His shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and a gold skull on a chain glinted upon a chest of black fur that a grizzly bear would have envied. Clamped between his teeth was a cigar that, judging from the smell, had been made from a mixture of rotten eggs and old rags.

“Are you the junk man?” H.L. asked.

“No, I ain’t no flippin’ junk man,” the Neanderthal growled. “I’m Vyvyan Smucker from Smucker’s Reclamation, Recycling, and Haulage.” He took a drag on the cigar and exhaled a choking cloud of smog. “Where at’s the junk?”

H.L. pointed to the chair. It seemed to shiver and huddle within itself.

“Five bucks,” said Smucker.

H.L. was pleased. He hadn’t realized he would make five dollars off the deal. However, Smucker did not move toward either the chair or his wallet.
“Well?” said H.L. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Me neither. Gimme my five smackers and me and the piece o’ junk are outta here.”

“What? I’m supposed to pay you?”

Smucker removed the cigar from between his teeth, dribbling ashes on the beige carpet. “Well, whadda you think?”

“Oh, hell,” grumbled H.L. as he forked over the five. “That’s the trouble with this country today. Everybody’s out to screw everybody else.”

Smucker’s eyes brightened. He replaced the cigar and thoughtfully looked H.L. up and down. Twice. After a minute he shrugged. “Nah. You ain’t my type. Too flimsy.” He hoisted the chair up under one arm and strolled out.

“Damned cretin. Probably drags his knuckles on the ground when no one’s looking,” H.L. muttered. “What did he mean I wasn’t his type? What did he mean ‘too flimsy?’ I work out.”

Excerpt from The Phoenix

Nick’s new life has no room in it for Kit. And though surrounded by friends and adoring fans, Kit finds himself lonely. But there’s always his good friend and leading lady, Rama, who loves a good time as much as he does, even though to her sorrow she’s almost ready to admit Kit will never change enough to love her. This is a fun episode that takes place before a shocking tragedy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, someone knocked at Rama’s door as she brushed her hair. She groaned, hoping whoever it was would leave her alone. She was tired, and with no performance tonight, she had looked forward to doing nothing. The knock came again. Muttering curses, she clutched her dressing gown closer around her and padded barefoot to the door. She didn’t give a bloody damn if her unwelcome visitor was shocked by her state of undress. She was surprised to see Kit standing there with a bouquet of roses large enough to choke a dray horse.

“Kit? What in the world?” She took the roses and he thrust out a small white box, saying, “This is for you, too.”

“Have you lost your mind?” she asked with delight. “Or have you done something I need to forgive you for?” As she shifted the flowers to her other arm, one breast was half-bared. Toffee!” she cried. “My favorite. Oh, it’s a taste of home.”

“Ye be showing an uncommon amount of fair bosom, me pretty,” he said with a stage leer.

“I only wish you cared,” she retorted. “Come in.”

He sauntered in, helped himself to a toffee, and sat down with his arms spread wide upon the top of the sofa. “Take your choice, wench. Either put on a fancy gown and we’ll invade the first high society party we can find, or throw on something less swell and we’ll find a low dive where we can kick up our heels.”

Her eyes brightened. “Like we used to do at home? That was such fun! Remember the five pounds we won doing a polka? You let me buy a hat with it.”

“The hat that looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

“It did not! It was a lovely hat. Remember the names we used? Sebastian O’Toole and Pomegranita Snark. Oh, I’d much rather do that than go to some society thing.” To her surprise, she was no longer tired.

##

They found exactly the kind of place they wanted: small, dim, noisy, and vulgar. Kit was startled to see not only young white faces among the dancers and drinkers, but several dark faces as well. A dingy bar ran the length of one wall; small tables lined the opposite wall; a small dance floor was in front of the small stage, and on the stage a Negro trio skillfully played a piano, a banjo, and a trumpet. The music they cranked out was the exciting music called Ragtime that Kit had heard for the first time on tour in New Orleans.

Several patrons recognized Kit and Rama and egged them on until they stopped dancing, took the stage, and performed a burlesque of Romeo and Juliet, with Rama, as Romeo, wearing Kit’s coat, and Kit wearing her feathers-and-flounces hat as Juliet. The people howled with laughter and applauded, whistling.

Bored with that, Kit turned to the band. “Ragtime,” he said. “That’s what I want. More Ragtime. Play it until I drop.” They laughed and broke into the strident, syncopated, wailing music. He turned to Rama and said, “Do you think you can keep up with me, Granny?”

“Just try to keep up with me, Oldtimer.”

What the steps were to Ragtime, if there were any set steps, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He and Rama made up their own. The music got into their heads like champagne and into their feet like the thrill of a standing ovation. She lost her hat and her hair became a red whirlwind about her shining face. The other patrons stood back and watched them, applauding, then joining in one at a time or in couples to make up their own dances, too.

It was near dawn when Kit and Rama finally left to walk back to the hotel. They meandered with his arm over her shoulders, her arm around his waist. She murmured agreement, and then said, “This is as good as the old days.”

“Are you happy, Rama?”

“Happier than I’ve been for a long time. I wish this night would never end.”

“Next time we’ll go to Coney Island. I’ve heard it’s ‘Splendiferous’ ”

A shiver of anticipation chased through her. She’d heard all about Coney Island and the Elephant Hotel, with its exotic rooms in various parts of the elephant’s anatomy. The Elephant had a raffish reputation for assignations. If she could inveigle him into the Elephant, by God, she’d have him. She tightened her arm around his waist and said wistfully, “Kit, won’t you ever change? I mean, won’t you ever want to marry and have children, a wife who looks after you and darns your socks and washes your clothes? Won’t you ever love me the way I love you?”

“No, my dear. Does it really matter?”

“It matters to me. I want you to take me to bed, make love to me. Oh, Kit,” she cried softly, “you could drive me out of my head if you just would.”

“I’ve made love to you thousands of times before thousands of people.”

“That’s meaningless!”

He stopped and turned her to face him. “How can you say that? Rama, if I didn’t feel a certain passion for you, it wouldn’t work. Do you think when I am Romeo to your Juliet that it’s a lie? Do you think my Macbeth is not besotted by his lady just because I don’t leap into your bed when the curtain falls? I wouldn’t expect anyone else to understand, but I thought you did.”

She searched his face. He meant it. With a little sigh she turned, slipped her arm around his waist once more and they resumed walking. “I never thought of it that way,” she said.

At her door he kissed her. Inside, she closed the door and leaned against it. Thinking of what might have been. What might still be, if she played her cards right. She knew beyond doubt that she could change him. All she had to do was get him to that Coney Island Elephant.

Excerpt from Counterpoint: Dylan's Story

One of my favorite brief episodes. A few years into their relationship, in 1897, Laurence decides he wants a photograph of them together. I like this because it shows Dylan’s stubborn, argumentative personality and Laurence’s amused way of getting him to cooperate. And oddly, it's the younger man who is against progress ... in anything except music. Another quirk of Dylan's personality!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One summer day Laurence caught Dylan off-guard by saying, “Do you realize, my grumpy monkey, that we haven’t had a photograph taken together since our first year? That was nine years ago! And I’m so much handsomer now.”

“I suppose that means you want to. Why? You’ve got me in the flesh. You know I don’t like cameras.”

“Oh, bother. You’re so set in your ways I’m surprised you don’t carry a sundial instead of a pocket watch. We’ve an appointment with the photographer at three o’clock today, so you may as well stop fussing. It won’t kill you to be photographed.”

“Only if I can wear my boater.”

Vexed, Laurence thought an interest in style was not one of Dylan’s qualities. He was unaccountably attached to a disreputable-looking straw boater he’d purchased on their holiday to Greece. It had not aged well, especially since Dylan was careless where he laid it and it had been stepped on at least once.

The photographer’s studio was jumbled with cameras, tripods, flash pans, prop furniture and bicycles, flowers, drapes, columns, statues. Bucolic backdrops with trees and flowers and misty fountains, some with dogs or horses, others of the base of the Eiffel tower or the steps to the Louvre were stacked against the wall. When the photographer saw the boater, he went pale. He explained with many gestures that it was out-of-keeping with the way the two gentlemen were dressed, with their cravats just-so, and their attire in general so stylish. Dylan insisted on the hat. The photographer relented enough to let him hold it against his chest with one hand. “Ridicule,” Dylan said.

“Artistique,” retorted the photographer, placing Dylan’s other hand upon a prop walking stick. He had Laurence stand and Dylan sit, Laurence’s left hand on Dylan’s shoulder. Next, the photographer placed Laurence’s right hand at his lapel, gripping it.

“Does he think someone’s going to steal your coat if you don’t hold on to it?” Dylan asked.

“Be still,” Laurence said without losing his fixed, somber expression.

“Am I not allowed to have an opinion about this?”

“No, you are not.”

“Am I allowed an opinion about anything?”

“No.”

“Move not so much as an eyelash,” directed the photographer as he hid himself beneath the drapery at the back of the camera.

“I feel silly holding this hat,” Dylan announced. “I want to wear it.”

The photographer screamed, “Non! Non! I forbid!”

“Dylan, don’t you dare,” Laurence warned.

An instant before the camera clicked and the powder exploded in the flash pan, Dylan clapped his hat on his head at a rakish angle and grinned at the photographer’s moan of “Ruined!”

“Perhaps not,” Laurence said, spluttering with laughter. “If there is any image at all, print the picture. I’ll be happy to buy it. Would you take another if I can get the creature to cooperate?” The photographer agreed. Dylan, having proved his point, sat for the second photograph looking smug. When Laurence saw the pictures, he was delighted with the one where Dylan wore his hat. It was more Dylan than any stiff, formal photograph could ever be: a large, mischievous elf with an audacious grin and a deep dimple.

Excerpt from Counterpoint: Dylan's Story

Dylan, in Paris to study music without his father’s knowledge or approval, gets reacquainted with the teacher he had secretly fallen head over heels in love with his last year at The Venerable Bede School for Young Gentlemen. Laurence Northcliff, the teacher, had left the school to pursue writing in Paris. Since they are no longer teacher and student, Dylan sees nothing to stop him from seducing Laurence. All he has to do is come up with a scheme to get his way. Though he doesn’t know it yet, he is planning to seduce someone who doesn’t need seducing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dylan’s life settled into a pleasant, productive routine. Mondays and Fridays, he went to Naszados. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, he worked alone, concentrating on his music until his head pounded. Rob, though still as mystified as ever by Dylan’s devotion to his dream, persuaded the hotel manager to grant Dylan the use of the ballroom piano. Dylan told himself that Rob was a good friend and he didn’t appreciate him nearly enough.

Friday nights and Saturdays, Dylan and Laurence attended a play, opera, symphony, ballet, or sometimes just joined an informal gathering of Laurence’s friends. He knew an astonishing number of people of all kinds: rich and poor, painters, musicians, shop girls, poets and barbers, and people without identifiable occupations or discernable morals. Without exception they had great affection and respect for Laurence. Dylan gradually became at ease among them, and though he liked Madame Daumier well enough, he wished she were not present nearly everywhere they went. He knew his first impression had been right: Ivy Daumier was in love with Laurence.

So was a woman who lived at 58 Rue de Savies. She was a plain woman, with a loud, coarse voice, a demimondaine, as Laurence delicately put it. Laurence treated her with the same kindness he treated everyone. The woman, Josephine Marie, brought well-meant but inedible cakes to Laurence every Saturday and looked accusingly at Dylan whenever she found him there.

On sunny Sundays, he and Laurence went to the Bois de Boulogne, where they rented horses and enjoyed the miles of bridle paths. Rather, Laurence enjoyed them and Dylan faked enthusiasm; Dylan and horses had never been on good terms and it was damnably difficult to maintain one’s dignity when one’s arse felt as if it had been beaten raw and one’s thighs had turned to quivering gelatin.

Dylan thought often of Laurence’s statement that their new status was “not very” like the old days. There seemed to be only one thing they never talked about; with every hour they spent together, Dylan became more determined that they would talk about it. And he intended to do more than talk. They went one night to see Lucia di Lammermoor, and the tragic beauty of the acting and the music left a residue of emotion.

In the gig, in the darkness, Dylan put one hand on Laurence’s knee, crossed the fingers of his other hand, and said, “I have to tell you something. Will you promise to listen?” Laurence said he would. Dylan’s heart pounded as he blurted, “You said yourself I’m not your student anymore. I’m a grown man and I know what I want from life. I know what I want from you. I’m not putting it very well, but… damn it all, do you know what I’m trying to say?”

“Yes.” Laurence’s voice was low, calm, serious.

Dylan moved closer on the seat, until he felt the heat of Laurence’s thigh against his own. “What is it about you that makes me persist in making a fool of myself?”

There was the hint of amusement in Laurence’s voice. “Dear boy, you don’t need my help to make a fool of yourself. You’re more than capable of doing it all alone.”

Excerpt from Counterpoint: Dylan's Story

Here, slightly edited, Dylan hears Geoffrey Dohnányi play publicly for the first time, not in a concert hall but in a low-class music hall in London.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
La Bohème was not in a good part of the city, true, but not in the worst part, either. The shop-lined streets were narrow, but at least the streetlights were lit, casting yellow light at intervals. In the daylight he would have seen the flyspecked windows of pawn shops, tailor shops, cabinetmakers, pubs, cobbler shops, dressmakers, and butcher shops displaying such delicacies as sheeps’ heads, pigs’ feet, and meat pies. Whenever a streetlight was near enough, it dimly illuminated the names painted directly on the glass and sometimes on wooden signs hanging from poles over the door.

Posters, some new and some old and torn, covered the heavy door of La Bohème. Just inside the door, a bored woman behind a grille peered out at him and said, “Two-and-six for a box. Nine pence to stand where you can find a spot. If yer throws anything ’ard at the performers you’re out on your arse and yer don’t get your chink back.” Dylan paid his two-and-six and entered an inadequately lit foyer, where he almost blundered into a cheap copy of Michelangelo’s David that was missing his head and one hand. Some wag had covered David’s genitals with a flowery apron. The apron was grimy, as if frequently handled; Dylan laughed. Across from David was the Venus de Milo, looking puzzled. From behind red doors came the sound of a piano and a woman’s singing. He fought his way through the crowd to a low-walled box with six benches. A man, a woman, and two children already occupied the box, and they all looked up briefly when he entered. He politely tipped his hat.

Dylan fidgeted through the acts of a comedian, an unconvincing ventriloquist with a sheep, and a woman with a rather good soprano voice, who sang a pathetic ballad of lost love. The soprano was followed by a twenty-minute comic presentation of “Hamlet.” The parents in the box laughed uproariously at every bit of humour onstage. The children were annoyingly active, but finally fell asleep on the spare benches.

Dylan wondered if he had missed Dohnányi’s performance. A man in a tail﷓coat came out from the wings. Smoothing his impressive handlebar mustache, he bellowed, “Ladies and gentlemen, a few weeks ago La Bohème had the great pleasure of introducing you to higher class entertainment when we introduced a world-famous ar-teest who’s a favorite with all of you and even your kiddies. After a triumphant tour of wild, romantic Hungary where he played for the king, he has returned. Here he is by popular demand, the star of the evening: London’s own Prince of the Gypies, youngest son of the King of the Gypsies—Chavula Dohnányi!” The applause and whistles were deafening. Geoffrey strode onstage with a confident swagger.

This was a Geoffrey Dohnányi Dylan had not even known existed. Chavula? Tight black trousers were tucked into calf﷓high, polished black boots that emphasized his long legs and lean build. He wore a white blouse unbuttoned to the wide, fancifully embroidered sash of blue, crimson, and gold that was knotted at his waist. His hair was brushed back and the gold hoop was audaciously displayed. He lowered his head slightly and threw a seductive glance at the audience, emphasizing it with a slow grin.

The whistles became louder, and then Geoffrey’s expressive face became serious. He tucked his violin beneath his chin and positioned the bow. Silence fell like a blessing upon the raucous crowd.

Dylan had never heard a violin played as Geoffrey Dohnányi played that night. The piano accompanist floundered and quit; no one noticed. Geoffrey’s slim body was in constant motion from head to feet, almost dancing when he played a czardas that had the people clapping in rhythm, slow… slow… faster… faster… and still faster until his fingers were flying over the strings. He stopped, breathing hard; the rhythmic hands burst into wild applause. He played songs they could sing. He played Schumann. He played musical jokes, making the violin hiccough, and whine, and scold. He played magic.

Geoffrey’s skin shone with perspiration as he bowed low. Straightening, he said, “I wish to close with a song I remember from many years ago when I played with my father. It is called Romnichel. I dedicate it to my people.” Geoffrey positioned the violin once more and drew the first melting tones from the strings. Romnichel was sound wrapped in velvet. The simple, rich melody spoke of wide, black skies with a single star, of the smells of dewy grass and rich, damp earth. Romnichel invaded Dylan’s being; the lush, broad vibrato became part of his heartbeat, and he knew he would feel that music so long as he lived.

There was a momentary hush as the song ended. Geoffrey slowly raised the violin and bow as if offering them to the god of music. The silence was broken by an eruption of applause. As the audience applauded and stamped, whistled and called for more, Geoffrey bowed again before leaving the stage.

Dylan pushed against the crowd streaming through the door. He had to talk to Geoffrey. Had to! He found his way to the backstage area that he hoped led to the dressing rooms. Power! he thought. Such power! And he’s so young! I’ve got to talk to him—my god, the power—I wish I didn’t want him—must talk to him—beautiful, so beautiful—and he didn’t know whether he meant Geoffrey or the music.

End of excerpt