Thursday, October 25, 2012

A Visit From Lizzie Borden






Lizzie Borden. Probable murderess. Definitely a celebrated and infamous character. This paper doll by the wonderful and creative Rhonda's Originals designs is a festive addition to any Halloween party. For sure a conversation piece. When I saw the design on her site, I knew I had to have it! My paper doll collection is growing. Yes, I like to play. Especially with homicidal paper dolls. Note the ax. Just sayin! It is perfect for this time of year. 

The coolest thing about these dolls is that you take part in their construction. It is paper art, people. Fun, and inspiring, the dolls that you find at Rhonda's Originals are just that. Original. The digital file is sent to you, complete with all the how to's and if you have a problem, you have support through her site. Very cool. There is every kind of witchy and spooky wonder you could ever want. If Christmas is your thing, she has that too...

So check it out and let her know you saw Lizzie hanging out at Bookgirl Knitting...Got to keep track of those ax wielding homicidal chicks.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Not Long Ago Virtual Book Tour and Guest Post



Not Long Ago
By Susan A. Royal

Genre:  Time travel adventure/romance

Publisher: Museitup

ISBN: 978-1-77127-076-2
ASIN: B008E5Y4M8

Number of pages: 227
Word Count: 89333

Cover Artist:   Suzannah Safi


Book Description: 
Erin has met the man of her dreams, but as usual there are complications. It’s one of those long distance relationships, and Griffin is a little behind the times-- somewhere around 600 years. 
Erin and her employer, March, are transported to a time where chivalry and religion exist alongside brutality and superstition. Something’s not quite right at the castle, and Erin and March feel sure mysterious Lady Isobeil is involved. But Erin must cope with crop circles, ghosts, a kidnapping and death before the truth of her journey is revealed.
Forced to pose as March’s nephew, Erin finds employment as handsome Sir Griffin’s squire.  She’s immediately attracted to him and grows to admire his courage, quiet nobility and devotion to duty.  Yet, she must deny her feelings.  Her world is centuries away, and she wants to go home.  But, Erin can’t stop thinking about her knight in shining armor.   




Guest Post:

I’ve chosen this passage to post because I wanted everyone to see Not Long Ago is not just about time travel, nor is it just a love story between two very different people.  I tried to make it an adventure that will take the reader to another time and allow them to experience life there as seen through the main character’s eyes.  This part was an especially emotional scene for me to write.  I attempted to portray some of the emotions each of us experience when we’re faced with losing someone we care about, whether it be father, mentor or friend.  

--Excerpt--

     Late the next day, everyone gathered on the banks of the river under a clear sky. On a hill
above us, archers waited. Beside them men-at-arms from the castle stood at attention. Clustered
below were the castle servants and townspeople. Lady Isobeil, Lady Gwyneth and Kat positioned
mselves on opposite sides of Lord John, as far away from each other as possible. He stood at
one end of a long, shallow wooden boat filled with brush. Sir Maldwyn’s body had been
wrapped in linen and placed inside, his belongings next to him. Water lapped against the boat, a
strangely calming sound.
     The pain on Sir Griffin’s face was almost more than I could bear. He clenched his jaw and
gripped the hilt of his sword until I thought it would break. Faces stoic, the other knights huddled
together with their squires. No doubt each of them remembered Sir Maldwyn in his own way.
After all, he’d been in service at the castle long enough to train most of the knights when they
were still squires. I thought of my parent’s death and the emptiness I felt knowing I’d never see
them again. People everywhere stared at the ground, trying to hold back tears.
     All except for Deroc. I can think of nothing more poignant than the sight of him standing
over his father’s body while tears ran down his face. Over and over, the boy repeated the same
words. “I am sorry Father, I am so sorry.” The overbearing bully who confronted me in the
paddock had vanished. All that remained was a pitiful little boy, one who mourned a relationship
with his father he’d never had, and now, one he would never experience.
     Sir Maldwyn’s body lay on the funeral pyre, in the custom of the Vikings, while Father
Alford conducted the service in Latin in a calm and soothing monotone, appearing completely
undisturbed by all the pagan customs surrounding him. When he said his last amen, Lord John
nodded at Sir Griffin. He began to ease the boat into the water. When it resisted, first Sir
Edevane and then the other knights joined him. Together, they gave one last push, and the boat
floated free.
     Sir Sion remained on the bank, alone in his guilt. He didn’t join the rest, likely because he
knew they held him responsible for Sir Maldwyn’s death. Sir Sion’s decision made in haste and
in anger had ended someone’s life. No wonder he couldn’t bear to meet anyone’s eyes.
     When the boat reached the middle of the river, each archer touched his arrow to flame,
notched and loosed it. Their arrows arched upwards in perfect unison, only losing sight of them
when they passed between us and the setting sun, briefly dazzling our eyes. In the fading light of
day, they struck the raft holding Sir Maldwyn’s body like driving rain. Flames shot high into the
air and swallowed up everything. Sir Maldwyn was making his journey home to Valhalla in the
manner he had wanted. Not a sound could be heard among those of us watching from the banks,
except for Deroc’s quiet sobbing. A north wind began to blow, and I thought I heard a faint
noise. Somehow, the wind seemed to bring with it the echo of horns in the far distance. I know it
couldn’t have been so, but it sounded as though those ancestors who’d gone before him were
welcoming a fellow warrior home.







About the Author:
Born in west Texas and raised in south Texas, Susan makes her home in a 100-year-old farmhouse in a small east Texas town that comes with a ghost who has been known to harmonize with her son whenever he plays guitar.  She’s married, with three children and four grandchildren.
She comes from a family rich with characters, both past and present. She spent her childhood listening to her grandmother’s stories of living on a farm in Oklahoma Territory with three sisters and three brothers and working as a telephone operator in the early 20th century.  Her father shared stories of growing up in San Antonio during the depression, and through her mother’s eyes she experienced how it felt to be a teenager during WWII.
Yesterday, the first piece she ever submitted, won author Cody James Wolfe’s Flash Fiction Newsletter Contest and that started it all. Her entry, Lost Souls, won 2nd place in the 2009 short story contest of the Northeast Texas Writers’ Organization and My Father’s House won 3rd place in the 2010 competition.  Not Long Ago is a time travel adventure/romance, available through MuseItUp/Amazon/B&N.  She is currently working on a sequel, because the Erin and Griffin’s story wasn’t finished.  In My Own Shadow is a Fantasy adventure/romance, due out May, 2013.


Monday, October 22, 2012

Celestine: The Virtual Book Tour



Celestine: The Hour on rue du Maine
F.J. Wilson

Genre:  Historical Fiction, Historical Romance

Publisher:  Chances Press, LLC

ISBN:  978-0988230217
ASIN:  B0093U6Z48

Number of pages:  272
Word Count: 80,000

Cover Artist:  Geronimo Quitoriano


Book Description:

In 1795 New Orleans, the Spanish controlled city struggles to rebuild after two devastating fires, and a young teenage girl is just as determined to leave her past behind and start anew. Celestine, the daughter of a Mississippi River prostitute spends most of her time hating herself, her life and the dirty men who rut with her mama.

When she turns thirteen and her mama informs her she’ll be servicing the very men she hates and fears, she has no other option but to run to the good nuns of the Ursulines Convent where for the first time she encounters kindness and a different kind of life.

After meeting the dashing ship captain Maurice Dubois, a man with his own past demons to reckon with, Celestine allows herself to be truly loved for the first time.

But when a shocking turn of events leaves her once again with nothing more than her own wits to survive, Celestine begins to realize the power her intoxicating beauty gives her over men including the debonair and infamous pirate Jean Lafitte.

It’s this very power that Celestine learns to capitalize on to begin a new career...not as the common riverfront lady of the night her mother had been...but as the most sought after courtesan in all of New Orleans.



Chapter 1 Celestine     


1795
‘Tine waited outside for the stinking customer to get off her mama and button his breeches. When he was done she could go inside and get warm; clean her mama and make sure she wasn’t sick on the bed. If the man was generous, there’d be enough money for supper. If not, she’d go hungry again and count the noises in her stomach ’til she fell asleep.
She sat on the carriage block crying into her papa’s old neckcloth.  She carried it everywhere hoping he’d come to rescue them. He’d bring nice things to eat and maybe a new dress for her and her mama; she prayed on it, wished on it and tried to count on it. He’d been gone the thirteen years of her young life, but he could still come back; he could.
 ‘Tine hated men.  She hated how they smelled of rum and sour living. She hated their dirty smelly clothes and their big boots full of mud and horse crap on her mama’s worn out rugs. She hated when they grabbed her mama, demanded, grunted and hit her for not being the woman they thought they deserved.  But mostly, she hated her mama for allowing the horrible men to destroy and age her far beyond her thirty years.
The man was coming down the little steps buttoning his last button and spitting a mouthful of slimy brown tobacco juice into the street.  He stopped to look at her.
“What?  You want some too?  Your mama said you might be ready.  I’m spent; next time, baby tits.” He was looking her all over making her sick.
He grabbed the neckcloth from her hand and wiped the tobacco juice off his mouth and stuffed it down the front of her dress.  Feeling around inside her bodice, he chuckled as he took his hand out and turned to walk away.
“I promise.” He said and let out a breath from a nasty place under his breeches.  His horrible laugh and foul breath filled her nose and ears as he swaggered down the street. 
She knew this was coming.  Her mama yelled at her for a week; she was thirteen and time for her to take customers and help pay her keep.  ‘Tine grabbed the dirty neckcloth out of her dress and threw it in the gutter.  No one was coming to save her; she’d have to do it herself.  God didn’t answer prayers from the daughters of sinful women who lay with lust crazed men. She’d be damned if she was going to wait for the man to come back.  She’d kill him first.
She walked back into the dirty little room and packed her few belongings while her mama slept off the effects of the man and the rum.  She went to the side of the bed and looked at the single picayune the man left. She thought of taking it; but decided she wanted nothing from the man, especially the tiny bit of money paid for rutting with her mama.
She walked back out and looked down at the neckcloth soaking up rainwater and horse pee. She picked it up, wrung it out and stuffed it way down in her ragged apron pocket and walked toward the Ursulines Convent.
The city of New Orleans was once filled with joie de vivre but since the big fires and hurricanes, it held only stink and sadness. The smell of sour ashes and the defeat of burned out hopes filled the air with misery and fatigue. The city was a good wife to some and a dock whore to others, and ‘Tine was certainly its daughter and the streets were her schoolroom. 
She watched it burn to the ground from her hiding perch on the roof of the Ursulines Convent.  The screams of burning men and women running out of houses toward the river still haunted her dreams. Mostly, they fell like pieces of charred wood from a neglected fire place; falling and rolling out of the burning buildings; their clothes smoking after their voices were finally silenced.
 She watched from the roof of the French Market as the winds and waters of two hurricanes swept the city into chaos and death. The water took people and livestock, alike; some, still alive tried to swim through the big water. Others, their dead faces peaceful floated in the filth that’d been their world. She’d saved herself by quick wits and cunning.
She fought as well as any boy her age and cut many men with the knife she kept in her stocking as they tried to grab her, but she’d never cheated and she’d never lied.  She was proud of that.
‘Tine knew everything about everything and everyone and what she didn’t know, she found out.  She knew which white Creole gentleman kept a Quadroon mistress; how often he visited and how many children he had by both his wife and mistress.  She visited the Vou-dou ceremonies to make gris-gris bags of black magic to use on her enemies, but rarely used it as it could backfire on a little girl who used it unwisely.  She danced with the slaves on Congo Square and knew their patois and how to interpret their chants and messages to each other. She followed the food vendor’s home and picked up cake and fruit that fell from a basket worn on a tired head.  But it wasn’t enough, her world was too small and she wanted more.
Kaintucks, the big rough American men coming down the river from Kentucky, taught her how to ride horses and jump the vendors to scare them to death.  This was a favorite of the dock workers, but not the vendors.  All the knowledge; where’d it gotten her? A few misplaced spells with ill-advised gris gris, knowledge of a language she’d never use, the names of the big policemen that patrolled the levee and small rice cakes called ‘calas’ or piece of rotten fruit fished out of the mud and muck of the street.  She wanted more.
Going to the Ursulines nuns and their orphanage was a fear her mama instilled and used to scare her when she didn’t behave.  For as long as she could remember, she ran to the other side of the street when passing the big convent for fear they’d come out and snatch her.
The nasty man’s horrible promise changed her whole future.  One sentence, one thought, of his coming back with his diseased pecker and sour breath and she was done with her mama and that life. Now she just wanted a hot bowl of something to eat and a safe place to sleep.  She’d decide what to do once her stomach wasn’t so loud and she could think without crying.
The good nuns were on her mind lately.  Watching them go about their daily lives had taken away much of her fear and hearing their prayers to Notre Dame de Bon Secours, from the morning of the big fire, until the morning after had given her much to think about.  They prayed without stopping and the convent had been spared. ‘Tine saw this as some powerful gris-gris and she needed that kind of power in her life.
Friends in the big market told her they had their hands full with the orphanage, the school and the King’s Hospital. They could use help and she needed help.  It could benefit both parties.
‘Tine couldn’t help with the hospital or teaching, but she knew she could keep children from running in the streets and make sure they ate their food. 
Anybody could raise children.  How hard could it be?  Young women in her mama’s profession were always having babies; some even lived and they knew how to keep them from dying... sometimes. 
She intended to pledge her services and see if she could receive decent schooling from the sisters in return. She wanted to read and write the French she spoke and also learn Spanish and English.  She’d heard the little sisters were from good homes and well educated.  They read and understood Latin, whatever that was and could chant and recite the prayers and help with the Mass.  All ‘Tine knew was she wanted to be very-well-educated like the little sisters and get out of the sewage filled gutters that was her life.
She wanted to learn good manners; how to drink coffee from a saucer; how to tell a fork from a spoon and eat from a plate instead of a bowl.  She wanted a real privy instead of the river side of the levee and a pair of shoes; she’d never owned a pair of shoes. She wanted to learn how to cook with the herbs and vegetables the little sisters grew in their famous gardens.  Oh, to know what it was like to be clean, a wish of a lifetime. She wanted to learn how to sew and make herself a dress that fit; but mostly, unknowingly she wanted to feel safe and needed.
One thing for sure, she’d never lie under a filthy man and have him poke, grunt and knock her teeth out.  She’d become a nun first.  Neither option was to her liking, but being a nun won hands down over being a whore on the half burned docks of the Mississippi River.
She walked over to rue Sainte-Ursule and looked in the gate. It was clean, peaceful and beautiful; certainly a step up from the whore’s crib she called home.  She rang the bell and waited for one of the little sisters to come and open it. She could hear her own heart beating and wondered if that was supposed to be.
Ste. Mary Theresa heard the bell and looked out to see her prayer’s realized.  She’d prayed for years this little hungry girl running the streets outside the big convent in her filthy clothes would seek their refuge and get away from her horrid life. She ran to find Mother Superior and tell her the miracle at their front gate.
“Reverend Mother, look out at the gate, quickly.”  She ran to the window.
“Quick my child, let her in before she changes her mind.  God in his mercy and wisdom has answered our prayers.” She made the sign of the cross.
“Shouldn’t you go with me?”
“No, my child it’d frighten her.  Go gently and welcome her.  Quickly, before she changes her mind.”
The good sisters had no idea that once ‘Tine made up her mind nothing could stop her or change her mind.  Celestine Haussey was stepping into her future and she wouldn’t turn back.
‘Tine had never seen such a clean world, from the shining floors to the beautiful curving cypress staircase; she was amazed at how these women lived. She’d been told they lived in poverty and said penance each day.  If this was poverty, she wondered what she’d been living all of her life.  She was ushered in to Mother Superior’s office and took a chair.
“What may we do for you my child?”  The Reverend Mother was treading lightly; this miracle was too delicate.  She must watch what she said to this little waif.
“I’m here to help with the children.”  She set her jaw and didn’t care if she was coming across fresh and brazen.  Just being behind these walls was robbing her bravery and treading on the determination felt only minutes before.


Thank you for having me on your blog.  I really appreciate it.


My spirituality was born in a little country church in Daisy Vestry Mississippi in 1949, but my true beliefs were born in an old mansion in New Orleans in 2004.  My very soul found kindred spirits in the rambling ancient rooms comforting human energy since 1750. I found people long dead but still teaming with life hovering and waiting in the cemeteries and cities of the dead.  What are they waiting for?  For whom do they wait?  Do they not know they’re dead?  I may join them one day as I am at peace in the ample bosom of New Orleans loving the joie d’ vivre and generous music.  My first experience with “other worldly” people was there in her haunting past.  I’ve felt cold when there should have been heat; I’ve felt energy in dead spaces; I’ve longed for men I’ve never met  on lonely rainy nights when I should have been at peace with sleeping alone.  I’ve heard voices where no people were gathered and I’ve seen shadows that were caused by no light source.
I dreamed of Celestine one night as I lay comfortably in a large feather mattress in a huge two hundred year old four poster bed in the mansion I was house sitting.  I saw her as a small delicate lady of yesterday sitting in an ancient courtyard having a cup of strong black chicory coffee and remembering lover’s years dead.  I wanted to know who she was and where this lovely creature came from.  The next morning I began to write, “The Hornet Slayer” and Celestine appeared in my pages by magic, sitting at a small iron table under a banana tree in an old courtyard drinking her midnight coffee.  She was a cameo character, a person of little interest, a will-o-the wisp to the story, but she haunted me still.  The second novel, “Celestine, The House on rue du Maine” she appeared; took the story and ran with it.  She sprang from my creative mind like a spirit needing an escape and told me her story.  Thus began her journey and mine.  I offer her up to you and know you will find her as fascinating as I do; as well as half the men in her world. 
The wonderful, handsome Maurice, the Sea Captain will take your breath away. The Pirate Jean Lafitte was a black haired, hazel eyed god and had many mistresses but no woman could capture his heart.  Ah, except one, the beautiful Celestine.  Jean was handsome, debonair, intelligent, at home in the parlor or on the deck of his ship and an incredible lover. 
I know in my heart Celestine lived, because she came to tell me her story, but I can find nothing in any of my resource books to prove it.  Those of us who know the truth about the real world will understand when I say, she just didn’t want her life to be forgotten.  I hope she becomes a friend to you as she has to me.  I can still see the two of them on the old streets of the French Quarter, Jean carrying his Celestine to protect her dress and shoes from the filthy streets and she, laying her head against his mighty chest listening to his heart beat… for her.
I never write of Voodoo.  I think it is best left alone.  Maybe one day I will attempt it, but for now, just suffice it to say, there are things we are not privy to and until we are, I won’t buy the tourist voodoo dolls nor will I delve into that world.  If you choose, it is your choice and I applaud you for it. 
I wrote my first short story, “The Writer”
sitting in the well appointed second parlor of that old mansion; listening to the street cars clanging their bells passing on St. Charles Ave.  I had no intentions of writing, but something pulled me out of my martini and swimming pool induced laziness and told me to set up my second hand laptop on the little ancient mahogany table across from the majestic twelve foot standing mirror and I began to write.  I knew it wasn’t coming from me at the time; I couldn’t write.  But I felt strongly that someone was helping me as the sentence structures became more and more southern and I developed my writer’s voice. I didn’t read the story for another two weeks as advised by other writers, but when I did, instead of the piece of crap I expected, I found there was a good story; needing an editor, and a good typo cleaning, but it was there.
Asking my hostess to read it once she returned, I discovered that not only was it the Tennessee William’s Festival in the old city as I was writing, but he had lived on the third floor of the mansion in 1957 recuperating from an illness, while he wrote, “Suddenly Last Summer”.  I guess it wasn’t an accident as the old mansion has a huge solarium growing full grown trees, on the side of the house and an elevator.  I am not saying I have his talent, but I know damned well I have his blessings.  In my next life, which as we all know is probably simultaneous to the one we’re living now, I will be the beautiful Celestine and Jean Lafitte will be eating out of the palm of my hand. Or, I will be an old gator in the swamp and wonder how the two of them would taste.  Enjoy my efforts.





Overview: 

If you are looking for a vision into the past and want a read to keep you company tonight, then this is the book to tuck under your pillow.

 As F.J. Wilson speaks of in her guest blog, the book came out of the deepest recesses of her surroundings and I think of her own intuition as well. The voice of Celestine will capture you as it did me. I hope you read the first chapter in the post and decide to give it a try. Historical and full of lush romance, tragedy and a story as vibrant as the characters themselves, I think you will find this work of fiction worth the time. 

I am still reading it as I type this. Frankly, it was hard to tear myself away to put finger to keyboard, but being the good little blogger I am, I write..,

Give yourself a treat and let your heart and mind journey into the past and embrace this book for the tapestry in time that it is.

4.5/5



About the Author:
F. J. Wilson was raised on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi in the fishing village and artist community of Ocean Springs, ninety miles east New Orleans; the city far from her reach but close to her heart. Much of her time growing up was spent reading under her grandmother’s big camellia bushes hiding from housework and the inevitable call to come inside and help start ‘supper’. In a time when young girls dreamed of big weddings and picket fences, she dreamed of the dangerous but darkly handsome Heathcliff and the English moors of days long gone. With Hemingway’s Paris, Scott Fitzgerald’s language and Margaret Mitchell’s South keeping her company, why would she ever want to clean her room?
Raised with small town values but dreams of a bigger life, she was more than ready to leave home in 1965 and began her education in the Theatre Department of the University of Southern Mississippi. From there she finally reached New Orleans and began a film career that sent her to New York, where she co-wrote an episode of the Emmy award winning Kate & Allie. Eventually her work in TV and film would take her to Los Angeles and all over the United States, Canada and New Zealand.
Her passion for the South and New Orleans brought her back to Mississippi in 2000. In 2007, her love for writing and her love of films collided, and she wrote humorous articles for the Arts and Entertainment Section of the Hattiesburg American newspaper. She’s been writing short stories and novels about Southerners since her retirement in 2008.
F. J. Wilson has one son, Jason, who lives in Monroe, CT and she now lives in Hattiesburg with her two Springer Hound Spaniels and is at the time married to her computer and her love of writing.
You may email her at fjwilson@chancespress.com


Friday, October 19, 2012

To Catch A Bad Guy Excerpt Tour



To Catch a Bad Guy
by Marie Astor

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

BLURB:

Janet Maple is convinced that her life could not get any worse: her stellar career at the DA’s office ended with a lay off and her boyfriend of five years told her that he wants to be just friends. When she lands a job at one of New York’s premier boutique investment firms, Janet begins to hope that her luck is finally turning for the better. Not only is she happy with her new paycheck, but things also seem to be looking up on the personal front, as the company’s handsome attorney expresses keen interest in Janet. However, her euphoria is short-lived, as Janet soon discovers alarming facts about her new employer’s business tactics. When her boss dismisses her suspicions as groundless, Janet finds herself confiding to a cute IT engineer, Dean Snider. The closer she gets to Dean, the more Janet is tempted to break her rule of not dating co-workers, but what she doesn’t realize is that everything she knows about Dean, including his occupation and even his name, is a lie.

Dennis Walker is a top-notch white collar crime investigator who will stop at nothing to put culprits away. When an opportunity for an undercover assignment at one of New York’s premier boutique broker dealers comes up, Dennis jumps at the chance, adopting a persona of geeky IT engineer, Dean Snider. While he may be an ace at his job, years of experience fail him when Dennis meets Janet Maple and finds himself torn between his professional obligations and his personal desires. Will he have to choose between his feelings and duty, or will he find a way to satisfy both?



On Monday morning Janet sat in her office, tallying up the results of the weekend, which even taking her most humiliating adolescent memories into account had been the most embarrassing weekend of her life. Blankly staring into her computer screen, Janet compiled a mental list of all the indignities she had endured in the past two days: attending an engagement party as the only single guest under the age of fifty – check, being harassed by your friend’s mother regarding your appearance – check, being badgered by the same friend’s relatives about your personal life – check, and last, but by far not the least, becoming an unwitting object of lust of a formerly puny, sex-obsessed teenage pest, who had turned into a much better looking, but still equally sex-obsessed man.
“Am I interrupting anything?” Lisa sauntered into Janet’s office.
“Oh, no, I was just looking through some regulatory updates.” Janet mastered a vague enough excuse.
Lisa rolled her eyes, indicating that such a subject was not worthy of her interest. “Janie, I’m so sorry about the party. What a jerk Andrew turned out to be! I meant to call you on Sunday, but Paul and I were busy looking at catering venues.”
“How did you hear about what happened with Andrew?”
“The prick had the nerve to complain to me about it. He got all upset about me dragging him out for nothing. Apparently, my engagement is not worthy of his attention; he also had to score with you.”
Janet’s irritation spiked. Lisa’s narcissism was unending. Never mind that courtesy of Lisa, Janet had been pawed by Lisa’s sleazoid cousin in the middle of nowhere; in the end, Lisa was still the victim.
“What exactly did you tell Andrew about me, Lisa?”
Lisa fiddled with her blazer. “Oh, nothing much. That you were going to be at my party…”
“Are you sure? Then how come he knew about me being single? He also used the word ‘desperate.’”
“Oh, I might have mentioned that you were single, but I never said a word about desperation. Clearly, you have no reason to be desperate.”
There it was again: Lisa’s old trick of switching the tables on you, but this time Janet was not budging. “Do me a favor, Lisa, stop setting me up on dates.”
“Not to worry. Your personal life is now solely in your capable hands. Rest assured, there will be no interference from poor, sloppy me.” Lisa cocked her head as she began to slowly exit Janet’s office.
Janet guessed from Lisa’s measured walk that she was awaiting an apology, but remained silent. Her boss or not, there was a limit as to how much humiliation one person was allowed to inflict upon another.
Lisa stopped short before exiting through the door, and Janet’s heart lurched. Could it be that Lisa was going to apologize? That would be an unprecedented occurrence worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records.
“Oh, and I almost forgot, I’m going to look at wedding dresses next weekend. I expect you to be there.”



AUTHOR Bio and Links:

Marie Astor is the author of contemporary romance novels Lucky Charm, On the Rim of Love, This Tangled Thing Called Love, romantic suspense novel, To Catch a Bad Guy, and a short story collection, A Dress in a Window.

If you would like to find out more about Marie’s books, please visit Marie at her website: www.marieastor.com.





Books by Marie Astor:










Marie will be giving away five prizes of custom made jewelry to randomly drawn commenters during the tour(Continental US only):

Prize 1: Agate and labradorite necklace with sterling silver accents
Prize 2: Smoky Quartz sterling silver plated necklace
Prize 3: Multi-quartz sterling silver plated necklace
Prize 4: Gray quartz, carnelian and onyx sterling silver plated necklace
Prize 5: Aventurine necklace with sterling silver plated accents