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I Never Even Called Him By His (Real) Name

I have a character named Charlie (so I thought).  You’ve seen him before.  He seems like a very nice man, yes?  I mean, he takes super good care of his dog and for 35k+ he’s unfailingly understanding and gives Ranay exactly what she needs.

He can’t be a bad man.  Right?  So she believes and yes, I hope you believe the same thing for at least the first 1/4-1/3 of the story.

But there are hints that all is not what it should be.

I know secrets about him.  So many convoluted secrets that I’ve confused myself.  Or maybe he’s confusing me on purpose.

He’s very affable.  He enjoyed telling me about his troubled past today.  Too much, perhaps.  It makes me think that it’s all a show, just one of the many faces he wears when it suits him.  His name really isn’t Charlie (and he won’t tell me what his real name is, either).  He isn’t who the heroine believes him to be.  He isn’t even who I believe him to be, and I created the SOB.

I keep thinking that I should know all these things before I get much further.  Hello, I already have 35k+ on this story.  Ranay’s trust in him is getting ready to go to hell in a hand basket.  I put this story aside for awhile because I didn’t know all the whys and wherefores.  I know “about” what happens, but it’s very much one of those things that’s going to evolve and change and scare the crap out of me before I’m done.

He wears so many masks that even he doesn’t know what his face looks like any longer.  A lie?  An illusion?  An alias?  I. Have. NO. IDEA.

How can I hope to write this story and do it justice, when I’ve never even called him by the right name yet?

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The Summer Blahs

Every year I hope this summer will be different.  I start out good.  And then the summer blahs hit.

Maybe it’s the soaring temps (although not this year – it’s been rather cool and rainy).  Maybe it’s the kids being out of school.  They stay up super late, so I don’t sleep as well.  I’m tempted to stay up with them (I’m naturally a night owl, but a thing called the Evil Day Job prevents me from staying up too often).  It’s certainly harder to get up in the dark if I’ve only been in bed a few hours.

Maybe it’s work.  The EDJ has been particularly busy this year, especially the last two months, and there’s really no end in sight.

Whatever the cause, I feel the days slipping by and it drives me nuts.  I just can’t get moving.  It’s harder to stick to the diet when it’s hotdog and chips season.  It gets too hot to do much outside.  The kids get bored and whiny, even when I’ve organized activities for them to keep them out of the house as much as possible so I can work.  Can you believe they start complaining that the pool is *boring*?

I’ve wasted entire summers in the past, but I keep trying NOT to lose these months.  I have to keep moving.  So it’s back to tiny goals on ANY book that will hold my interest.  Last night, I reread Charlie’s story (the mysterious “Christmas” novella that wasn’t about Christmas and wanted to be more than a novella!).  I’ve reread what I have in Mama C too.  Of course I also have the new PNR I’m building.  Too many cool ideas — just not enough brain cells right now.

I’m pulling out the timer.  15 minutes on any project.  Then maybe I’ll have some ice cream!

P.S. Stay tuned for another Her Grace’s Stable giveaway – a cool custom handmade cosmetic bag from Haut Totes!

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On Plotting

As I’ve been working on the new PNR idea, I’ve been thinking about my plotting processes and how they’ve evolved over the years.  There are so many different ways to think about story structure, from the Witch’s original “Block” idea, to the Marshall Plan, the Hero’s Journey, Save the Cat

All of them speak to me at various stages or for different things.  Save the Cat has really taught me to come full circle, to think about how I’m going to start and how I’m going to end, and what that means from the very beginning.

Breaking out all of those worksheets for the Marshall Plan is not for me.  It’s just too tedious.  I still learned a lot though, mostly to keep that push through each and every scene for what changed.  Why include it here?

The Hero’s Journey still speaks the most to me, but sometimes I need something a little simpler.  One thing I’ve read more about this year is the try/fail sequence.  Sometimes that helps me come up with what I want to happen in the middle.  (How can I make this worse?)  There’s also the 7-point plot.

And if your head is whirling now…  You’re not the only one.

What I’ve decided is that just like I prefer a different tarot deck for each major story world, I sometimes need a different way to think about plot for each story too.  Sometimes I use a little Save the Cat combined with try/fail until I get to the end.  Sometimes I’m hero’s journey all the way.  Sometimes I have a character show up in my head and just take over the whole damned show and all I can do is hang on for the ride.  Other times, it’s the world that comes to me first, and I have to figure out how to populate that world with cool and interesting characters who have something to say.

In the end, use ALL or NOTHING or PART of any of the methods to help you.  The more you know, the better.

Just for kicks and giggles, I’m building a simple one-page spreadsheet that highlights all of these plot methods so I can see the major points at a glance.  If you’re curious, take a peek (pdf).

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Writing with Tarot

I’ve posted before that I often turn to tarot for brainstorming (my friend Raelyn Barclay has lots of good posts here).  What I’m finding (for me) is that I end up buying a new deck for each new idea.  *sheepish*

For Lord Regret’s Price, I used the Steampunk Tarot exclusively.  The gorgeous, rich artwork and the Victorian/steampunk elements really spoke to me. I hope I can continue to use those cards for other books in the series.

But when I sat down to work on the new paranormal idea, I didn’t want to use that same deck.  It just didn’t work.  It didn’t say masks or shifters or demons or anything spooky.  I was wandering around on Amazon for something and saw the Deviant Moon deck and it was like cymbals started crashing in my skull.  Yes, yes, yes!

Looking at the cards is even more exciting.  I’ve been working with them all week with mixed results (so I thought).  First, I used their recommended “deviant moon” spread for my villain and got some incredible ideas.  Then I tried the same spread for the hero, and I just didn’t seem to feel it.  I mean, the cards just didn’t seem connected.  I couldn’t visualize anything, it didn’t spark a plot point, or anything.

When that happens, don’t despair!  Here’s a few things I tried:

  1. I took notes anyway and saved them for later.  Upon reflection and some shifting in my mind, the cards filled a gap for something else that I needed.
  2. Try a different spread.  When all else fails, I go back to the simple 3-card past, present, and future.  I got lots of good stuff for the hero then.
  3. If nothing seems to gel, maybe just flip through the deck and examine cards for fun.  See which ones seem to speak and take notes.

All of these options paid out cool ideas this week.  The cards I drew the first day that didn’t seem to work for the hero were actually calling up a missing character I needed.  (They were all strong women, like the Empress, the Queen of Wands, but I knew it wasn’t the heroine.)  I got another card that gave me a plot point that had nothing to do with the hero — but did involve the book.

And when I just picked some cards that really seemed important, I ended up building characters around those cards.  I just KNEW they needed to be used because they were so cool.  This time around, I’m actually building most of my cast straight from the cards themselves.  Not all of the characters are a single card.  e.g. the hero begins as a mix of the hermit/magician, but ends as the Ace of Pentacles.  Without going into too many details about what I’m doing, here are a few pictures of how I’m pairing stuff up.

hero heroine

These cards represent my hero and heroine’s growth throughout the book.  For the heroine (right), she has to make a choice.  The bottom card is what will happen if she falls to the Dark Side.  She’s quite dark, so while I know she’s not going to make that choice…I want to remind myself of that risk as I write.

antagonists

For my villains (yes there’s more than one), I knew the card on the right was significant.  It was a meeting between my two major antagonists.  But I wasn’t sure where else she might show up.  I flipped through the cards looking for a woman colored the same way to get other clues.  I did the same thing for my heroine — looking for other cards that had wings.

So I guess my point here is that it doesn’t have to be based on random chance.  You can sit down and look through the cards for specific characteristics to get ideas too.

Man, I’m loving this creepy weird deck!  I’m getting so many wicked ideas!!!

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Categorization

I realized yesterday that I’m a complete and utter blockhead.  Yeah, I know you’re all shocked.  *rolls eyes*

I’ve referred to my totem animal the horse many times.  How sometimes I just want to kick the stall down and charge off into the hills, wild and free.  How hard it is for me to settle under the saddle sometimes, or to take my place in the harness.  It’s not the work I mind.  I love the work.

It’s the idea of constraint.

I’ve always had a super hard time categorizing myself.  Early on, I was told I was too category when writing contemporary romance so I gave it up a long time.  Yet my category efforts weren’t category enough.  My fantasy is often too fantasy for romance readers, yet I can’t call a book a romance when major characters die, even if the ending is super happy and positive.  My Jane Austen Space Opera series isn’t really SFR.  But it’s not really steampunk either, unless you widen up the accepted time period and allow nanobot technology instead of steam.

I finally realized yesterday where I get myself into trouble.  It starts at the very beginning, when I’m brainstorming an idea.  Here’s how the last few days have gone.

  1. I want to develop a new paranormal romance series.
  2. I don’t want to do vampires or werewolves because everyone does them.
  3. I don’t want to do demons because I love Larissa Ione’s demons.
  4. I don’t want to do witches or angels either.  Everyone’s done them already.
  5. Hmmm.  Change gears.  What about the underlying mythology?
  6. I don’t want to do Celtic.  Everybody’s done Celtic.
  7. I don’t want to do Norse.  Egyptian.  Same reason.
  8. I picked Maya because a). I love pyramids and b). blood sacrifice and c). not very common when I started the idea.  But I had several comments about the weird/unusual/hard to pronounce/understand names.  The blood stuff was “disturbing.”  Hmm.

Hmm.  So I went to Amazon and started looking through the bestseller lists to look for trends.  What’s popular right now?  What’s selling?  What kinds of titles are people using?

Right away, I noticed there were 15,000+ books listed generically under “Romance->Paranormal.”  Hmmm.  That’s a TON of books.  Then I noticed that there were only a few sub-sections of Paranormal listed, like Demons and Devils.  Not shapeshifters.  Interesting.

So then I went to the publisher’s store where I plan to submit this idea, and examined their tags under paranormal romance.  They were different tags than Amazon, but still very specific.

Now here where’s I’m a blockhead.

My gut reaction:  I can’t do something in those tags.  It won’t be different enough.

*headdesk*

Yes, that’s the horse kicking down the stall and running away for no apparent reason.

I asked myself.  Self?  Do you want to be 1 book in 15,000 paranormal romances?  Or do you want to be 1 book in 700+ Demons and Devils?  Or less than 300 psychics?

Wow.  Yeah.  I’m ashamed it took me so long to figure that out.  I’ve only been writing something like 9 years now…

In my efforts to always be unique and different, I make myself hard to categorize.  I don’t fit within boundaries very well because I DELIBERATELY choose to find something outside of the box.

That’s not a bad thing, if I control it.  I have to stand out in some way, but I need to narrow the field if I can.  It’s only smart.

I want to be smart.

So yes, write what I love.  Find the unique.  But also pick something that is easily categorized.  I don’t have to write vampires.  I don’t have to write werewolves.  But there are other things I do love that will keep the muse interested and excited.

While I’m writing Mama C’s first draft, I’ll be building a paranormal romance trilogy that fits squarely in my sweet spot.  It will have shapeshifters, masks, demons, and Native American mythology and I’m quite excited about what I have so far!

SweetSpot

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Planning and Goals

Returning from RT13 inspired, I spent the day planning my next projects and administrative tasks.  I’ve got 12 non-writing items on my to-do list.  Gulp.  Things like sending Her Grace’s Stable out for reviews, buying ads, gathering prizes, writing guest blog posts, etc.  It’s insane!

Then I sat down and made a list of all the projects I want and have to do work on.  There are only 8 on the list.  *laughs manically*

I made a list of what I need to do to get moving on Mama C again.  I re-read everything I’ve written so far, made some light edits, and jotted a few notes.  Then I worked on the story until I got 500 words.  It was pretty slow going — it’s been at least a week or two since I last opened the file.  But I did finally get the words I needed and the story was starting to flow better.

My plan was to get as much set up today as possible so I can return to D&E writing tomorrow.  I have a hard time dragging myself up out of bed that early, though, if I’m not already knee-deep in the story. e g. the characters need to be talking in my head without effort and I need to know exactly what comes next.  However, Mama C isn’t fully plotted yet.  I had a neat twist come to me that’s going to require some additional work.  I don’t have the middle-end of her story plotted at all–just a few scenes for the first Act.  That’s it.  I don’t want to write too far and then get stuck…

But I can’t sit around waiting to plot this book either.  I’m wasting too much time.

So what I’m going to try to do is work on my plot at night, at least far enough that I can get up the next morning and write the next scene.  Hopefully I’ll be able to keep ahead of myself.  Usually the ideas spawn other ideas, so as I write, I should get more and more future scenes falling into place.

I’m also going to come up with some kind of schedule to handle all the administrative tasks before my next release.  e.g. I need to write one guest post a week or something or I’ll lose my ever-loving mind again.

In addition, I’m building a new idea that I started developing this past week in KC.  I’m shuffling it a little higher on the list just below Mama C, with the goal of having it built and plotted so that as soon as I finish Mama, I can switch gears and immediately begin to draft the other project.  I need to get better at handling multiple projects in various stages of development at the same time, or I lose months as I try to get a new project moving.

I have a feeling Mama C’s going to run in the 70K range instead of the <50K range, so it’s probably going to take me into June before I can finish the draft.  We’ll see though.

That’s the plan and I’m sticking to it.  For now!

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Guess Who’s Talking Now

It’s too early to say how quickly it’ll go, but Virginia aka Mama Connagher has been talking to me loud and clear since last night.  I sat down late last night–minutes before I said I was going to bed–and suddenly had 1200 words carved out.  This scene has been on my mind for a long time, so it didn’t take much effort to write.

I don’t know what the “plot” will be for this book — I think it’ll be more of a basic character-driven romance with a Connagher reunion on the side.  We’ll see though.  I don’t have it plotted at all, just a few key scenes I know need to happen.  I really don’t know how it’ll unfold yet.  But here’s a snippet while I wait for Charlie to tell me what his OTHER name is…

Rocking in her chair on the front porch, Virginia Connagher watched the sun set as she’d done every night for thirty years, ever since she and Tyrell had first bought this ranch.  It’d been a rough mess of two hundred acres and a tiny shack barely livable with falling down fences and more weeds and cactus than pasture.  A lifetime of sweat, tears and blood had turned this land into her dream—one of the finest stables in all of Texas.  Her show horses were becoming famous.  And it didn’t mean a damned thing.

Not without him.

Pink darkened to violet and stars dotted the velvet canvas.  A whippoorwill called from one of the blackgum trees he’d planted alongside the driveway when they’d first moved out here.  She loved the bird’s calls…and yet hated it too.  He’d always loved those damned noisy birds.

“This always was your favorite time of day.”

She turned her head, shocked to see him sitting beside her in the matched mate to her chair.  Dusty, stained cowboy hat tipped back on his head, sun-lined weathered face, eyes so blue and brilliant it hurt to look into them, and big Texas mustache.  He wore faded denim from head to toe and worn boots that had seen better days, the same thing he’d worn just about every single day of his life.  She could even smell his Stetson cologne, the only thing he’d ever worn.  “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting.”  His slow, easy drawl made her throat tighten, her eyes filling up with tears.  “Thought it was past time.”

“You died fifteen years ago.”

He tipped his hat back further and gave her a solemn nod.  “I sure did, Princess.”

He hadn’t called her that in…she couldn’t even remember how long.  Early in their courtship—perhaps warfare was the better word—he’d called her a snooty princess and the name had stuck.  She’d called him a lowlife cattle rustler.  Then they’d married and had a wonderful life together.  Until it all ended.  “You never came to see me before.”

“You wouldn’t let me.  You’re a hard woman, Virginia.  Besides, you didn’t need me then.”

She stared at him, gripping the chair arms so hard her fingers ached.  He’d always done this.  Infuriated her to the point she wanted to lay into him with her fists, her hair brush, a whip, anything she had at hand.  Once she’d accidentally given in to that temptation, she’d finally figured out he’d deliberately been trying to drive her to unleash some violence on him all along, to their mutual enjoyment.

“I didn’t need you,” she repeated slowly, carefully enunciating each word.  “When you left me alone to raise our children.  When I had to organize your funeral.  When I’ve been alone all these years.  Yet now you decide to mosey back into my life?  What on earth for?”

“You’ve been alone too long.”

She let out a harsh laugh that jarred her ears.  “Don’t tell me you’ve come back from the grave to tell me I need to move on and find a new man.”

“You’re too much woman to be alone.  It ain’t right.”

“No, I’ll tell you what ain’t right.  You leaving us.  Me having to bury you in your wedding suit.”  The memory of how fake and stiff he’d looked in his coffin made her bury her face in her hands.  “It wasn’t right, Ty.  I should have buried you in jeans like the boys wanted.  But I just wasn’t myself and Miss Belle said you didn’t care one way or the other, but I hated seeing you in that suit.  It should have had only good memories.”

He gently pried her fingers away from her face and lifted her right hand to his mouth.  Funny, she’d forgotten how much his mustache tickled.  She’d cursed that thing, complained how the whiskers had poked her nose when he kissed her, but now… I’d give anything to feel those damned whiskers against my cheek again. 

“Miss Belle’s always right, don’t you know that yet?  I didn’t care one way or the other.  All I want you to remember about me is this.”

His palm on hers, big and strong and rough.  He’d worked as a ranch hand all his life, when he wasn’t rodeoing.  He’d busted just about every bone in his body including his skull and tore up his hands doing hard work under the unforgiving Texan sun.  She gripped his calloused hand tighter, desperate to keep him with her.  “How could I ever find another man who moved me like you still do?”

“He’s there.  You just have to open your eyes.”

“I don’t want no one else.”

He brushed his mouth against her knuckles again, deliberately tickling her skin with a wicked knowing glint in his eyes.  “You will, if you let yourself think about it.  I know you too well, Virginia Connagher.  If you set your mind against a thing, you’ll never surrender the fight come hell or high water.  It’s a miracle you ever loosened up enough to let me into that stone cold heart.”

“It’s colder and stonier now, Ty.  You said I’m a hard woman, and you’re right.  I don’t think I could ever let anyone in again.”

He nodded solemnly.  “I know it.  That’s why I’ve come to help you see the way.  I love you too much to watch you hurt alone any longer.”

Hurt alone. Those words stung, sinking deep beneath her skin to pierce her heart.  She wanted to avert her face and keep the desperation and hunger hidden away, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.  He might fade away and she’d never see him again, not until she met St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.  “There’s no other way, Ty, and you know…”

“I know,” he broke in, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.  “You’ve been hurting alone.  I don’t like it.  Not at all.  Virginia Connagher shouldn’t ever hurt alone.”  He squeezed her hand hard enough that the fine bones began to grind together.  It made her blood thicken with the sweet memory of their shared secrets.  How he’d been able to feed that hungry side of her that feasted on pain.  “Not my woman.”

“I don’t want to forget you.”  It came out plaintive, making her wince, because she hated nothing more than being weak.

He laughed, a dark chuckle that came against her ear, his breath hot and moist in her ear.  “You’ll never forget me, Princess.  But that don’t mean you can’t take another man in my absence.”

Something shook her whole body.  Lightning arced through her mind, making her body twitch uncontrollably.

“Ty…”

Darkness swallowed her.  She lost the sensation of his hand on hers.  She couldn’t see him any longer, though his cologne filled her nose one last time as though she’d buried her face against his chest.  “I’ll always love you, Virginia.”

Voices crashed and rattled inside her.  Lights streamed by, like she was flying.  So fast.

“Female, fifty six years old, broken arm, severe concussion.”  Hands probed her stomach, sending her gasping in pain.  “Probable internal injuries.”

She opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but her brain didn’t want to work.  Nothing hurt.  That was probably a very bad sign.  The scent of Stetson still lingered.  She closed her eyes, trying to hold on to him, but already his image had faded in her mind.  The brightness of his eyes had dimmed, the edges fuzzed and softened by time.  She started crying and she didn’t care who saw.  “Ty.”

“Mama!”  Vicki suddenly appeared, her face white, her eyes huge and dark with fear.  “What happened?”

“We lost her pulse for a minute or so, but she’s back with us now.”  One of the nurses grabbed Vicki’s arm, holding her back from following into the next room.  Lights blazed everywhere, too bright, too painful.

“Mama!”  Vicki cried out.  “Victor’s on his way!  I’ll call Conn too.  Don’t worry about a thing!”

Virginia tried to turn and see her daughter, to find out what had happened, but someone put something over her mouth and she slid into nothingness where not even a sweet dream of Ty could find her.

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Submission Ahoy!

So far, 2013 is shaping up to be a busy year.  This past week, I’ve finished up line edits on Her Grace’s Stable, finished a 35K novella (but that’s another story, literally), revised Sig’s book (Lord Regret’s Price) for the second time including adding 2K+ to the end (bringing total to 77K), and written a synopsis.  Even better, Sig is now out visiting on submission!  Keep your fingers crossed that we hear good news in a few weeks.

As for the novella, it’s not really a novella.  It’s part one of a big story.  A story that both terrifies and excites me.  I’ve been working on the premise for this story for over a year.  A hint to what it’s about is in this interview.  I’ve got part two very well plotted, but part 3 is still a vague mess.  It might be one of those stories that I have to write the next act before I can figure out the end.  I have some ideas of what I want to happen, but there are certain elements that still escape me.

Now that Sig’s away and the 3/15 deadline is regretfully out of reach, I’ll be rereading what I have so far and tackle part 2.  I’m also going to make notes on Lady Wyre’s Rebel while the story’s on my mind.  It’s gonna be one wild crazy ride!

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And On That Crazy Note…

I finished the wip tonight.  Yep, I know.  It’s crazy.

I was on fire.  Drunk on words.  I couldn’t stop.  The story consumed my every free moment.  Even when I was working or cooking dinner or picking up kids from school, I could hear Ranay and Charlie in my head.

And surprisingly, I finished under the 35K mark.  Granted that’s first draft, but IF–and that’s a huge if–I want to submit it for the antho call, I met the size requirement.

I flirted with the road less traveled but didn’t quite go there.  Or rather, I went there, but it’s so subtle and woven into the narrative in little ways that I don’t think you would know.  Until I write the next book that’s in my head.

7756 words for the day.  Yeah, I know.  I haven’t written that much in… I can’t remember.  Combine that with yesterday’s total, and it’s insane.  When the story’s right (write) though, it just goes.  I couldn’t type fast enough.  In this case, I’m thankful I’m a pretty fast typist, because I didn’t want to lose a single moment.

Another snippet, continuing from yesterday.

Yet I couldn’t stifle the kernel of anticipation that had sprouted in that dark secret corner I’d fought so hard to control this past year.  Even worse, that little sprout threatened to grow into Jack’s beanstalk when he and Sheba followed me into the break room.  Clients never came back here, but I didn’t think Dr. Wentworth would mind.  She claimed not to have any favorites, but Sheba was too perfect not to make it high on our office’s most beloved list.

I wasn’t sure what Mr. MacNiall did for a living, but we often had the pleasure of boarding Sheba while he was out of town.  Truth be told, we spoiled her rotten and gave her the run of the office when she was ours for a few days.

I started to scoop him a cup from the crockpot, but I decided I’d better warm him first.  “This didn’t come out of a box.  It’s a concoction I came up after making it over and over and now it’s become a sort of tradition.”  I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stop babbling like a nervous twit.  “It’s got coconut milk in it.  Is that okay?”

He shrugged off his coat, treating me to hints of the powerful cuts of muscle beneath his sweater.  “As long as it’s hot and chocolately, I don’t care.”

And then he looked at me.

I mean, he really looked at me.  Not through me, not in my general vicinity required through polite social interaction.  He looked at me like he could see everything inside me.  Everything I’d fought to fix, and if I couldn’t fix it, the things I ignored and pretended weren’t broken and painful.  Some days those things ached so badly I was afraid I’d shatter into a thousand pieces.  His eyes saw that darkness in me.  He saw how damaged I was.

And he didn’t turn away.

He didn’t look at me with pity.  Or revulsion.  His gaze didn’t skitter away.  He didn’t start making excuses so he could retreat unscathed before my compulsions trapped him in a web of crazy he’d do anything to escape.

Oh, the way he looked at me…

I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t blink.  I couldn’t breathe.

With all that scorching intensity, he was either all in or completely out.  No in between.  No safety net.  No flirting.  No escape.

A lot like me.

Which makes him entirely off limits.  I jerked my gaze away and the effort made sweat bead on my forehead.  Too dangerous by far.  Neither one of us would be able to escape a relationship unscathed.

He took a long drink, giving me respite from his gaze, enough that I was able to suck in a loud breath.  I managed to get my heart beating again.  My fingers were icy, my hands shaking, and as hot as my face felt, I was probably glowing as brightly as Rudolph’s nose.  Desperate to hide my reaction, I bent down on my knee and concentrated on Sheba.

The dog gave me a knowing look, as though to say, I know he’s a great master, but he’s all mine, human.  I scratched behind her big perked up ears and under her jaw.  Her long ebony coat was immaculately groomed.  If she jumped up on her rear legs, she’d be almost as tall as me.  Yet like her master, she was unfailing gentle despite her power.

“Ranay?”

The soft tone of his voice made me close my eyes, even as I wanted to turn my face up to him and let my hunger show on my face.  Hunger for him, for the control he wielded so effortlessly.  I was already on one knee.  It’d be so easy…

Too easy.

I buried my face against Sheba’s neck and made a sound I hope he took for “Yes?”

“May I ask you a personal question?”

I clutched the big dog harder.  Luckily she didn’t mind.  In fact, she licked my cheek and made a low whuff in my ear.  “Of course, Mr. MacNiall.”

“Mac,” he chided.  “Hell, you could even call me Charlie and I wouldn’t mind, even though the only other person who calls me that is Mom.  I’ve been coming to Dr. Wentworth for years and I’ve known you since the first day she hired you.  Surely you can call me by name now?”

He remembered when I’d been hired?  Had Dr. Wentworth talked to him about me?  How much did she know about my unsavory past?

Considering she was Mom’s best friend, probably way more than I wanted her to know.  She’d probably only given me the job out of the kindness of her heart, though I think I’d more than earned her trust.  I was never late, I loved the animals, and I was determined to do my best work every single day.  I was holding it together.  Nobody had any cause to suspect I might have a few screws loose.  “Dr. Wentworth likes us to be professional at all times.”

“She calls me Mac.  Why can’t you?”

He didn’t have to remind me.  For a while, I’d burned with jealousy when I heard the easy familiarity between them, until I understood there was nothing between them but friendship.  The first few months at my new job, I’d been oblivious to the clients–concentrating instead on their animals.  Eventually I’d realized those animals only came to us via their human counterparts, and I’d found myself reconnecting with the world.

I wish I’d never looked into Sheba’s human’s eyes.  I wish I’d been able to crush that first hint of attraction.  I wish he wasn’t such a dedicated pet owner who brought Sheba in faithfully every single month for grooming.

How could I even begin to explain it to him?  If I cracked that door open even just a little, the whole avalanche would slip free and bury me beneath dozens of feet of roiling, uncontrollable emotion.  It took all my will and effort to keep all that locked away so I could function.  It’d taken me two years to get over the last man I’d dated.

Although “dating” wasn’t exactly the right word for such a disastrous and dysfunctional relationship.

“I have to get back to the front desk.”  Without looking at him, I pushed to my feet and carefully edged around him.  Part of me was afraid he might lay a hand on my arm to halt my escape.  The other half of me frantically pleaded that he seize both of my arms and haul me against him until I had no choice but to tell him the truth.  I refused to be disappointed that he merely followed me back to the front of the office.

I took my seat, firmly entrenched behind the high counter that walled me off from the world.  Only then could I attempt to meet his steady, piecing gaze again.  Nope, I couldn’t do it.  Not yet.  I settled my gaze on his sweater, tracing the weave of each thread, the way the colors met and blended.  That distracted me enough to answer him.  “What do you want to know?”

He merely stared back at me, waiting.

Waiting.

Oh God.  This man was so dangerous.  He knew how to play me.  How to tempt me.  Without ever talking about more than Sheba’s next appointment, he knew secrets about me that I tried so hard to hide.  Secrets I buried, denied, and prayed I could erase, but they were always there to torment me.

I didn’t want to let him in.  I didn’t want to play his game.

That’s a lie.  I want to play his game so badly I’m scared to death.

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Moar Wordz

I’m slinging words on the new project I’m considering for the 3/15 deadline.  The first 20K is very solid.  But I have two possible difficulties to deal with.

1. Word count.  I’m already over 26K and I can only play with 35K.

2. Content and tone.

This is supposed to be for a Christmas call, and yeah, the holiday does play an important part in the story.  But the tone and content of this “Christmas” story isn’t very ho-ho-ho-happy holidays, if you know what I mean.

I’m more of a Blood and Shadows kind of girl.  Even at Christmas.

I’m also fighting the hero something fierce.  Well, fighting isn’t quite the right word.  He’s cooperating way better than Sig – I got 6K today.  Yep! *boggles*  Words aren’t a problem right now.  It’s what he keeps edging toward.  I’m not prepared to discuss it yet, because honestly, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.  Do I take the road less traveled…and definitely the harder sale?  Or do I stick to the chosen path, even though it’s overgrown and twisty?

I’m not exactly the safe path kind of writer, even when I try really hard to be.

But who knows.  The market’s a crazy beast.  In the end, I have to be true to myself, and despite these struggles, I’ve been true to the hero who keeps wanting to lurk in the shadows.  He’s still dark and as unpolitically correct as most of my heroes.  Whether the hints he keeps trying to drop to me are meaningful or not, I guess I’ll find out.

I haven’t posted anything about this project yet, so I’ll share the opening scene below to give you just a taste of this holiday craziness I’m working on.

You could tell a lot about a man by watching him handle his dog.  Working as a receptionist at a vet clinic, I saw all kinds of men come through our doors.  Sometimes the dog came charging into the office, tangling up his owner’s legs in the leash, ignoring any sort of command.  Big dog, little dog, it didn’t matter.  Some men just didn’t know how to handle a pet.  I didn’t mind those dogs or their owners, even if I often had to clean up some odorific messes around the office once they were gone.

It was the dogs who came in cringing with their tails between their legs that worried me.

Those dogs–and their masters–often gave me nightmares, sometimes so bad I seriously thought about changing professions before I completed my vet tech training.  Not that I suspected the dogs were being outright abused–Dr. Wentworth was very careful about ensuring the safety of her charges.  It just broke my heart to think any sweet, devoted dog wasn’t loved unconditionally with patience and understanding.

Dr. Wentworth had lots of clients, but none of them were like Sheba’s human.  As queenly as her namesake, Sheba strolled in like she was entering a world-class dog show instead of her vet’s office.  A king shepherd in prime condition, she could have torn the place up before I could even clear my desk at the front.  Yet she sat at her master’s feet and looked up at him, ears perked, tail wagging.

“Good girl,” he murmured in a low, sweet voice that still managed to thrum with power.

Power that made me clench my thighs together.  Oh, to have that delicious rumbling voice heap such praises on me.

Charles MacNiall wasn’t your typical tall, dark and handsome sort of man.  His hair–while dark–was curly and a little too long for today’s styles, and while he was taller than me, that wasn’t really saying much since I’m barely more than five feet tall.  His physical size wasn’t impressive, but he was lean and tight and hard.  He had the strength, both physically and mentally, to be alpha to a hundred-plus pound, extremely active and strong dog.

More importantly, he had presence.  He wore an aura of controlled energy like a force field about him.  Even though he stood on the opposite side of the receptionist counter, I could feel that warm power licking at my attention.  His energy was a compelling heat that made me want to curl up at his feet just like Sheba.  Always mindful of his power, he rarely turned the full force of his gaze on me, as though he sensed that I was far too susceptible.

Kind and gorgeous, he allowed me to peek at him without trying to draw me out or to catch me staring.  In fact, he seemed oblivious to anything other than Sheba’s health, which suited me fine.

I’d probably fall apart if the man looked at me.

My cheeks flushed and I concentrated fiercely at the computer screen, hoping he thought I was merely shy, not appalled at my own stupid weakness.  It didn’t matter how many times he came in since I’d been working here.  He always hit me like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

I held my breath for several moments until I felt more in control, and then I turned and gave him my best customer service smile without exactly meeting his gaze.  “Good afternoon, Mr. MacNiall.  Dr. Wentworth is almost ready for you.  You’re our last client today.”

He kept his gaze directed down at his dog, but he smiled, flashing a killer dimple in his cheek.  “I’m not in a rush.”

It was all I could do not to let out a ridiculous little sigh of pleasure.  I soaked him in quickly–the way his curly hair tumbled down across his forehead, his full, sensual lips, the warmth in his dark eyes.  His cheeks and nose were ruddy, his hair windblown more than usual, like he’d been outside a long time.  If he were younger, I would’ve guessed he’d been sled riding for hours, even though there was hardly enough snow to make it worthwhile.

As if he’d heard my thoughts, he said, “I’m playing hooky today, much to Sheba’s glee.  She’s had me at the park all day.”

On Christmas Eve Eve, our unpredictable Missouri weather had finally chilled enough to be called winter, putting me in an extremely rare holiday mood.  It had to be a temporary sugar stupor that made me open my mouth.  “We’ve got a pot of hot chocolate in the back.  Would you like a cup to warm you up?”

“I’d love one, thanks.”

I bit my lip to keep from cursing out loud.  I wasn’t supposed to engage him in conversation.  It was too risky.  I certainly wasn’t supposed to serve him anything.  That led my wayward fantasies down a twisty narrow road of snake pits and creepy caverns.  Relax, I ordered myself sternly.  It’s just a cup of cocoa.  I’m not hitting on him.  He’s not hitting on me.  This is just a nice friendly offer of a hot drink on a chilly day.

I don’t have to go into take me-to-your-dungeon territory.