Shadow is out!

My book is up! Shadows is on sale at Sapphire Blue, Amazon and All Romance Books. $6 dollars at SB and ARB, £6.91 at Amazon.com. I haven't checked other places yet.

Click here to go to Sapphire Blue's page.

A word of warning - this morning I noticed that Two Lips has a review for Shadows, but it's the old 2006 version, before I expanded the story by 30,000 words - and changed the names of the two main characters!

Here's an excerpt when Melissa has just arrived at the old mill:

The heat bounced off the pale flagstones, and bees and dragonflies buzzed the riot of flowers and weeds surrounding two sides of the patio. From the third side the patio opened out on to rough meadowland stippled with half a dozen tall trees, and a line of shrubs and bushes told her a stream bordered the property. Standing in the heat and scent of dust, lavender and geranium, listening to the delicious rustle of leaves in the tall trees, she knew she would like it here. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a deep breath of delight.

Something made her glance up to the higher level. A tall figure in black stood on the grassy patch beside the bolly, watching her. Who was he? Had someone come to visit Rory? The stranger was young, and handsome, even if he looked like a priest in that long, dark robe. As she stared, he raised a hand, palm out and strode off into the trees.
Rory’s voice called through the open window. As she trotted up the steps, she looked for the stranger but he had disappeared along an overgrown grassy track leading away through the trees. Rory walked out onto the bolly, a glass in each hand.

At the sight of him in slacks and checked shirt, a jolt of pleasure ran through her. He looked even more handsome out of the elegant suits. “Who was that man?” She accepted the glass he offered.
“What man?”
Melissa gestured to the grassy area. “The man who stood there two minutes ago and waved at me. He walked away up the old track.”

Rory frowned. “I didn’t see anyone. Jonny said the track is still a public bridleway but he’s never known anyone use it. There’s a monastery at the top of the hill. Maybe the track is a shortcut.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Let’s hope we’re not about to be invaded by holiday-makers tramping by every day. Especially not the clergy.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Dinner’s just about ready. If you sit down, I’ll bring the food out.”

The white table already held a bowl of salad, a wicker basket of bread and the opened bottle of wine. He was fast and efficient. No sooner had she taken her seat than he put a plate of steak before her and offered the salad bowl.
She tilted her head back and smiled at him. How good to have a man prepared to cook for her. “This looks delicious. Does Jonny plan to do a lot of work here?”
He picked up his cutlery and cut into his steak. “The grand plan is for two bedrooms and a bathroom on the lower level so Jonny can invite friends. The bathroom’s finished, but the rest is a muddle.”

That meant no bedrooms on the lower floor, and only one on this level. An ugly suspicion bloomed in her mind. Melissa heaped salad onto her plate and replaced the steel salad servers carefully in the bowl. “Then am I right in thinking there is only one bedroom here?”
The chilly edge on her voice brought his head up.

His peacock blue eyes narrowed. “’fraid so. That isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

Dismay at his deception roared through her, and small flash of fear and timidity followed it. Yes, one bedroom most certainly would be a problem. She wasn't ready. Not yet. Talk about being taken for granted—the conceited ass expected her to tumble into bed with him without a second thought. She inhaled sharply. “It is presumptuous of you to assume I’ll share a bed with you right away.”

He stopped eating and stared at her, surprise etched into the lines of his face.

Had she misjudged him? Maybe she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. He'd be insulted if that was the case. So she offered a sweet smile and spoke gently. “Unless I’m wrong and you intend to sleep on the sofa?”

“Presumptuous?” His gaze darted across her face. Presumably he was trying to read her expression. He didn’t know how to answer her. Melissa lifted her brows slightly, smiled without opening her mouth and waited.
He put down his cutlery and picked up his wine glass. “What do you mean?”

She frowned. How could he pretend he did not know what she meant? “We are not lovers.” She bit off each word. “We may become so, but right now I expect a room of my own.” Heat rose through her skin, and her hand trembled on the rim of the table. She whipped it out of sight. Let him make of it what he would.

Rory swallowed too soon, choked and coughed.
He flung himself out of his chair, coughing, one fist to his mouth as he strode across the bolly. As the fit lessened, he thrust one hand against the oak upright supporting the roof and stood there, head down, breathing hard.

Annoyance did not stop her admiring the way his shoulders heaved with his breathing, or the graceful way he stood even when he was in some distress. His attention not on her. It was the first time she'd seen him rattled, and his reaction interested her. When his breathing calmed, he slowly strolled back to the table and took his seat.

His eyes still watered a little, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. “Christ, I feel as if all sorts of pits are yawning at my feet. Would you believe me if I said I honestly hadn’t thought about it?”

Melissa sipped her wine. She didn't believe him for a moment. “How could you ignore it? There is only one bed.”

He winced, as if her words pained him.

New Year, New plans

Everyone’s busy making New Year resolutions but I prefer not to embarrass myself when the year ends by taking stock and revealing that no resolution was kept beyond a day or two!

One thing I know is that I must make time to send stories out. I so enjoy writing the things that I tend not to do the necessary submissions. But perhaps it is just as well. I have a contemporary ghost story set in France which, through no fault of its own, fell foul of its first publisher (they went bankrupt) and recently found a second home with Sapphire Blue. Now, I had already added another twenty thousand words to the story before they saw it and I thought it was – well, done. As in complete. Finito.

But two rounds with an editor have shown me that is not so. I’ve added motivation, internal physical reactions, external physical reactions and removed almost every use of the pronoun ‘it.’ I’ve discovered that words like ‘rucked’ seem unknown in the US. It was an interesting exercise and a learning curve but eventually, once more I thought I was done. But no: my story has now gone on to the copy editors. I’ve never had a copy editor before, and I wait to see what they will require of me.

It was just as well that I had no second or third story out, for Sod’s law would have brought them home with demands for attention at the same time. Phew! Narrow escape.

Time flies

This week has almost gone and I feel as if I've achieved nothing. I've written a chapter for a new book which means I am now in the stupid position of having one Victorian story waiting for its sixth chapter without a clue what its going to say, and a Tudor story newly begun without having worked out where the story is going.

This is bad, bad planning. Though I can hardly call it bad planning, because it simply isn't planned at all. I kind of just fell into it. I know roughly what I want from each story, but previously I've always had a plan to follow. Doing it without one feels very shaky. (Rather like Jonathan Foyle, swathed in ropes, clambering around the spires of Oxford last night on tv.)

Once upon a time I had a book published called Shadows. It told the story of a holiday couple in an ancient mill in France, and how they discovered a pair of ghostly lovers. A few weeks after publication, the company went bankrupt and the story was in limbo for along time. I rewrote the thing, giving it more substance and adding 20,000 words. I now have a contract for that story with Sapphire Blue in America.

They asked me for an ITIN number. It seems that to get one, I must visit the American Embassy in London. This is not good. The last time I went to London was probably twenty years ago, on business. Plus which the rail fare and an overnight stay will cost me more than I'm likely to earn in royalties! I may get away without an overnight stay. If I drive in to Newcastle, park the car and get the 9am train, I'll get to London at 12.20. Just in time for the Embassy to close for lunch as I reach it. It re-opens at 2 and closes again at four. If there are queues...I may have to return next day. If not, I could be back on the train and home again by 10pm. When I've got the number, I then have to fill in other forms....

This is what has been distracting me all week. Now I'm looking up train times - and instead of one national rail system there are now about twenty private rail companies to check. I agree not all of them run between Newcastle and London, but even so, why oh why did life have to get so complicated?