Five gold stars

Yesterday I finished an excellent read. Truth to Tell by Mavis Cheek. Nina Porter is living the good life, says the blurb on the back cover. "Happily married, well off, a loving mother and daughter. So how come she finds herself alone in Venice with a handsome Italian? It starts with a marital row about honesty. Nina claims she always  tells the truth; her husband says it can't be done. And so the challenge is on. As Nina tries to live without the little white lies that support us all, she finds her life spiralling in directions she never expected."

Not only is the book good, I thought the back cover blurb was excellent, too.

The first line was even better: Tipping points are peculiar things. One minute the thought or desire is not on your radar, the next it is not only on your radar, it is looming so large it blots out almost everything else. And a tipping point, as Malcolm Gladwell says in his book, helpfully entitled The Tipping Point, is irresistible.

I was hooked. There are so many good things in her writing that I may well read it again just for the sheer pleasure of enjoying her particular prose style. Five gold stars to Ms Cheek.

The book trailer is nothing to do with Mavis Cheek. I decided to showcase (that awful word from America which I shouldn't allow my self to use!) my book trailers, and this is the third. Worry not, there is only one more to go. Unless I finish the one I'm working on for Reluctance, in which case there will be two more to come!

Quietly demented



near Gairnshield Lodge

The weather here in the north has taken a turn for winter all of a sudden. Temperatures down as low as 2 degrees tonight, and there's snow in Scotland and up in the hill country and the Pennines. Time to break out the woolly sweaters and maybe think about thick tights under jeans. I'll also have to stock up on peanuts and bird food. They haven't needed us, but they've nicked all the berries off the holly bushes in mmy garden and they're starting on the cottoneasters now.

I have spent over a week diligently trying to get my file perfect for uploading to Amazon Kindle, but always the Table of Contents is greyed out - yes, even on my brand new Kindle - an early Christmas present from dh. I followed the Kindle instructions and the Table of Contents comes up on the screen, and it links the reader straight to any chapter selected, so I haven't a clue why it doesn't do exactly as Kindle wish.
I've lost count of my attempts. I've tried Intenet Explorer 9, discovered knowedgeable people think it isn't compatible with Mobipocket, tried Internet 8 on my laptop, tried it with the cover pic, without the cover pic, with the TOC, without the TOC, as Web Page, Filtered, as Web Page, and as a Word doc file, all to no avail. I've even stripped the story back to Plain Text and  inserted minimum formatting and I've read countless websites and found I'm not alone with this problem.

So, I think I'm going to send the file off as it is and see what happens. If it's accepted and any of you wonderful people out there buy a copy of Shadows, then please remember the TOC does work. It just doesn't have its own little Go To link.

In case you wondering who this little fella is, he's the youngest of a Highland Cattle herd who live on the farm we visited.

Shadows in the night



west wing of Prudhoe Castle

"Melissa looked at her watch. It was well past midnight. The sofa was comfortable, but the unaccustomed heat kept her awake. Spending summer in a romantic old water mill in the Dordogne did have disadvantages. When she ran tentative fingers over her flanks, her skin was slick with moisture. The warm breeze from the open window moved through the room, but brought little relief. Crickets chirped so vigorously they might have been sitting on the hearthstone five feet away.
A cold drink would be good.
She scrambled off the sofa and tiptoed across the floorboards, hoping she wouldn’t step on any insect life. With her hands under the kitchen tap, she welcomed the gush of cold water, gulped some from her cupped palm and ran her damp hands over her face.

Fumbling her way through the shadows to the door, she released the latch and stepped outside. That was better. Cool air breathed across her skin. Ignoring the quick rustle of lizards scurrying toward crevices in the old walls, she strolled to the chairs, pale and cold in the moonlight. She sank into one of them, and flinched at the coldness of the plastic against her skin. Stars blinked above the massed ranks of dark trees. A breeze that never reached the valley floor swept across the topmost leaves of the tall trees in the meadow and produced the soft susurration in the air that was already familiar to her.
Rory slept in the big bed on the other side of the wall. He did not like their current sleeping arrangements. The tightening of his mouth, the flexing of his jaw muscles had shown that, and said very clearly that he’d let her have her way but he was not the kind of man who gave up easily. Had his pride suffered when she refused to share his bed? He had certainly been surprised. Would he try and persuade her, or sulk until she gave in? It had been a good decision not to let Rory sleep on the sofa for then she would have felt beholden to him. Much better that she owed him neither gratitude nor thanks at this point.
She stroked her thighs. Already the slickness dried from her skin. A wisp of long grass whisked along the flagstones, breathed across her foot and vanished. Rory had shown her a shed snakeskin as a warning not to be frightened if she saw the owner one day. The fragile, almost translucent skin had been trapped between the stones of the bolly and the old drain not four feet from where she sat. A cold breeze wandered by. Melissa hugged herself against the sudden chill. Perhaps this was a crazy idea after all. Flickers of movement caught her eye.
For no reason, her heart thudded in her chest. With her teeth pressing on her lower lip, she stared at the western end of the bolly where one of the four oak pillars supporting the tiled roof stood out sharp and clear in the moon's glow. Beyond them, the shrubs and rose bushes were gray against the dusty, moonlit ribbon of the drive. Nothing moved. She heard nothing but the soft sound of the breeze, yet her heart bounced faster, as if she were in danger.
 Muscles tense, she sat poised, ready to run.
The shadows made it difficult to see anything. The blackness moved and twitched close in against the house wall, less than ten feet away. A pale shifting blur morphed into hands and a face. Melissa’s fingers clung to the chair arms while she strained to see through the darkness. Hair lifted on the back of her neck and goose bumps sprang on her arms. She stared at two pale blurs, one above the other, moving very close together. Sure it must be some young couple seeking privacy, she opened her mouth to call out. But some instinct held her rigid and silent. What if they weren't real? Her heart beat so loudly that whoever lurked by the wall must surely hear it. She forced herself to inhale slowly and quietly.
Her heartbeat slowed a little.
The air around her was cold.
It’s always cold when—she slammed down on the thought about ghosts before it formed in her mind. She looked at the space between herself and the door, and the door and the dark, shifting shape. She could reach the door. She had to. The chair scraped across the flagstones and drowned the slap of her bare feet as she hurtled into the mill, slammed the door and rattled the bolt home.
Flexed from the hips, palms braced against the half glass door, she waited, mouth open, panting. Through the mottled glass and the wrought iron Perigourdine goose that guarded it, moonlight lit the grass beyond the bolly. Nothing moved. Her breathing slowed.
She remembered she’d seen a baseball bat by the door and groped for it without taking her gaze from the door. The smooth wooden shaft came comfortingly to her hand. Something creaked behind her. Melissa whirled on a sharp indrawn breath. The bat cocked and ready, she watched the door to the hall open."

A chilling tale, written with humour and drenched in the sights and perfumes of the rural Dordogne, a must-read for those who like a romance with a ghostly twist.

an excerpt from my book SHADOWS, available now on Kindle.

My promotional bit

It occurred to me last night when I couldn't sleep that I hadn't put the message out about my book on my own blog! How stupid could I be?

So - there's a trailer for it: here

The link to buy at Amazon UK: here
Amazon.com: here
from the publisher: here

Genre: Contemporary romance with ghosts
Blurb:
Melissa thinks she’s taking a huge risk in going on holiday with Rory Hepburn. He may be gorgeous, but she only met him three days ago. But when she sees the old watermill in rural France, she is delighted. Within ten minutes of her arrival, she sees the man in black, but thinks nothing of it. Concentrating more on keeping her secrets and sleeping alone, she is shocked when ghosts disturb her first night at the mill. Not just one ghost, but two. When Christophe arrives at the mill, the chic Frenchman regards Melissa as his soul mate, and Melissa knows she’s in real trouble.
A chilling tale, written with humour and drenched in the sights and perfumes of the rural Dordogne, this is a must-read tale for those who like a romance with a ghostly twist.

This my fifth published book, and my first contemporary tale. In many ways writing about character in this century is easier than writing about people in the sixteenth or eleventh centuries. There isn’t as much research required, though it’s important to get things like brand names, distances, food and fashion right - hairstyle or hemlines can speak volumes about a character’s personality today.

I wouldn't be surprised if you already knew I lived in Northumberland, a corner of England rich in castles and history, and that I visit France regularly for summer holidays. So you can believe me when I say I've walked, sat, eaten and enjoyed all the places I write about.

Excerpt One: Melissa arrives at the mill and loves it. She has a swift look around while Rory prepares a meal for her. (A bolly is what the locals call a verandah)

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 to 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 was 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.
Refusing to weaken, Melissa stabbed at her steak. How arrogant was he? Did he think every woman in the world begged to be bedded?

Birdsong sounded all around them in the warm green silence.
"Melissa."
Her heart flipped over at the sound. His deep brown voice stirred her senses just as it had the first time they'd met. She must get a grip, or she'd be lost. Her pulse ran fast and her chest tightened. This was important. She looked up, prepared to fight.
Watchful intelligence overrode his initial surprise. Now he sat back and sipped his wine and she remembered he was a successful solicitor, with an important and well-known law firm.

"Please don't feel under any pressure. We've only just met, and…I don't want to spoil things by rushing them. If you want to sleep alone, that's fine." He hesitated, as if he might add some comment, and then thought better of it. "There's a large squashy sofa in the living room. I'll sleep there."

The tension in her shoulders disappeared. She ought to be pleased he'd capitulated, but something rankled. She'd expected him to try and change her mind, persuade her. He might have tried. Part of her, inexplicably miffed that he hadn't, made her say, "We'll toss a coin for it. That would be fair."

He raised his wine glass and offered an agreeable smile. "I'll drink to that."
Instantly she regretted the surge of independence that made her make the offer, and hated the easy arrogance that allowed him to accept her challenge. He'd probably win, and she'd be the one on the sofa. She'd been outmaneuvered.
He had such charm and knew how to use it. Once, in a rare mother-daughter-sharing-secrets evening, she'd asked her mother what had led her to the one-night stand with Lt. Col. John Hazlerigg. Her mother had smiled, rolling the wine glass against her cheeks as she considered the question.

"Power," she'd said at last. "Not money, but a physical presence and an air of command. Charisma, allied with such certainty your knees—well, mine in this case—wobble and everyone knows he's the alpha male in the pack."
Melissa had spent the next week analyzing the concept, but reached no definite conclusion. Now that she'd met Rory, she understood something of her mother's explanation. There had been that odd tingling in the back of her knees when Jonny introduced them, and the way her heart skipped about in her chest when he spoke in that gorgeous voice.

If she'd ever met her father, she might have had some standard to judge by, but Hazlerigg was married and out of bounds. Mother had refused to inform her lover that he had fathered a child because he would have felt impelled to marry her. That would have ruined his career and broken the heart of his then fiancée.

Melissa's fingers twisted together around her wine glass. She rarely thought about her illegitimacy now, and had never betrayed her mother's secret. But the old, churning feelings returned whenever she was reminded of it. Tonight she had an additional worry. If Rory ever found out, what would he say? His parents would certainly hate her. Relationships could not survive without honesty, yet she was constrained by a promise never to speak of her father.

"This dressing is delicious." Her voice sounded brittle in her ears.
Not speaking of her father had been hurtful all through her childhood. When the other kids boasted of theirs, Melissa had nothing to offer and suffered agonies trying to hide the fact. Promising herself that the same sort of relationship would not do for her, she had vowed never to sleep with a man until she knew him really well. Maybe even until she was married to him. Adrian had been a terrible mistake.

"Easy enough to make here. Garlic is fresh and olive oil plentiful. What were you daydreaming about?"
"Oh, nothing special." She glanced up, smiled brightly at Rory while she tried to think of something to cover her lies. "Listening to the birds. They sound so close and there are so many. It's not like this back home, is it?"

Rory cleared the plates, and the break gave her time to regain her composure. Another glass of wine helped calm her, and when Rory produced strawberries for dessert, she exclaimed in genuine pleasure. When they were eaten, Melissa stretched out her legs toward the evening sunshine and let him clear the table. Two glasses of wine, a good meal and she was more at ease with herself.

Excerpt Two. Melissa volunteers to sleep on the sofa instead of Rory.
Melissa looked at her watch. It was well past midnight. The sofa was comfortable, but the unaccustomed heat kept her awake. Spending summer in a romantic old water mill in the Dordogne did have disadvantages. When she ran tentative fingers over her flanks, her skin was slick with moisture.

The warm breeze from the open window moved through the room, but brought little relief. Crickets chirped so vigorously they might have been sitting on the hearthstone five feet away. A cold drink would be good. She scrambled off the sofa and tiptoed across the floorboards, hoping she wouldn't step on any insect life. With her hands under the kitchen tap, she welcomed the gush of cold water, gulped some from her cupped palm and ran her damp hands over her face.
Fumbling her way through the shadows to the door, she released the latch and stepped outside.

That was better. Cool air breathed across her skin. Ignoring the quick rustle of lizards scurrying toward crevices in the old walls, she strolled to the chairs, pale and cold in the moonlight.
She sank into one of them, and flinched at the coldness of the plastic against her skin. Stars blinked above the massed ranks of dark trees. A breeze that never reached the valley floor swept across the topmost leaves of the tall trees in the meadow and produced the soft susurration in the air that was already familiar to her.
Rory slept in the big bed on the other side of the wall. He did not like their current sleeping arrangements. The tightening of his mouth, the flexing of his jaw muscles had shown that, and said very clearly that he'd let her have her way but he was not the kind of man who gave up easily. Had his pride suffered when she refused to share his bed? He had certainly been surprised. Would he try and persuade her, or sulk until she gave in?
It had been a good decision not to let Rory sleep on the sofa for then she would have felt beholden to him. Much better that she owed him neither gratitude nor thanks at this point.
She stroked her thighs. Already the slickness dried from her skin. A wisp of long grass whisked along the flagstones, breathed across her foot and vanished. Rory had shown her a shed snakeskin as a warning not to be frightened if she saw the owner one day. The fragile, almost translucent skin had been trapped between the stones of the bolly and the old drain not four feet from where she sat.

A cold breeze wandered by. Melissa hugged herself against the sudden chill. Perhaps this was a crazy idea after all. Flickers of movement caught her eye. For no reason, her heart thudded in her chest. With her teeth pressing on her lower lip, she stared at the western end of the bolly where one of the four oak pillars supporting the tiled roof stood out sharp and clear in the moon's glow.

Beyond them, the shrubs and rose bushes were gray against the dusty, moonlit ribbon of the drive. Nothing moved. She heard nothing but the soft sound of the breeze, yet her heart bounced faster, as if she were in danger. Muscles tense, she sat poised, ready to run.

The shadows made it difficult to see anything. The blackness moved and twitched close in against the house wall, less than ten feet away. A pale shifting blur morphed into hands and a face. Melissa's fingers clung to the chair arms while she strained to see through the darkness. Hair lifted on the back of her neck and goose bumps sprang on her arms. She stared at two pale blurs, one above the other, moving very close together. Sure it must be some young couple seeking privacy, she opened her mouth to call out. But some instinct held her rigid and silent. What if they weren't real?

Her heart beat so loudly that whoever lurked by the wall must surely hear it. She forced herself to inhale slowly and quietly. Her heartbeat slowed a little. The air around her was cold. It's always cold when—she slammed down on the thought about ghosts before it formed in her mind. She looked at the space between herself and the door, and the door and the dark, shifting shape.

She could reach the door. She had to.

The chair scraped across the flagstones and drowned the slap of her bare feet as she hurtled into the mill, slammed the door and rattled the bolt home.
Flexed from the hips, palms braced against the half glass door, she waited, mouth open, panting. Through the mottled glass and the wrought iron Perigourdine goose that guarded it, moonlight lit the grass beyond the bolly. Nothing moved. Her breathing slowed. She remembered she'd seen a baseball bat by the door and groped for it without taking her gaze from the door. The smooth wooden shaft came comfortingly to her hand.

Something creaked behind her. Melissa whirled on a sharp indrawn breath. The bat cocked and ready, she watched the door to the hall open. A large, shadowy form ambled into the living room. "Wha's the matter? Did you shout?"
"There's somebody out there."
"Out where?"
"On the bolly." She flung out an arm and rattled her knuckles on the goose guard. "Ow."
Rory ducked his head, ran both hands over his face. Straightening his shoulders, he walked toward the door. "I'd better have a look."
Melissa stepped aside. He stooped, fumbled for the bolt in the gloom and pulled the door open. Melissa held out the baseball bat. "Take this."

Rory blinked at the three feet of pale, solid wood and made no move to take it. "I could kill someone with that."
"Take it." She thrust it into his hand. It seemed imperative he have some protection. There was something nasty out there.
Reluctantly, Rory hefted it and stepped across the threshold. "Put the lights on."
Melissa pushed the door curtain aside and ran her palm down the bank of switches. Light bloomed inside the mill, and floodlights snapped on at each end of the bolly. Startled birds squawked, complained and clattered about in the trees.

"There's nothing here, Melissa. Come and look." He sounded wide awake.
Suddenly aware that she was wearing only a tee shirt, Melissa whipped the door curtain across her hips and peeped around the doorjamb.

Moonlight emphasized the broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist and flat stomach. Wrinkled, striped boxers hung low on one hip. His hair stuck up about his head, and the baseball bat dangled from the fingers of one hand. The width of his chest and the prominent muscles of his arms and thighs were reassuring.
"They might—" Her breath caught in her throat as all her initial attraction to Rory rushed back and choked her. She coughed and tried again. "They might have gone round the back of the mill."

Strong men, smart heroines, make for a good story.

There now. I can rest easy. I've done my promotional bit. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible!

Holiday from writing

Publishers Weekly here has published interesting facts on ebooks over the last two years. It isn't really a surprise to learn that fiction is the best seller, but I wasn't expecting the Literary/Classic genre to come out as the top-seller genre.

Perhaps the fact that many classics are free or exceedingly cheap has something to do with its high place among the other genres. Science Fiction - well, given the tecchie aspect, I suppose I should have expected those readers to take to ebooks like a duck to water. Christian Inspirational is the next highest category, higher than romance. So much for the oft heard claim we've heard over the last few years that romance outsells any other fiction genre! Not in ebooks, it seems.

I appear to have given myself a holiday from writing. Not a conscious decision, but its definitely happening. I finished the wip perhaps three weeks ago and since then haven't written anything except blogs, reviews, e-mails, that sort of thing. One excuse - if I needed one - is that Shadows came out 24th May, and while I worked on promotion for that, writing - as in starting a new work or continuing another - took a back seat. I try to remember to check Twitter and Facebook every day, and I've made a couple of trailers for You Tube. And then of course, there's the tennis. First Roland Garros, and now Wimbledon. And yesterday Rafa made it through the first round.

Sits back and relaxes.

Pheasants and SHADOWS

For those who may never have a holiday in England, this bird is a pheasant. Its body is about the size of a football and when the sunlight gleams on all those irridescent feathers, its a handsome creature.

Today I thought I'd give you another excerpt from SHADOWS and I've chosen the very first night at the mill, when Melissa has opted to sleep on the sofa in the iving room rather than share a bed with Rory. So, here we go....


Melissa looked at her watch. It was well past midnight. The sofa was comfortable, but the unaccustomed heat kept her awake. Spending summer in a romantic old water mill in the Dordogne did have disadvantages. When she ran tentative fingers over her flanks, her skin was slick with moisture.
The warm breeze from the open window moved through the room, but brought little relief. Crickets chirped so vigorously they might have been sitting on the hearthstone five feet away. A cold drink would be good. She scrambled off the sofa and tiptoed across the floorboards, hoping she wouldn't step on any insect life. With her hands under the kitchen tap, she welcomed the gush of cold water, gulped some from her cupped palm and ran her damp hands over her face.
Fumbling her way through the shadows to the door, she released the latch and stepped outside.

That was better. Cool air breathed across her skin. Ignoring the quick rustle of lizards scurrying toward crevices in the old walls, she strolled to the chairs, pale and cold in the moonlight.
She sank into one of them, and flinched at the coldness of the plastic against her skin. Stars blinked above the massed ranks of dark trees. A breeze that never reached the valley floor swept across the topmost leaves of the tall trees in the meadow and produced the soft susurration in the air that was already familiar to her.
Rory slept in the big bed on the other side of the wall. He did not like their current sleeping arrangements. The tightening of his mouth, the flexing of his jaw muscles had shown that, and said very clearly that he'd let her have her way but he was not the kind of man who gave up easily. Had his pride suffered when she refused to share his bed? He had certainly been surprised. Would he try and persuade her, or sulk until she gave in?

It had been a good decision not to let Rory sleep on the sofa for then she would have felt beholden to him. Much better that she owed him neither gratitude nor thanks at this point.

She stroked her thighs. Already the slickness dried from her skin. A wisp of long grass whisked along the flagstones, breathed across her foot and vanished. Rory had shown her a shed snakeskin as a warning not to be frightened if she saw the owner one day. The fragile, almost translucent skin had been trapped between the stones of the bolly and the old drain not four feet from where she sat.

A cold breeze wandered by. Melissa hugged herself against the sudden chill. Perhaps this was a crazy idea after all. Flickers of movement caught her eye. For no reason, her heart thudded in her chest. With her teeth pressing on her lower lip, she stared at the western end of the bolly where one of the four oak pillars supporting the tiled roof stood out sharp and clear in the moon's glow.

Beyond them, the shrubs and rose bushes were gray against the dusty, moonlit ribbon of the drive. Nothing moved. She heard nothing but the soft sound of the breeze, yet her heart bounced faster, as if she were in danger. Muscles tense, she sat poised, ready to run.

The shadows made it difficult to see anything. The blackness moved and twitched close in against the house wall, less than ten feet away. A pale shifting blur morphed into hands and a face. Melissa's fingers clung to the chair arms while she strained to see through the darkness. Hair lifted on the back of her neck and goose bumps sprang on her arms. She stared at two pale blurs, one above the other, moving very close together. Sure it must be some young couple seeking privacy, she opened her mouth to call out. But some instinct held her rigid and silent. What if they weren't real?

Her heart beat so loudly that whoever lurked by the wall must surely hear it. She forced herself to inhale slowly and quietly. Her heartbeat slowed a little. The air around her was cold. It's always cold when—she slammed down on the thought about ghosts before it formed in her mind. She looked at the space between herself and the door, and the door and the dark, shifting shape.
She could reach the door. She had to.

The chair scraped across the flagstones and drowned the slap of her bare feet as she hurtled into the mill, slammed the door and rattled the bolt home.
Flexed from the hips, palms braced against the half glass door, she waited, mouth open, panting. Through the mottled glass and the wrought iron Perigourdine goose that guarded it, moonlight lit the grass beyond the bolly. Nothing moved. Her breathing slowed. She remembered she'd seen a baseball bat by the door and groped for it without taking her gaze from the door. The smooth wooden shaft came comfortingly to her hand.

Something creaked behind her. Melissa whirled on a sharp indrawn breath. The bat cocked and ready, she watched the door to the hall open. A large, shadowy form ambled into the living room. "Wha's the matter? Did you shout?"
"There's somebody out there."
"Out where?"
"On the bolly." She flung out an arm and rattled her knuckles on the goose guard. "Ow."
Rory ducked his head, ran both hands over his face. Straightening his shoulders, he walked toward the door. "I'd better have a look."

Melissa stepped aside. He stooped, fumbled for the bolt in the gloom and pulled the door open. Melissa held out the baseball bat. "Take this."
Rory blinked at the three feet of pale, solid wood and made no move to take it. "I could kill someone with that."
"Take it." She thrust it into his hand. It seemed imperative he have some protection. There was something nasty out there.

Reluctantly, Rory hefted it and stepped across the threshold. "Put the lights on."
Melissa pushed the door curtain aside and ran her palm down the bank of switches. Light bloomed inside the mill, and floodlights snapped on at each end of the bolly. Startled birds squawked, complained and clattered about in the trees.

"There's nothing here, Melissa. Come and look." He sounded wide awake.
Suddenly aware that she was wearing only a tee shirt, Melissa whipped the door curtain across her hips and peeped around the doorjamb.

Moonlight emphasized the broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist and flat stomach. Wrinkled, striped boxers hung low on one hip. His hair stuck up about his head, and the baseball bat dangled from the fingers of one hand. The width of his chest and the prominent muscles of his arms and thighs were reassuring.

"They might—" Her breath caught in her throat as all her initial attraction to Rory rushed back and choked her. She coughed and tried again. "They might have gone round the back of the mill."

**************************************************************
There's a trailer for this on YouTube. Have you seen it yet? Click
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GGml0vxiJU8

SHADOWS is available from Amazon http://tinyurl.com/6xjxb7j
and Sapphire Blue http://tinyurl.com/5uykp67

Promotion is vital these days

I've discovered software on my computer that allows me to make trailers fairly easily. In the last fortnight I've made two, one for SHADOWS, and here's the one that went up last night: Banners Let me know what you think of it! (I think I'd better re-make the original Dark Pool trailer, which now looks crass beside the other two!)

As for writing, I haven't done any for some time. There's no great angst about it; I'm just having a rest from writing every day by dealing with visuals and matching sound to them. It's a pleasurable thing to do and therapeutic, too. It started as promotion for my new release SHADOWS, which isn't three weeks old yet - still a baby! Because I didn't have a publication date, I was fairly laid back about preparing the sort of promotional tours that authors do these days. When I received a date at the beginning of May, it was a bit late to get on blog tour lists, and even then there was a fortnight's delay. I was lucky to have friends who gave me a mention on their blogs!

So I thought trailers might help, and hopefully they will.

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.

Soft landing required

Choose the right option and you could be a student living in Durham Castle above the River Wear. I couldn't get in because I hadn't studied Latin, which was deemed necessary for the English Lit course I wanted to do, but that was quite a while ago and may not apply now.

I sent off a full ms for Treason today, with fingers crossed as usual. Let's hope it receives a soft landing ~ as in We Love It!

I thought Shadows was going to on the website today, but it looks as if there's a hitch, because I haven't found it yet, and even if New York is 5 hours behind me ... Duh! Arizona is possibly 8 hours behind, so that means it's only noon there. Incredible, isn't it? Especially when I think that Australia is already trotting out into tomorrow. Perhaps I should be patient a little while longer; it may yet appear.

I regret clicking the button to change to Internet 9. It may be me, but there are so many things I now find difficult to do that were easy-peasy in IE8. For example, I cannot go back, highlight Shadows and change the font to italic. It simply will not do it. Today I couldn't use red font in an e-mail. Simple things, nothing extraordinary but so annoying. Working on this blog in IE9 is a real pain. Ah well. Maybe it is me, and all will become clear in time. There's probably some dinky little button somewhere I haven't clicked, but I'm danged if I can find it. Even the usual save and delete options have vanished.

Shadows

My new cover arrived yesterday, along with the final edits, and the publication date is mid-May - as long as there are no snags!

I hardly dare touch the final edits in case I hit the wrong button and skew the whole thing. I imagine that setting the novel out in it's final form takes a great deal of time and effort, so I must be careful. I like the cover, too - I've always liked purple and orange together.

This is the story of the girl and the ancient watermill in France...she thinks she's been extremely daring to go on holiday with a wonderful man she's only just met, has to keep her own secrets and convince him the mill has a pair of ghostly lovers - and then meets a Frenchman who thinks she's his soulmate.

The outline of this story was published briefly by Triskelion (for something like a fortnight!) before they went bankrupt, but since then I've re-written the story and added about thirty thousand words, so it is much better than it was originally. It was one of my first stories, and I've improved mucho as a writer since I wrote the first draft!

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?

After the thunderstorms

I've done half a dozen posts on the RNA conference at Penrith and that's enough, I think; here's one last view of a few people talking and waiting a for lecture to begin.

The rest of the world goes happily on. Weather has been so variable lately with brilliant sunshine one day and vicious rain and thunder storms the next -

the river Tyne is in flood again - in July! - and yet the insects keep working the flowers in the intervals.

I've finally finished Reluctance. Just over a hundred thousand words, give or take a few as I weed out the repetitions and unnecessaries, which should not take long as I've done about three serious drafts of this story. I used Doc-u-map to track the Chapter Headings and the date line of the story - and found it really useful and a speedy way of getting around the pages. Took me an age to figure out how to do it initially, but now it is worth it.

Interestingly enough, after sixteen months of total and utter silence, I received a request for a ms from a publisher in the US. They are interested in Shadows, the story that got tangled in the Triskelion shambles. It is out for consideration with another publisher at the moment, but it is nice to know someone else is interested.

Now I shall begin re-drafting a story the M&B girls at the conference thought was OK if I tweaked one or two things. My prologue was "a bit grim" and would be better used as part of the Black Moment further down the story. The things Jenny said made good sense, and I wondered why I hadn't thought of it myself.

At home we are doing a bit of re-organisation. Late spring cleaning, you might say. For one reason or another, our bedroom has never seemed to be "finished." The other rooms, fine, but the poor old bedroom must have felt like Cinderella. It is now receiving Attention.

Switching and pitching

The cold weather is back again, and this cold grey pic of the Tyne estuary says it all, I think. My toes are cold while I sit here in our smallest bedroom (easiest to keep warm, and my study) and type this because we are trying not to use the central heating overmuch. It is expensive now to run it like we used to. I am trying to ignore the fact that I have to visit the dentist this morning. I can safely say I am not looking forward to that.

So, I concentrate on working. I have three completed stories and I'm working on them all.
It's not exactly revision, except for Shadows. An e-publisher in the States has asked if I can escalate the internal conflict between H/h, so I'm going through and giving the pair of them a tougher time. Keep Trust lacks plainly stated goals/motivation on the page, according to my critique group, and I think they're right, so I'm going through and doing that before (I hope!) I get any bites from the partials out on the story.
Happily I finished my final revisions on Till The Day Go Down yesterday and it is with my publisher awaiting his comments. So now I'm working on two stories instead of three. It works quite well, for switching, I find, prevents boredom.

I read an interesting comment yesterday about the difference between marketing and publicity. The former is mostly selling what you don't have and teasing peoples' interest in it. The latter is selling something you do have. So once a book is published, Marketing becomes Publicity.

Marketing is the interesting bit. We're told to Pitch to Editors - should we ever see these rare creatures. If I lived in London it might be a possibility, but here in Tyne & Wear I doubt there's two to meet together. There is a poetry publisher - Bloodaxe Books - and I remember the man who runs it was at uni when I was there. There's also Myrmidon and Ed Handysides, but I hear little of them and he is not into publishing romances.

Back to the main point. Pitch to Editors. Boil our story down to a couple of sentences we can tell others and get them interested. Invent a catchy slogan or a tight logline that hints at the beginning, middle, and end of our hero’s adventure, and this will give a better chance of selling the project. They say the discipline of doing this makes the writing of the story so much better as well, but since I haven't come up with a good logline yet for any of the three books I've written, I can see that disaster looms on the horizon.
So, life was never so easy as to cross a field.

Ardmore and Shadows

This is Ardmore, about three miles north of Ullapool. It shows very nicely how rough much of Scotland is, and how hard it is to find a bit of land that can be converted to grazing. The ruins of the original crofts can be seen to one side of the smart new homes, roofless, but not forgotten. I've been trying to remember if I've ever seen wheat or barley in this area but the answer is no. Over on the east coast, yes; but not on the west coast.

I've been working at my BM scene, and the bare bones have gone down nicely. I stole words from the first chapter to give me more leeway and happily it benefitted chapter one by tightening it up. I keep on seeing where I can make improvements, but I guess at some point I have to call whoa! Enough!

I have received an offer from an e-publisher who want to take on my story about ghosts in the old mill in the Dordogne. It was called SHADOWS, but of course that may change now. There's lots to read in the contract, and I have to read it so slowly! The eye keeps on rushing across the page and the mind has gone off to think about something else...I'd never make a lawyer.