Pumpkinnapper is Here!

The time has come! The Wild Rose Press has released my Regency Halloween comedy novella, Pumpkinnapper.

Buy link here. Note, depending on your location, the link may not yet be active.

Join the fun as Henry the man and Henry the goose spar over heroine Emily's affections while they try to capture the foul pumpkin thieves.

The day's events:

September 30:

3-5 PM Eastern time: I'll be at the Classic Romance Revival loop
9-10 PM Eastern time: I'll be at The Wild Rose Press loop. I'll drop in all day, but I'll be there for sure at this time.

You must join the loops in order to post.

And enter my CONTEST--Find Me a Hero! Prize is a PDF copy of Pumpkinnapper. Contest runs through October 31. Details on my Contest page.

BLURB:

Pumpkin thieves, a youthful love rekindled and a jealous goose. Oh my.

Last night someone tried to steal the widowed Mrs. Emily Metcalfe's pumpkins. She's certain the culprit is her old childhood nemesis and the secret love of her youth, Henry, nicknamed Hank, whom she hasn't seen in ten years.

Henry, Baron Grey, who's never forgotten the girl he loved but couldn’t pursue so long ago, decides to catch Emily's would-be thief. Even after she reveals his childhood nickname--the one he would rather forget. And even after her jealous pet goose bites him in an embarrassing place

Oh, the things a man does for love.

EXCERPT:

"Emily, even with Henry, formidable as he is--" Hank glared at the goose. The goose glared back "--you need protection. I will send over some footmen to guard the place."

"No. Turnip Cottage belongs to Charlotte's husband. What will the townspeople think, with Lord Grey's servants about my house?"

Her refusal increased his fury. The sight of her hand on that damned goose's head didn't improve his mood, either. He balled his fists as his patience thinned and something else thickened. "I'll find you a guard dog. You must have some protection out here all alone."

"But I have Henry." She patted the goose's head and the bird snuggled into her hand. Again.

Heat flooded Hank, part desire for Emily's touch, and part desire to murder that damned goose, who was where he wanted to be. His insides groaned. "Very well, then, you leave me no choice. I will help you catch the culprits."

"But--"

He changed his voice to the voice that either melted a woman or earned him a slap in the face. "Who knows, mayhap we would enjoy ourselves as I lie in wait with you." I would love to lie with you.

Her eyes widened. Had she understood the innuendo?

"I cannot stay alone with you, and you know it," she said, her voice severe.

"You are a widow in your own home and no one will see. I will make sure of it."

"No." She marched back into her cottage and slammed the door. Henry smirked and waddled away.

Hank grinned. He would be back, whether she liked it or not.

Thank you all,

Linda

Linda Banche

Regency romance--most with humor, some with fantasy, and occasionally a paranormal

Lady of the Stars--4 stars from Romantic Times, Regency time travel available from The Wild Rose Press

Pumpkinnapper--Regency Halloween comedy, available from The Wild Rose Press

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I Do, Again?

Being a romantic, I am always thrilled when the subject of weddings come up. I love to listen/talk about weddings. Dresses, flowers, music...vows, receptions and cake!

Oh yes, don't forget the cake, erhm hint though, don't fall for the save the top for the first year anniversary...it does not freeze well. Eat that baby up then and there, or find some interesting game to play with it. ~whistling angelically~

Yep, I love weddings. However, I don't feel the romance in vow renewals, per se.

Wow, doesn't that make me sound like a grumpy grump. Wait, let me explain.

I love vow renewals, just not the public ones. Huh? I'm getting there, I promise.

See, I think of renewing ones vows is a very personal thing, far more so than a wedding. Odds are, this is the partner I've spent 20 or more years with. This is the love I've gone through heck and back with, the lover I've trusted with all of my fantasies and sometimes interesting desires. This person is the match to my soul and over the years our connection has grown larger than I could ever imagine.

For me, I can think of nothing more romantic than finding a beautiful spot in this big wide world were my love and I could sprawl out and tell each other all of the reasons we love each other, warts and all, including things I would not say in front of anyone else. Now that for me, is a vow renewal.

Okay, I hear ya, shouldn't we do this everyday? Heavens yes, but do we? Or do we some days chase our tail to the point of exhaustion and flop into bed with a "Hey, I love..." snort, snoring ensues.

How about the flip side to that, do we overuse that love word? Say it every time we leave the house or room? Has it become a non word?

Probably not, but hey, you never know.

So tell me, what would be your perfect vow renewal?

The Romance of Trail and Seneca

Tomorrow, Thursday, September 24th, is the release day for my erotic romance novel, STALLION OF ASH AND FLAME, from Siren-BookStrand.
Yep, I’m galloping with excitement.
If you can’t tell by the title and cover, my hero, Trail, is a stallion shapeshifter. The story is also told from his viewpoint because he arrived before my mind’s eye more than ready to talk.
This is a story I fell in love with by degrees. For me, as a writer, often it’s magical love at first sight with no lessening of that feeling as I pen away. In this case, the more I’ve worked with Trail and Seneca and on the plot, the more my love grew. This happened throughout the writerly process, including the final line edits.
~~~
Since I haven’t gotten a clear picture of what excerpts to use for STALLION, I’ll just start at the beginning of the story, an r-rated excerpt I think.

First, here’s the blurb ~

Drojovv Zyan of the V’Trailuc Realm is a man-stallion of ash and flame on a mission to save his world’s crucial Earth portal from the fires ravaging the National Forest surrounding it. Pretending to be the tracker, Trail, he settles in a small southeastern Arizona town. When he gets an eyeful of the beautiful ranch owner, Seneca, he stud lusts after the Earth human, a woman he’s not supposed to take as his Mate.

Trail leaves her alone until her brother is in a bad motorcycle accident and she needs a hired hand. Soon both of them are threatened by a whole horde of enemies. At all costs Trail must protect her. His world depends on it, her world depends on it. And his heart comes to depend on it.
~~~~~~

Chapter One ~ Her Hired Hand

Southeast corner of Arizona, Spring 2009

Trail rapped his knuckles on the splintery wood of the ranch house’s front door and made a mental note to replace it. The instant Seneca moved to answer, he gathered her fragrance into his nostrils, then let the blazing rose and gingery spice of her womanly flesh course through him. He suppressed his urge to breathe in her scent more fully. He’d decided to help her and, at the same time, make his cover on Earth look real.

Trail had admired Seneca from afar, mainly at the Saturday night dances in town. Despite the raging bulge of his cock every time he did catch sight of her, he knew she was not a woman to give a man a one-night tumble, so he’d always respected her aloofness toward him.

Even now, his balls ached to give her a mounting she’d always remember. One that would make her call out his name, his real name, Drojovv. One that would make her summon him when he ran as stallion, the way of lovers in his realm.

His was an equine shifter world more advanced in technology than present-day Earth. Since the time of Deluge, after the catastrophic sinking of Atlantis, Earth and his planet-world had been connected by a portal, many of them now. The first portal had been created by renegade Atlantean scientists looking for other worlds to inhabit.

Down, stud, he commanded himself. You’re only here to help a mare in need.

Before she opened the door entirely, Seneca peeked around the edge. The glisten of her bright sky eyes galloped over him. Recognizing him, she opened the door, her gaze meeting his without an ounce of pretense. Still, speculation flickered in their depths. Trail had decided a long time ago her eyes were a type of magic he wanted to explore. However, that could not be his destiny.

“Howdy, Seneca. I’m looking for a job. Mandy saw your ad for a hired hand until your brother can get back on his feet again. I’m applyin’.” He tried a small grin that he hoped looked more friendly than saying, “I want to grab your fine round ass and plunder your mouth until you melt against me.”

“Trail, is it?” She stepped outside, letting the door slam closed. Raising her chin, she eyed him almost fiercely and crossed her arms beneath her plump perky breasts. Hell, she rarely wore a bra, and now her nipples poked her flannel shirt, he knew not for him. The morning chill hadn’t been dispelled by the sun’s ferocious heat yet.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s my handle.”

“Why Trail?” Her tone interrogated him, even though her brows raised revealing her curiosity.

“End of the--” He paused, hoping for an amused glint in her eyes. Nothing. “As in, end of the trail.” Still nothing. “This is where I make my home, end-of-the-trail,” he added.

Trail had the wild urge to grab off his hat and finger the brim nervously like he’d seen in the old western movies he’d watched over and over. Yep, a filly like her would sooner kick his flanks, then race past him. That is, unless he minded his manners.

“Oh.”

Her voluptuous dark pink lips formed an O. Trail caught himself wondering if she would respond to him like Maureen O’Hara had to John Wayne when he’d hauled her over his lap and given her ass a good blistering. Or when he’d seized her against him and forced a kiss on her fighting lips.

Stop, he warned himself. Stop thinking like that.

“Well, if Mandy thinks you’re okay, it might work. Are you two an item now? Last I knew she was pining hard for Rick.”

Trail watched her become aware she chatted friendly-like with him. She halted, searching his face. Dominant little mare, he thought, with that stubborn chin and that fiery gleam in her eyes. Yep, she’d nip his withers as soon as look at him.

“Nope, we’re just coffee-drinking buddies. Mandy is still chasin’ after Rick. My bet is she’ll get him roped real soon.”

Seneca nodded, her loose hair taking on a life of its own. He swallowed, watching the long smooth strands of coppery red dance in a lazy rhythm.
~~~~~~

Have a Wonderful and Wild Autumn...
May your most romantic dreams come true...

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~
~~~

STALLION OF ASH AND FLAME ~ coming from Siren-BookStrand, September 24th ~ A man-stallion of ash and flame on a mission to save his world’s Earth portal must save his Mate, a human woman forbidden to him ~ http://bookstrand.com/product-stallionofashandflame-15601-192.html ~

A Man With No Name.

Some discussion on a group loop recently about whether to have both points of view in a story – the hero’s and the heroine’s. Most people seemed to prefer both, with a few who didn’t mind either way. I’m in the latter camp.

Sure, it’s nice to have both points of view. Hey, if a character has something interesting and important to say, bring ‘em on! It’s cool that a writer has the luxury of getting into more than one head and presenting both viewpoints.

It’s not always necessary, though. I’m equally happy with a story that presents just one person’s experience, and I’m fine with that being either the hero or the heroine. It’s the character that interests me more than the convention, really. We view the world around us from just one point of view, always – our own, of course – so a story with one point of view is fine.

The first (and horrendously long) draft of my short story Perfect Strangers spoke in the voices of both the hero and the heroine. It also had more head-hopping than a flea-infested dog pound, but it was a first draft, so I’ll forgive myself for that one. When it came to re-writing it and cutting it right down, it became clear pretty soon that it was the heroine, Anna, who wanted to speak. It was Anna’s head I wanted to be in, her experience I wanted to show, because I think Perfect Strangers is very much a woman’s story, one that many of us would read and say ‘yes, I know what she feels, I’ve felt this way too.’

'Reeling from the stress of a messy divorce and an unhappy Christmas, Anna seizes the opportunity to get away from London and spend a few days in Venice. When a waiter mistakenly assumes a quiet American with tousled hair and eyes darker than hot, sweet espresso is her partner, it seems only right they should spend the day together. Two perfect strangers in a perfect city, Venice works her magic on them both before they have to head back in sadness to their separate lives. It's another year, another Christmas, before they meet again; when they do, they realise that love, like Venice, is 'per sempre...' for ever.'

Of course, you don’t have to have experienced the exact same situation as Anna. It’s the emotional experience, that kind of shared understanding I like when I read the heroine’s point of view.

So what about the hero, this ‘quiet American?’ How do we learn about him? Because in Perfect Strangers, he doesn’t have a point of view.

He also doesn’t have a name.

“And work is?”
“When I’m here, it’s at l’Accademia. The gallery. I’m an art historian.” She pointed ahead of them further up the canal. “Along there. My friend Marco runs one of the departments.”
“Are you working now?”
“No, no, not this time.” Anna kept her gaze focused somewhere in the middle distance. “This is an escape.”
“A lady escaping and I don’t even know her name.”
When Anna looked at him, his smile was soothing winter sunshine. It could be so easy; just for once, to let go of the sadness she’d carried around for so long till it’d become part of her. So easy...but if she let go now, who knew where she would stop? To have a name would somehow make this more real, and Anna had had enough of cold reality.
“Look...I know it sounds strange, but would you mind if we didn’t? I think it might be simpler. Sometimes things are easier with strangers.”
To her relief, he nodded slowly.
“I think so,” he said. “Just one more detail on top of all the others?”
“Yes. Today isn’t about details. Today is...today is different.”

Choosing not to give the hero’s name in Perfect Strangers came quite naturally, as it fitted the idea that this is very much a woman’s story. As well as recognizing the way Anna feels, I wanted the reader to imagine that just maybe this could have been her, with this man, in Venice in the rain. Maybe it could still be her...one day. Who knows? After all, the man in this story is a bit of a fantasy character. He’s not only Anna’s stranger, he’s the reader’s, too. He’s whoever she wants him to be…for one perfect day.

It seems to have worked. One reviewer 'loved getting to know Anna, and how her male companion seemed to be the perfect fit for her as she was for him.' Another said the story 'captured the intensity of the love between this couple so concisely, so perfectly, that you can see why one tiny piece of information could create a ripple that would spoil the perfection.'

One more thing. An editor – not the lovely editor I eventually gave the story to - commented ‘yes, but shouldn’t they exchange names at the end?’ For the life of me, I couldn’t see how or where that would happen. Of course they will know each others’ names, but not on the page. Sometimes it’s better not to say anything. Having him announce his name would have killed the story stone dead, I think. You’d have heard the ‘clanggg’ for miles around. I’m glad I stuck to my guns and left him nameless.

And, of course, in the fine tradition of 'happily ever after,' left him with Anna per sempre...forever.

The video for Perfect Strangers can be seen right now in the list for September at You Gotta Read Videos. If you like it, please vote for it!

Perfect Strangers is available HERE at The Wild Rose press, where you can also read the reviews.

First Kiss - A Little Late

I didn't post an excerpt for July's "First Kiss" week blog posts because I couldn't find anything.

But as I was poking around in my Ideas folder, I came across this unedited excerpt, from an as-yet unnamed Regency paranormal. This story is still more idea than WIP. It's the first kiss between the human hero, Ernest, and the paranormal, Ivy. Enjoy.

Ernest looked at the beautiful woman standing at the window. She held the curtain slightly open as she looked down the street. His body tightened, and with it came a wave of guilt. His wife had been dead for only six months. Already he was forgetting her, the outlines of her sweet face blurry, overlaid with Ivy's image. What a traitor he was.

At that moment, Ivy twitched the curtains closed and turned back into the room. She saw him watching her and she smiled.

He gave a shy smile in return and hastily looked down, his guilt overwhelming him. Even with the guilt, Ivy was still the most breathtaking woman he had ever seen.

Ivy saw the reaction and smiled to herself. She loved his smile, how it slowly lit his too-often sad face with happiness. But how she hated those spectacles. They enlarged his eyes and distorted his face, forcing it out of proportion.

Suddenly, she had an overwhelming urge to see what he looked like without the spectacles.

She walked over to stand before him. Startled, he looked up. Their gazes locked. The smile drained from his face. Had he read her mind? She lifted her right hand to his face, but didn't touch him. She held her hand there, a hair's breadth from his skin.

His breath caught.

She saw desire, pleading, desperation--hope--in his eyes. She moved her hand to unhook his spectacles from behind his left ear. Surprise added to the multitude of emotions in his eyes. Her other hand rose to unhook the other side of the spectacles, and then she lifted them from his head. She folded them carefully and placed them on the table beside them. Without the spectacles, his eyes were a normal size. Why had she not noticed he was an incredibly handsome man?

A rush of caring, tenderness and something more powerful--what was it? Swept over her. Without a single touch, this man had seduced her with his kindness, his intelligence and his caring.

She lifted her hands again and this time she cupped his face. He exhaled slowly as their skin met. Although she was a tall woman, he was taller still. She stood on her toes and brushed her lips across his. His eyes closed as a sigh escaped his lips.

"I know you've had other men, Ivy. But please, don't toy with me." His hands clenched at his sides, and she felt him shudder. "I don't think I could stand it."

"I am not toying with you, Ernest." She felt him relax a fraction. She put her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. "I will never toy with you."

His lips relaxed, and she opened her mouth under his. She could feel tension in the stiffness of his body. His hands were still clenched at his sides. She slid the tip of her tongue over his lips and he loosened a bit. His hands unclenched and he wound his arms around her waist. They slid slowly up and down her back, as if she were a precious treasure that he must handle with care.

And in that last split second before his arms tightened around her and they both plunged relentlessly into the inferno of the kiss, Ivy, who had spent her entire existence toying with men, tumbled headlong, and for the first time, into love.

Thank you, all,

Linda

www.lindabanche.com

I’M JUGGLING AS FAST AS I CAN!

Praying for writing inspiration!

We live in such a busy world – which I think explains why I wake up tired!
My friend, author Elle Druskin who lives in Israel told me that over there they call it TATT – tired all the time – syndrome.

But you know, it’s a good tiredness. I’m doing what I love. Writing, playing mommy, being a wife – okay, so I should probably reorganize that list, but you know what I mean.

I was at a brainstorming session the other night with two other authors and we talked about the partial I’ve been asked to send to Silhouette in New York. All very exciting and one of my writing dreams.

But then as we talked about my query letter, reality hit. I mean what if they like it? What if they say want more? Offer a contract!

Scary stuff. It means I would have to do the whole writing a manuscript, editing etc, all over again. And again.

But that is the beauty of a writer’s life, we get to create new characters, settings and stories all the time. Something fresh and exciting two or three times a year, five if you’re masochistic!

At the moment I’m:
1. in deep edits for my book Hiring Cupid with Samhain
2. editing my partial for Silhouette.
3. thinking – which believe me is tough at times – of a new plot/characters for a book in 50 day challenge starting in – 12 days!
4. playing wife and mother, living thick in house renovations to boot.

But could I give up the writing? Could I walk away?
Not on your life.
A writer’s life is addictive, and it sure beats housework!
But it is a juggle and we have to be either content to live in chaos at times, or super organized. I choose organized, but I must admit that at times chaos actually chooses me.

Like I plot my novels, I plot my life. Write between 9-2, housework between 2.30 –3.30- yes you can see where my priorities are – family time – dinner – sneaking back to the computer for writing related issues. Sleep if I’m lucky, and then it starts all over again.

Last year, I sold four books and so with edits, line edits etc, it was hard to start anything new. The writer in me craved that chance to start all over again. Stories that come in the middle of the night when I quickly jot some notes so I don’t forget, wait a long time sometimes to be fleshed out into something grander than …Angel falls off her cloud.

This is what happened with my soon to be released Christmas story TO KISS AN ANGEL. I in fact dreamed this story 7 years ago while in hospital for an extended stay. Lying in bed – eating grapes – watching the clouds pass by, I wondered what would happen if an angel fell off her cloud to earth…and fell in love? Seven years Angel waited to be created… And now she has her own story – well hers and Clark’s


Here’s an excerpt
TO KISS AN ANGEL
By Jane Beckenham

“Gather round, Angels. I have a job for you,” Angel Beatrice’s voice boomed across the heavens.
Reluctant to give up her prime position on the fluffy white cloud, Angel 459 nevertheless knew a command when she heard it. Shame. The day was sublime with clear blue skies rolling on forever. The perfect day for a snooze before harp practice she decided.
Stretching her arms skyward, her wings fluttered their own protest as she came alongside that cute Angel 007. She smiled at him, only to have Beatrice cough rather loudly.
“Right, there’s a job for one of you. A chance to get your very own cloud, so to speak, a chance to have another shot at earth,” Beatrice advised.
A collective ooh bounced across the bulbous cloud where the angels congregated.
Angel’s heart raced, excitement buzzing to the very tips of her fingers. Her wings flapped repeatedly.
“Settle down, Angel 459,” Beatrice countered. “The job isn’t yours, yet.”
A twitter of giggles and flapping wings circled Angel. Damn it. “Oops sorry Big Bopper,” she whispered. She had a habit of giving people nicknames, and knew for a fact that the Almighty kinda liked it, but that was their little secret. “Didn’t mean to say that.” At least not out loud, she added with a secret wink.
“Sure you did, Angel. You’re always speaking without thinking,” 007 piped in.
“Am not.”
“Angel 459, please step up.”
“Me?”
Beatrice directed her clear gaze towards Angel. “You are 459, otherwise known as Angelica?”
Angel nodded.
“Then step forward, girl, don’t dilly dally. You’ve a job to do.”
A job. A job. She’d got it. A chance at earth! But the big prize was a new cloud. Closer to the big guy. Angel couldn’t help a little skip for joy as her wings flapped and she glided towards Beatrice. The other angels fell back.
“Angel 459, your job, should you choose to accept it...”


So if you find yourself juggling, and your life in chaos, just remind yourself to put aside some time each day just for you, for your passion, for your dreams. Or simply just because you deserve it. And if you’re a writer, then jog that overcrowded brain of yours. You write because it’s an intrinsic part of you. Because this is YOUR dream.

Happy writing and reading everyone
Jane Beckenham

www.janebeckenham.com

The Music of my Writing

When I sit down to write I almost always plug my ears with music. It helps to focus my mind on what I am doing, blocking out the rest of the house, and it puts me in the right mood for the scene I am writing or the story that I am creating.

I have my own office in the house, thanks to my hubby, but with two girls, two hamsters and one cat it is far from quiet. When I have time to sit down with my computer and write I have to focus myself and block out the house.

Music is my method.

I turn it up and I can ignore the squeals of my girlies as they run about and the rolling hamster balls that crash into my feet. Even the incessant meow of the cat who thinks she needs to be fed ten times a day, doesn't get through when I'm truly focused.

But music does more than just block out my life.

Music enhances the mood for my writing. If I am into a scene where my heroine is angry and, perhaps, looking for revenge, then I might listen to something like Pink or The Offspring to get me into that reved up mood. Not sexy but mad and energetic.

From Treasure of Flowers: ""How dare you speak of my father that way." Outrage bubbled inside of Violet at her father’s character being dragged through the mud again."

If I am writing something soft and sexy I like to listen to Micheal Buble or Journey. This brings me down to a happy place where I can write words of love and romantic desire.

From Treasure of Flowers: "As he drifted off to sleep, he breathed deep the scent of their lovemaking and pulled her soft form closer. Not only was this woman taking him to a treasure, she was turning out to be a treasure herself.

If I am writing something hard core and erotic I will plug in Finger Eleven or Seether to make me feel right for the scene.

From Dreamed Destiny: "His mouth ravaged hers in a desperately hungry kiss. His tongue forced her lips apart and mated roughly with hers. He was angry and he was rough, but she didn’t care. Her body went white hot and she wrapped her hands around the back of his head, encouraging him, asking him for more. She wasn’t ashamed, she didn’t care that she didn’t really know him."

I could write without music to focus me and set the mood, but it wouldn't be as much fun. For me music is a dimension that, unfortunately readers don't get when they read a book, unless they add it themselves.