Alison Kent's Blah Blog

Finn’s book is done and gone! (It hit me while watching SVU the other night that my characters are Finn and Olivia! No relation, no comparison. Just coincidence!) I gorged on TexMex yesterday after hitting the shower and the FedEx (in that order) and then slept SO well last night. Today, I plan to do nothing. Maybe read. Maybe veg out. Maybe ponder the secrets of the universe from the backyard trampoline in the sun. *g*

As soon as I accomplish all of that, I MUST get everything I’ve promised to mail mailed. Even those of you I told things were coming this last week? Uh, yeah. They’re still here. Sigh. Don’t feel bad. The husband and I (the only two of us home) have been living out of four clothes baskets for a month. Clothes folding is in order, too. Basically, this is me when I go under to immerse in a book, which means I’ve got some work ahead of me . . .

Now for a snippet from Finn McLain’s story. Again, no idea of title, release date, totally unedited and raw. So I’m just sharing my inspiration for Finn!

* * * * * * * * * *

“Tell me what you’re hoping to find, and I’ll tell you everything that I know.”

Finn McLain lowered his digital Rebel with telephoto lens and glanced at the woman who’d joined him at the bistro’s very small table for two where he’d been working his coffee more than the camera since setting up shop at nine.

She was hot, Miami hot, hot like chilies beneath the Florida sun. Exotic. That was the word. No. Sizzle. She sizzled. Was sizzling. Water droplets on an iron skillet. Empanadas scorching his tongue.

He set the camera on the scrollwork tabletop, stretched out his legs, and wishing for a glass of water, laced his hands low on his belly. Outwardly, he was cool, a pro. He knew his business. It was his insides that were scrambling to figure out how badly he’d fucked up.

If she’d pegged him as more than a tourist, how large was the chance that he’d also been made by his mark? His dark lenses hiding anything she might see in his eyes, he finally came back with, “Guess you won’t buy it if I say I’m just taking in the sights?”

She shook her head, her hair a colored mix of brown sugar and honey. “You want to sell me on anything, sweetheart, you’ll have to do a better job than that.”

“What gave me away?” he asked, still not admitting to any particulars.

She settled into the chair that looked like it was fashioned from licorice strings, crossing her legs and revealing a whole lot of thigh where her skirt fell open at the side. And not just thigh, he quickly came to realize, just as quickly tugging his gaze from all that bare skin.

“This is the second time this week I’ve seen you and your phallic equipment in front of my store.” She inclined her head, indicating the designer boutique across the way. “Either you’re a competitor looking to see what’s selling, or you’re keeping tabs on someone who frequents the area.” The area being Lincoln Road Mall at Miami Beach. “Which is it?”

He reached up, hooked his sunglasses a half inch down his nose, glanced over and winked. “I just like taking pretty pictures.”

She narrowed her eyes, her long dark lashes as thick as the bristles on an artist’s brush. “More like you don’t surveil and tell.”

He shrugged lazily. He wasn’t one to commit. “You mentioned telling me everything you know? I’m all ears, whenever you’re ready.”

She looked off, across the street where cars no longer drove, her mouth twisted up as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to say anything at all. He studied her while her attention was elsewhere, certain she knew exactly what he was doing while not the least bit bothered by the invasion of her privacy.

It was ten a.m. It was late October. Meaning it wasn’t hot enough or far enough into the day for her to look as disheveled as she did. She’d said the store across the street, Splash & Flambé, was hers, and that led him to believe that she had an intentional reason for looking like she’d just tumbled out of bed, her caramel hair swirling this way and that where it fell free from the clip on her head.

She leaned forward then, propping an elbow on the table’s edge and resting her chin in her hand as she met his gaze and dared him to keep his from drifting into her cleavage. But he was a guy, and it was there in the deep V of her neckline where the lapels of her jacket gaped over her blouse, and he wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

He managed not to swallow his tongue, and didn’t even bite it when she used the tip of one slender finger to stroke his big lens. “What would it cost to hire you?” she asked, and he started to tell her she could have him for the price of a post-coital cigarette.

But he didn’t, and because he still wasn’t sure if she knew he was a P.I. rather than spying for a competitor, he asked, “Hire me for what?”

She inclined her head, long gold earrings dangling. “You do this professionally?”

He nodded, still avoiding commitment.

“I need to have some portraits done.”

“W w w dot yellow pages dot com.”

“Cute,” she said with a smirk. “I don’t want a random photographer. I want you.”

She thought he was a photographer . . . or was this some sneaky female test to trap him into admitting otherwise? “You don’t know me. You haven’t seen my work. You’re picking me up on the street. How is that not random?”

“I’ve seen you. You’ve seen me.”

Oh, yeah. Understatement.

“I’d say that qualifies as the start of a beautiful friendship.”

He sat straighter, cupped his hands around the seat and lifted the chair, turning it to better face her. The legs scraped against the concrete of the sidewalk as he sat, scraped again as he scooted closer, conducting a test of his own.

“Is that what we’re doing here? Becoming friends? You, me and my camera?” Something was going on here. He needed to know what the mystery was.

She uncrossed her legs, crossed them the other direction, her foot swinging in the space between his calves, her skirt leaving nothing to the imagination where the side slit opened. Her thigh was bare long past the spot where it became her hip, and her skin was bronzed and sleek.

“I have a friend,” she began, back to toying with his lens, her nails long and painted with a coat of clear shine. “A gallery owner. He’s been after me for awhile to hire a photographer before he hires one for me.”

Like he’d thought. A mystery. “Why haven’t you let him? Save yourself the cost and the hassle.”

“True,” she said, her head still inclined, her fingers now fondling her earring. “It’s just the nature of the pictures he wants. The nature of his gallery. I don’t do what I do for just anyone, and so only the right photographer will work.”

His antennae twitched. He wasn’t sure this was anything he wanted to know. But he had to ask. “What do you do?”

She cut her eyes to his. “I let people look.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Every year, Harlequin publishes their annual Romance Report in time for Valentine’s Day, making the results available for the media to use and for bloggers to mock. This year, they’re conducting their survey online and you can take part here at their new site.

Who doesn’t love a good confession? We all have them, we all dread their repercussions, yet we are all intrigued by the confessions of others. But confessions can also be extremely romantic. They are about freeing ourselves from guilt, confiding in loved ones and developing truthful and honest relationships with those around us.

Here’s a snippet from Simon Baptiste’s story. No final word yet on when it will be released, and no title, so I’m teasing you for nothing. *g* And, no, that’s not my cover, but it is the picture I used for Simon!

* * * * * * * * * *

He slowed as he reached the entrance to the bridge that crossed the swampland giving Bayou Allain its name. A fire truck, an ambulance, and three cars from the sheriff’s department blocked all but one slice of road.

Simon could understand why. Hitting the bridge at too high a speed had not fared well for the car below, its front end buried in the muck, its underbelly exposed to the elements and covered in the detritus of the swamp.

The scene wasn’t fresh. The car’s wheels weren’t spinning. He didn’t see signs of a driver or passenger, though that could be explained by the ambulance. At least the parish coroner wasn’t on site.

He made it across the bridge without incident, sped up for the last half mile before the turn into his property, and headed for the house in which he’d grown up.

He doubted he’d see his cousin unless he made a concerted effort to do so. He didn’t want to leave here without setting things straight, but he wasn’t going to force a confrontation with King.

Not when the sale of the land would widen the rift between them.

Making provisions for his cousin was something he needed to discuss with Lorna, whether or not it could be done by giving King time to relocate, or setting aside for him a portion of the profits from the sale.

If there were any profits.

Simon might be looking at nothing but a break even proposition, if not a loss.

As long as this was the last trip down south he had to make, he could deal with that, he mused, his truck rolling to a stop in front of a two story frame structure that he barely recognized as his childhood home.

He took a minute to shake off old memories, then climbed out of the truck. He’d haul in his gear after he checked out the house, gauged whether or not it was livable or if he was going to need to head back to Abbeville for a room. He wasn’t up to rooming with raccoons, possums, and rats.

The porch steps were solid enough, though the railing wouldn’t have supported the weight of a bird. He shook it again. He’d have to round up a hammer and nails, pick up a couple of new two-by-fours . . .

Uh, no. He wouldn’t. He was selling the place – buildings and land – “as is.” Repairs would keep him here way too long, cost him way too much.

He was checking out the warped porch and the fit of the screen door’s frame when he heard a noise inside. The back door opened into the kitchen, and he knew critters enjoyed burrowing into cupboards, beneath old appliances, even under the floorboards of rooms with more hiding places than most.

Except how many of those critters had figured out how to pump the well handle to bring water up to the sink?

He slid the Smith & Wesson M&P .357 he wore at his waist from its holster, took hold of the door knob and slowly turned, pushing inward until he saw movement, then slamming it all the way open and swinging his hands up, gun at the ready.

“Who the hell . . .?” was all he got out before realizing he knew exactly who his trespasser was.

He’d just never seen her like this . . . standing at a sink, one hand on a pump handle, her dark hair caught on top of her head with a John Deere cap, a sheer push-up bra and a pair of rubber waders the only clothes she wore.

He engaged the safety and holstered the semiautomatic, chuckling under his breath with as much humor as disbelief. If only the guys from Page Six could see their favorite pair of tits and ass now.

“Well, if it isn’t Michelina Ferrer, heiress to the Ferrer Fragrance empire.”

Her lips trembled in response, the pallor of her face nearly the same shade as the shocked whites of her eyes.

He sobered, taking a closer look at the bruise on her right cheekbone, the scrape on the same shoulder, the gash on her forearm she’d duct-taped closed.

Then he remembered the accident he’d passed.

And he swore.

“It wasn’t an accident, was it?” he asked, and she crumpled to the floor, shaking her head as a sob filled with fear shook her body.

* * * * * * * * * *

Check it out!

I haven’t checked in over at Sven’s place since we launched the site, I don’t think. But I thought I’d report that since last Sunday? Eighty-eight pages. 88. I am pretty darn tired, but I gotta say, this story is sizzling. Yeow! If you want to join the second round of the challenge, check back at Sven’s site on Thursday where we’ll have more info to share (I hope)!

No, that’s not my cover, but TEX APPEAL is on sale, whoo-hoo! (It seems so long since I’ve had a new book on the horizon! This one’s a novella, but I’ll take it!)

Enjoy the following excerpt!

* * * * * * * * * *

Wyatt looked into her eyes. He had to know, had to be sure she knew what her answer meant. He wasn’t going to hurt her or frighten her or force her to do anything except to face the truth of his wanting her. Anything that might happen between them because of it would be her call.

He started slowly. “I would be thinking about walking over to you and offering you my hand.”

“And if I took it?”

“I’d pull you to your feet. What happened next would depend on whether or not we’re really in public or whether we’ve moved into my fantasies.”

“What if it’s the here and now?” she asked, her voice breathless and husky, as if her anticipation of his response had taken her into a fantasy world of her own.

Ah, hell, he thought, realizing she’d just given him the go-ahead he’d wanted. She was smart and sexy and easy to talk to, and the minute they took things any further, he’d be in over his head.

And after all he’d done to protect himself and his privacy, to keep from getting involved and ending up plastered face first in the dirt . . . after all of it, he was falling for a woman who wasn’t going to be around but for days.

Four days.

And he’d been worried about her wanting more time.

He reached across the table for her hand, and once her palm was flat to his, he closed his fingers and got to his feet, holding her while he circled around to her side and drew her up against him.

She didn’t resist when he moved his hands to her waist and lifted her to sit on the table’s edge, but instead parted her legs, invited him between, and hooked her heels behind his thighs to make sure he stayed.

He had no intention of going anywhere unless he dragged her out of the kitchen and took her to bed. But he didn’t mind at all that she wanted him close. Or that she slipped her fingers through his belt loops, refusing to let him go.

“For being all about the here and now, I gotta say this is a hell of a fantasy,” he said, his voice tight and raspy, an ache in his throat. He rested his hands on her thighs just shy of the crease at her hip.

“I’d say it’s a hell of a reality,” she told him, doing that thing with her lip and her teeth and her tongue, that thing that made him ache. “You’re certainly not what I was expecting to find during my visit.”

He let her words settle, surprised that his first reaction wasn’t to close down, that his second wasn’t to bolt. Still, he had to know . . . “What do you think you’ve found?”

“I don’t know. A kindred spirit, maybe? You get what it’s like not to trust easily, to wonder what’s behind someone’s interest, whether their motives for being with you have anything to do with who you really are, or if it’s only about what you can give them.”

It was the truth, all of it. He appreciated that she understood. “You know you haven’t once questioned mine. I told you I’d looked into you. Aren’t you worried that I might be after more than getting you into bed?”

“No,” she said, tugging his belt loops. “You agreed to let me come before you knew any of that. And you have no reason to need my family’s name and social connections.”

“What about your money?”

She knew he was teasing her. He saw it in her quirky smile. “I’m only guessing here, but I doubt you have need of that either.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“With the rest of today, tomorrow, and Monday to enjoy this fantasy,” she said, suddenly pragmatic.

He frowned. “I thought you said it was reality.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because if it was real, we wouldn’t be dealing with a time limit.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Even though you set it?”

“I changed my mind.” Four days wasn’t going to be enough time no matter all his wariness of yesterday.

“Maybe you should wait and see if I’m any good in bed before you do that.”

“No need,” he said, shaking his head and sliding his hands beneath her sweatshirt, settling his palms on her rib cage just beneath her breasts. “A man doesn’t have to get a woman into bed to know if she’ll be a good time. At least the kind of good time worth having. One that’s about more than a handy warm-and-willing body.”

She sighed, shivered. “The best sex really is between the ears?”

“Like I said. The kind that’s worth having.”

“And you like what goes on in my head?”

More so that she could possibly imagine. Talking to her had given him more pleasure than any exchange – physical or otherwise – he’d had with a woman in awhile. He nodded, dropped his head close to her shoulder, his mouth to her neck at the band of her shirt.

She moaned, tilted her head to the side as he nuzzled, giving him more access and more reason to go on. “I’m not sure we have much in common. I don’t know a thing about rodeo.”

“I can teach you.” He nibbled her skin, bathed the spot with his tongue. She tasted like early morning mist and water clear and pure.

She moved her hands from his belt loops to his waist, gathering the fabric of his shirt in her fists. “What if I don’t really care about rodeo?”

“I know enough for both of us.”

“It won’t work. My practice is in Houston.”

“You can commute.”

“It’s too far. And I love my condo.”

“I can commute.”

“No you can’t. You live and breathe this place.”

“Right now, I want to live and breathe you.”

* * * * * * * * * *

I will be back at the end of the month. I’ll be sure and post any reviews that come in from the review copies won here on the blog, and I’ll be doing another review giveaway in about a week. Other than that, I’m going to be fairly absent until Finn and Olivia’s book is done. I might do a couple of Friday Snippets and share some of their book or Simon’s. But that’s going to be about all I’ll have time for, so just wanted you to know!

“I believe that we learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same. In each, it is the performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one’s being, a satisfaction of spirit. One becomes, in some area, an athlete of God. Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of vision, of faith, of desire. Practice is a means of inviting the perfection desired.”
~ Martha Graham

I ran across that quote when flipping through and old O Magazine this week. I pulled out two ads as I’m using the models as character pics, and I tore out that bit of inspiration from Martha Graham as well. It truly made me stop and think, to wonder how often we rightfully consider our daily pages, our unsold manuscripts, as practice. How often, instead, we think of all that work as something we must get right and if we don’t, that we must give up, that we don’t have it in us, that we’ll never perfect our craft.

Read again what Graham says: The performance of a dedicated precise set of acts, physical or intellectual, from which comes shape of achievement, a sense of one’s being, a satisfaction of spirit.

We take our children to practice. Football, gymnastics, soccer, dance. We practice yoga for our physical and mental health. Meditation, too. At one point, we were required to practice penmanship in school. We practice speeches or lectures we’ve been tapped (or volunteered) to give.

We do these things over and over because we know that practice makes perfect. That the more we work at a task, the closer we’ll get to the perfection desired. So why is it often so hard to apply that same principle to our writing, to have the patience and dedication to practice?

Was the first loaf of bread we baked perfect? The first cake we frosted, the first meatloaf for which we meticulously measured ingredients? Our first, second, or even third effort at flower arranging or growing vegetables or sewing clothes we weren’t embarrassed to wear? Didn’t we practice to get better, and keep working toward perfection, inviting it?

Read again what Graham says: Practice means to perform, over and over again in the face of all obstacles, some act of visions, of faith, of desire.

I’ve talked more than once about obstacles, excuses, reasons we give ourselves and others for not sticking to a schedule or a project. I’m the world’s worst about not doing so, about doing something else because it’s not so hard, or because of the instant gratification. There is no instant gratification in writing except seeing the page count rise.

HelenKay mentioned on her blog that writing is a marathon, not a sprint. And marathoners, yeah, they practice. They run when there’s no finish line to cross. They run when their only competition comes from within. They run when conditions are uncomfortable, in the heat, the rain, practicing for the race that will require them to be as ready, as perfect, as they can.

What about you? Are you performing again and again in the face of all obstacles? Are you gaining shape of achievement, a sense of one’s being, a satisfaction of spirit? Of course you are! You’re practicing, page after page after page! You are inviting the perfection desired. How do I know?

Because for weeks now I’ve watched you share your rising word count, listened to you talk about the problems you’ve had and how you’ve performed. Whether or not you reach your goal, you’re practicing. You’re inviting the perfection desired. And that makes you a champion.