Cowboys for Christmas Released December 17th from Aspen Mountain Press

Cowboys for Christmas is now available from Aspen Mountain Press. Following one of my all-time western ménage best sellers, Domination Plantation, Cowboys for Christmas made its debut just in time for the holidays. I hope you'll stop by www.aspenmountainpress.com and read more about this novella.

Julie Kensworth opens her door to more than a blizzard and greets two wayward cowboys. She realizes right away she’s headed straight for the eye of the storm.

Brandon Blake and Quinn Stewart are a long way from home. They’re looking for a warm place to hang their hats while they try to wait out the snow and ice, which continues to gain momentum.

Julie is an author and she’s not just the average writer, she’s one of the most notorious writers in the world. When Quinn and Blake figure out Julie is an erotic romance author, well, needless to say, their minds churn with all sorts of ideas, most of them geared toward how they can heat up the cold winter nights ahead.

"I don’t know why you’re pouting," Brandon spat a few minutes later. "She didn’t tell us to hit the road, she just told us to wait out here until she dressed in private."

"I guess I was hoping for an explicit expression of gratitude."

Brandon pointed toward the mantle. "Don’t forget. She probably has a boyfriend."

Quinn ignored him and eyed the bookcase. "The boyfriend isn’t what I’ve been thinking about. What I’m wondering is why she has so many of those Carla Carrington books."

Julie strolled in the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. She lit up the place with an easy smile and a refreshing stroke of confidence. "Carla Carrington is my pseudonym."

"Do huh?" Brandon asked, chin dropping.

"Your pseudonym?" Quinn asked for clarification.

"Yeah," Julie said. "I’m a writer."

Brandon felt like something was stuck in his chest. She wasn’t just a writer. She was the best selling, award-winning author of scorching hot books often made into explicit after-dark television movies. She’d been on the lips of quite a few talk show hosts who openly covered the demise of morals in today’s world. Carla Carrington wrote the kind of books that Brandon wouldn’t have let his daughter read—assuming he had a daughter, which he didn’t. On the other hand, if he had a wife, Carla’s books would’ve been mandatory reading.

"You said you’re a writer," Brandon began, clearing his throat. "But Carla Carrington is..."

"I’m Carla," she interrupted. "I write under a couple of pseudonyms."

Quinn looked around the small cottage. He was probably thinking the same thing Brandon was. Why did she live in such a small house if she was really Carla Carrington? Carla should’ve been living in an oceanfront mansion with a full crew doting on her, bringing her chocolate covered mints and arranging social events.

The woman behind the world’s most scandalous writing should not have been dressed in hide-tight blue jeans, a low-cut fitted sweater, and have her hair tossed up in a clumsy ponytail. A woman writing explicit scenes like the one Brandon had read earlier should not have looked like an adorable barely legal girl!

Brandon was suddenly uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-six, why?"

"Just curious. That’s all." He was also amazed he could speak.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" Quinn blurted out.

Way to fucking go! Brandon set his jaw and watched the color drain from Julie’s cheeks. Brandon shot Quinn a cold stare. "You can quit foaming at the mouth anytime now."

Quinn didn’t say anything. Brandon braced for fighting words. The cold glare he received raked over him about as deliberately as a verbal retaliation.

Brandon decided what the hell. Quinn started this. "Do you have a boyfriend?" He’d die right there if she said she had a husband.

"No, I do not." She marched across the kitchen, opened the pantry, and retrieved two jars of her homemade soup, setting them on the small island in the kitchen’s center. "Anyone hungry?"

Brandon grinned, staring at her ass. "Honey, I’m practically starving."


Join us today as Destiny Blaine's 12 Days of Christmas Blog Tour Continues

http://loveromancesandmore.blogspot.com/2010/12/12-days-of-christmas-blog-tour-with.html

Destiny Blaine
www.destinyblaine.com

Short Story ~ The Tiger's Masquerade

So, how do you write a short story for the fantasy, future and paranormal erotic romance market? There are a lot of opportunities to pen one for an anthology. Because from what I can tell, Halloween anthologies seem to be particularly popular, whether e-book or print.

Truth is, the answer to my own question is: I dunno. Or, to clarify, there are highly successful authors who can give you advice that would be far, far superior to my own.

What I can say is that my own short story, 10,000 words, was a result of opportunity and inspiration... and timing. The Just Another Paranormal Monday chat loop put out a submission’s call for their first Halloween anthology. I had finally finished and submitted BRANDED BY THE TEXANS, over 100,000 words... and, I was working on my wolf shifter WIP, Sondra and Duke’s love story.

I’ve discovered it works best for me as a writer to hop back and forth between radically different worlds. My brain likes it, even hungers for it. I also ‘perform’ better if I change up on the length. Since I’ve come to relish certain Halloween themes and loved writing BLACK CAT BEAUTY, I began mulling around different plot ideas for a short story.

It took some time. However, the threads or the spider web began to spin in my beany brain. Thanks to my friend, Serena Shay, author of THE CHALLENGE, who inspired me with her comments on my blog... and my own avid interest in the guiding vibrations of astrology... this is the Chinese Year of Tiger... well, okay... yeah, a tiger shapeshifter hero.

Also, being enamored with the mere idea of a masquerade ball, especially in these current times... oh, I couldn’t and didn’t resist. No, it wasn’t easy for me to craft a short story. Plus, being a pantser... yeah, I had my basic idea, but it was off to the races. Could I do it? Would I do it?

Somehow, in that magical and sweat-it-out process we call writing, my heroine, Stacy, and my hero, Zyrru, came to life. Their love/passion story ultimately soared onto the monitor pages.

When I submitted the story, I had no idea if it would be accepted as part of a Halloween anthology, in part, because it’s not a typical spooky-fright tale. However, a couple of months later I got the ‘yes!’ word... and, now, it’s in the hands of MojoCastle Press. MojoCastle is a new publisher for me and I’m looking forward to working with them.

Here’s the ‘unedited’ blurb... I’m still working on it... and here’s an *unedited* small excerpt that will give you the flavor and setting of Stacy and Zyrru’s Halloween story ~

Blurb ~

Stacy wasn’t looking for a tiger-man to erotically and exotically fill her tank, then steal her heart. That is, until the Halloween ‘Call of the Wild Masquerade’ ball. But, what kind of tiger does she have by the tail?

Zyrru wasn’t looking for a human woman to un-tame his fiercest passions, and alter his royal life forever. After all, he’s only vacationing on Earth, and is almost engaged to The Princess. But, her rosefire scent is irresistible.

Excerpt ~

Stacy slipped her hands over her gown’s full skirts reveling in the feel of the shimmering pink satin. Picking them up as elegantly as she knew how, she moved toward the mansion’s ballroom.

Excitement pounded her heart. Expectation had shadowed her all day and now it heightened. For what, she wasn’t certain, except that her boss had teased her with promo pictures of the tiger men she’d hired for her Call of the Wild Masquerade ball.

Stacy paused at the arched entrance, sweeping her gaze over the huge room’s starry ethereal decorations, the ones she’d helped to arrange the day before. Not quite prepared for more than images of the Tame a Party Tiger men, Stacy came to a sliding halt on her dancer’s shoes.

Aware she looked ridiculously awkward with her arms akimbo and her body leaning forward, still, Stacy stared, and practically panted. Thankfully, her mask didn’t impede her breathing any, and she wasn’t wearing a corset, or she might have keeled over in an un-ladylike faint.

Exotic. Sexy. Gorgeously handsome.

Mygawd! Their bods were fighting lean, yet with beefcake muscles galore. At least, from what she could observe, since they wore updated versions of sixties’ sharkskin suits. Damn, who knew her heart could beat this fast over looking at a man? Okay, sharp-dressed tiger men.
~~~~~~

HAPPY SUMMER READING ~

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance ~

PLOTTING WITH WOUNDED HEROES

My heroes are all wounded. Not just emotionally, but physically, as well. Being a hero in a Cheryl Pierson story is like being an expendable member of the landing party on Star Trek. If you had on a red shirt when you beamed down to the planet’s surface, you could pretty well figure you weren’t going to be returning to the Enterprise in one piece, or alive.

In my recent TWRP historical western release, Fire Eyes, U.S. Marshal Kaed Turner is tortured and shot at the hands of the villain, Andrew Fallon, and his gang of cutthroats. A band of Choctaw Indians deposit Kaed on Jessica Monroe’s doorstep with instructions to take care of him. “Do not allow him to die,” the chief tells her.

Can she save him? Or will he meet the same fate that befell her husband, Billy? Although Kaed’s injuries are severe, he recovers under a combination of Jessica’s expert care and his own resolve and inner strength.

The injuries he sustained give him the time he needs to get to know Jessica quickly. Their relationship becomes more intimate in a shorter time span due to the circumstances. Under normal conditions of courtship, the level their relationship skyrockets to in just a few days would take weeks, or months.

Wounding the hero is a way to also show the vile, evil deeds of the villain. We can develop a kinship with the hero as he faces what seem to be insurmountable odds against the villain. How will he overcome those odds? Even if he weren’t injured, it would be hard enough—but now, we feel each setback more keenly than ever. He’s vulnerable in a way he has no control over. How will he deal with it, in the face of this imminent danger?

Enter the heroine. She’ll do what she can to help, but will it be enough to make a difference? This is her chance to show what she’s made of, and further the relationship between them. (If he dies, of course, that can’t happen.)

From this point on, as the hero begins to recover, he also regains his confidence as well as his strength.

It’s almost like “The Six Million Dollar Man”: We can build him stronger…faster…better…

He will recover, but now he has something to lose—the newfound love between him and the heroine. Now, he’s deadlier than ever, and it’s all about protecting the woman he loves.

Or, his injuries may give him a view of life that he hadn’t hoped for before. Maybe the heroine’s care and the ensuing love between them make the hero realize qualities in himself he hadn’t known were there.

In my holiday short story, A Night For Miracles, wounded gunman Nick Dalton arrives on widow Angela Bentley’s doorstep in a snowstorm. Angela is tempted at first to turn him away, until she realizes he’s traveling with three half-frozen youngsters, and he’s bleeding.

As she settles the children into the warmth of her home and begins to treat Nick’s injury, she realizes it’s Christmas Eve—“A Night For Miracles,” Nick says wryly. “I’m ready for mine.”

In this excerpt, the undercurrents between them are strong, but Nick realizes Angela’s fears. She’s almost as afraid of taking in a gunman with a reputation as she is of being alone again.

FROM “A NIGHT FOR MIRACLES” (RELEASE DATE DEC. 2, 2009, TWRP)

Angela placed the whiskey-damp cloth against the jagged wound. The man flinched, but held himself hard against the pain. Finally, he opened his eyes. She looked into his sun-bronzed face, his deep blue gaze burning with a startling, compelling intensity as he watched her. He moistened his lips, reminding Angela that she should give him a drink. She laid the cloth in a bowl and turned to pour the water into the cup she’d brought.

He spoke first. “What…what’s your name?” His voice was raspy with pain, but held an underlying tone of gentleness. As if he were apologizing for putting her to this trouble, she thought. The sound of it comforted her. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t want to think about it. He’d be leaving soon.

“Angela.” She lifted his head and gently pressed the metal cup to his lips. “Angela Bentley.”

He took two deep swallows of the water. “Angel,” he said, as she drew the cup away and set it on the nightstand. “It fits.”

She looked down, unsure of the compliment and suddenly nervous. She walked to the low oak chest to retrieve the bandaging and dishpan. “And you are…”

“Nick Dalton, ma’am.” His eyes slid shut as she whirled to face him. A cynical smile touched his lips. “I see…you’ve heard of me.”

A killer. A gunfighter. A ruthless mercenary. What was he doing with these children? She’d heard of him, all right, bits and pieces, whispers at the back fence. Gossip, mainly. And the stories consisted of such variation there was no telling what was true and what wasn’t.

She’d heard. She just hadn’t expected him to be so handsome. Hadn’t expected to see kindness in his eyes. Hadn’t expected to have him show up on her doorstep carrying a piece of lead in him, and with three children in tow. She forced herself to respond through stiff lips. “Heard of you? Who hasn’t?”

He met her challenging stare. “I mean you no harm.”

She remained silent, and he closed his eyes once more. His hands rested on the edge of the sheet, and Angela noticed the traces of blood on his left thumb and index finger. He’d tried to stem the blood flow from his right side as he rode. “I’m only human, it seems, after all,” he muttered huskily. “Not a legend tonight. Just a man.”

He was too badly injured to be a threat, and somehow, looking into his face, she found herself trusting him despite his fearsome reputation. She kept her expression blank and approached the bed with the dishpan and the bandaging tucked beneath her arm. She fought off the wave of compassion that threatened to engulf her. It was too dangerous. When she spoke, her tone was curt. “A soldier of fortune, from what I hear.”

He gave a faint smile. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Miss Bentley.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this peek into what makes my heroes ‘tick.’ For more information and excerpts, I semi-maintain two blogs for your reading pleasure.

http://www.cherylpiersonbooks.blogspot.com is my writing tips and news blog, and
http://www.westwindsromance.blogspot.com is my western historical blog. You can visit my website at http://www.cherylpierson.com

Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment!
Cheryl