Excerpt from

Guarding Suzannah

Book 1 in the Serve and Protect Series

by

Norah Wilson

Copyright © 2010 Norah Wilson

Published by Norah Wilson

 All rights reserved.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 Detective John Quigley stepped inside Courtroom 2, closing the door quietly behind him. One or two people in the small gallery glanced up at him briefly, then returned their attention to the front of the courtroom where a young patrol officer was being sworn in.

Quigg took a seat, glancing around the drab, low-ceilinged, windowless room. Provincial Court. Nothing like the much grander Queen’s Bench courtrooms upstairs or the Court of Appeal chambers on the top floor. But aesthetics aside, they did a brisk business here. In the fifteen years Quigg had spent on the Fredericton force, he’d been responsible for sending quite a few customers through these doors. Doors that all too often turned out to be the revolving kind, the kind that spit offenders right back out on the street to re-offend.

On that thought, Quigg glanced over at the accused. Clean shaven and neatly dressed, he sat off to the right, beside the Sheriff’s deputy. His long hair, drawn back into a ponytail, glinted blue-black under the fluorescent lights. If he were conscious of Quigg’s scrutiny, he didn’t betray it with so much as a twitch of a muscle. Rather, he kept his flat, emotionless gaze trained on the witness.

“Your witness, Mr. Roth.”

At the magistrate’s words, Quigg faced forward again.

“Thank you, Your Honour.” The Crown Prosecutor adjusted his table microphone and directed his first question to the witness. Mike Langan, the impossibly young looking constable in the witness box, responded, his answer clear and concise.

Over the next fifteen minutes, the prosecutor methodically built his case with one carefully chosen question after another. Constable Langan’s manner in the witness box was confident and assured. He referred often to his notebook, which appeared to contain copious, comprehensive notes. Quigg unclenched his fingers and leaned back into his seat. What could go wrong?

Everything.

His gaze slid to the one area of the courtroom he’d so far managed to avoid, the defense table. Suzannah Phelps. There she sat, primly erect, all that straight blond hair pulled up into a knot at the back of her head. Even under the black tent-like court robes, she still managed to look model elegant. His pulse took a little kick.

Dammit, why did he do this to himself? He didn’t have to be here. He was off today. He didn’t have even a glancing involvement with this case, or with Constable Langan.

Because you’re a bloody masochist.

“Any questions on cross, Ms. Phelps?”

The magistrate’s voice cut into Quigg’s thoughts.

“Just a few, Your Honour.”

A few? Yeah, sure.

“Please proceed.”

Quigg glanced at Langan, saw the younger man tense. Relax man. He tried to send the thought telepathically. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t let her see you sweat.

“So, Constable Langan, you didn’t actually see my client flee the crime scene?”

“No, ma’am. Not from the actual scene. But I did see a man fitting the robber’s description running just four blocks from the scene.”

“And who provided this description?”

“The shopkeeper.”

“And the description was…?”

“Native … er, First Nations individual, average height, stocky build, long black hair worn in a ponytail.”

“Were those the shopkeeper’s precise words? First Nations individual?”

“Huh?”

“Did the shopkeeper describe the perpetrator as Native? Native American? First Nations?”

“Not exactly.”

Quigg sank lower in his seat, suppressing a groan. This was gonna be a train wreck and Langan didn’t even know it yet.

“Exactly how did he describe him, then?”

“He made it clear that the individual was Indian.”

“Those were his words, then? Indian?”

“No.” Constable Langan shifted, glancing down at his notebook.

“What were his precise words, Constable?”

Langan glanced at the judge, then back at Suzannah Phelps. “I believe his precise words were, wagon burner.”

“Which you took to mean a member of the First Nations?”

“Yes.”

Quigg massaged his temple. Ah, Christ, here we go.

“Thank you, Constable.”

Her voice was polite, prim, even. Which just served to show that sharks came in all kinds of guises.

Suzannah glanced down at her notes, then back at the hapless witness. “So, Constable Langan, could you take a guess how many males from our Native population would fit that description?”

“Objection, Your Honour. We have eye-witness testimony from the shop owner that the accused is the individual who committed the robbery. He was picked out from a lineup containing no fewer than ten Native men of similar ages and builds.”

Finally! An objection from the Crown. Quigg resisted the urge to rake a hand through his hair.

“As my learned friend knows, I could cite dozens of cases where eye-witness identification put innocent men behind bars,” responded Suzannah. “And those were cases where the perpetrators’ faces were not partially obscured by a kerchief.”

“Point taken.” The judge leaned forward. “Your objection is overruled, Mr. Roth. You may proceed, Ms. Phelps.”

“Thank you, Judge.” She turned back to the witness. “Again, Constable Langan, in your opinion, can you tell me how many males of Mi’kmaq or Maliseet descent could answer to that description: medium height, stocky build, black hair?”

A pause. “Quite a few, I would imagine.”

“A majority of them?”

“Possibly,” Langan conceded.

“Then any Native male observed within a reasonable radius of the crime scene might have fit your description?”

“Maybe. But then again, there aren’t a lot of them in this particular shopping district.”

Mother of God. Quigg sank even lower in his seat.

“Ah, so my client shouldn’t have been there in the first place, in an exclusive shopping district?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Langan’s face hardened. “This particular Native male was fleeing capture.”

“Is that so?” She made a show of reviewing her notes. “Was my client running when you first spotted him?”

“No.”

“When did he start running?”

“When I cut him off with my vehicle. He was walking fast—I mean, real fast—down the sidewalk, in an easterly direction. I pulled into an alley, blocked him off.”

“And then he fled?”

“Yes. He turned and fled back in a westerly direction.”

“Were your red and blue bar lights flashing when you executed this maneuver?”

“Yes.”

She shuffled some more papers. “Is it conceivable that my client’s flight might have been an ingrained response to perceived police harassment?”

“No!”

“No? Constable Langan, are you a member of a visible minority?”

“No.”

“Objection!”

The judge held up his hand in the prosecutor’s direction. “Overruled.”

“Imagine for a minute that you are a member of a visible minority. What might you do if a police cruiser were to suddenly swing into your path like that?”

Constable Langan bristled. “The guy had the money on him. The exact amount that was later determined to be missing from the cash register.”

“Ah, so now we have a First Nations male, walking where he ought not to, with more money in his pocket than he should have?”

“Money he stole from that shopkeeper at knifepoint!”

Damn, the kid was losing it.

“Ah, yes, the knife.” Suzannah flipped the page on the legal pad in front of her. “A knife which bore no fingerprints and which you haven’t been able to tie to my client.”

“He dumped it down a sewer grate a block from where he was apprehended, two blocks from the scene. He still had the polkadotted blue-and-white handkerchief in his pocket. Give or take the coins in his pockets, he was carrying exactly the amount of money that was stolen. He was ID’d by the shopkeeper…”

Quigg closed his eyes, pressing a thumb and forefinger against his lids. Inside his head, he heard the theme from Jaws.

“Thank you for that summation, Constable, but I think the Crown was planning one of its own.” She flipped another page on her yellow pad. “Since you’re feeling so loquacious, maybe you can answer this question for me—do you yourself ever carry a handkerchief?”

Langan blinked.

“Would you like me to repeat the question, Constable? When you’re off duty, wearing your civilian clothes, do you ever carry one of those polkadotted handkerchiefs? Shoved in a front pocket of your jeans, maybe, or in your coat pocket?”

Five more minutes. That’s all it took to completely decimate the Crown’s case. Not that Roth surrendered without a fight. He called the shopkeeper and adduced his evidence. Evidence which the defense challenged effectively. But by the time Suzannah finished her summation, she’d planted more than just the seed of reasonable doubt. No one in the courtroom was surprised when the judge pronounced his verdict without even a short recess. Not guilty. The prisoner was released.

Quigg stood and slipped out the door as quietly as he’d slipped in.

 

* * *

 

Suzannah stood, turning to scan the gallery. The seats had emptied out, apart from her client’s two female cousins. Certainly the owner of the gaze she’d felt boring into her back for the last half hour was gone.

“Congratulations.”

She turned toward Anthony Roth, whose lean, dark features were wreathed in resignation. Fiercely competitive, he hated to lose, but he was a good prosecutor. He knew his role wasn’t to secure a conviction at any cost; it was to get to the truth.

“Thanks.”

“And you made yourself a brand new friend on Fredericton’s finest, too. Quite a day.”

She grimaced.

When young Mike Langan had finally been excused from the witness box, his body language as he jammed on his hat and tugged at his Kevlar vest had screamed exactly how he felt. Suffice to say he wouldn’t be joining the ranks of the Suzannah Phelps Fan Club any time soon.

That’s how it goes, Suzie-girl. You didn’t get into this business to make friends.

“Couldn’t be helped,” she said lightly. “You know I had to play the cards I was dealt.”

“Of course. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes.” Roth swept his briefcase from the desk. “Fair warning, though. It’ll be different next time we cross swords over this guy.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

His lips lifted in a cynical smile. “Right.”

As soon as the Crown Prosecutor moved off, her client moved in. Gripping her hand in a two-handed clasp, he pumped it enthusiastically. “Thank you, Ms. Phelps.”

“You’re welcome, Leo.” Suzannah withdrew her hand.  “You still interested in a job at the graphics studio I mentioned?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

She plucked a business card from her briefcase and handed it to him. “Give this lady a call. She agrees you have talent, but you’d have to prove yourself.”

The card disappeared into Leo’s huge hand. “Thanks, Ms. Phelps. This is great.”

“And you’d have to stay clean, Leo. You understand?” She caught his gaze and held it. “Squeaky clean. No more altercations with the police.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do. You put a foot wrong after this, they’ll be watching.”

He cast a sideways glance at his cousins. “Gotcha.”

“Good. Now get out of here.”

He grinned and was gone.

Suzannah turned back to the desk, her smile fading as she began packing her note pads, law books and files back into the big hard-sided court bag.

Dammit, she’d won, hadn’t she? Why didn’t she feel better?

Made yourself a brand new friend today …  Roth’s words echoed in her head.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” She was such a baby sometimes. Shoving the last file into her bag, she glanced around the courtroom. Normally, she’d adjourn to the ladies room to remove her court garb, but she could do a striptease in here today and there’d be no one to witness it.

One tug and the white tabbed collar came off. Then the robe, over the head like a choir gown. She ran a hand over her hair to make sure it hadn’t come loose. Satisfied, she folded the robe carefully, stuffed it into a blue velvet sack and pulled the drawstring tight. There. Street ready. She smoothed her pinstriped skirt, slung the sack over her shoulder, hefted her bag and headed for the exit.

Despite the quick change, her getaway was not as clean as she would have liked, however. In the corridor, she ran into Renee LeRoy, half-assed reporter and full-fledged pain-in-the-ass. Suzannah searched her mind for the name of the local weekly Renee worked for, but it eluded her. Not that it mattered. She avoided reading her own press if she possibly could, especially anything this particular woman might have to say.

Well, at least this explained the sensation she’d felt of being watched back there in the courtroom. Suppressing a groan, Suzannah tacked on a pleasant smile. “How’s it going, Renee?”

The other woman didn’t smile back. In fact, her face was set in grim lines more reminiscent of a Russian forward in the ’72 Canada/Russia hockey series than a female reporter. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Suzannah chastised herself. Her dislike of Renee LeRoy had nothing to do with the other woman’s appearance and everything to do with her attitude.

“I see your client walked away a free man.”

Oh, hell, here we go again. The woman was a broken record. “The burden of proof always rests on the Crown, Renee,” she said reasonably. “This time, they failed to meet that burden.”

“Thanks in no small part to you.”

“Why, thank you.” Suzannah offered a wide if disingenuous smile. “I’d be flattered, except I think any reasonably competent criminal lawyer would have secured an acquittal under the circumstances.”

The reporter’s eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t it keep you awake at night, Ms. Phelps? Doesn’t your conscience ever bother you, knowing you’re helping guilty men go free?”

Suzannah’s lips thinned, along with her patience. Was a little open-mindedness from the press too much to ask? “What would bother me is to see a conviction entered on the quality of the evidence we saw today. My client deserved to be acquitted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a schedule to keep.”

A minute later, she descended the steps of the Justice Building and crossed the parking lot. The sun had already begun to dip behind the tallest buildings, casting long shadows. Even so, heat rose from the asphalt in shimmering waves.

All of southern New Brunswick had been gripped in a heat wave since the July 1st Canada Day holiday. Like the rest of her pasty-faced compatriots, Suzannah had welcomed the first real taste of summer. Now, almost three weeks later, she cursed the humidity that made perspiration bead between her breasts before she’d even reached her car.

She thought briefly about stowing her case in the BMW’s trunk, but decided that would require too much effort. Instead, she hit the button on her remote to release the door locks. She opened the back door on the driver’s side and tossed the garment bag onto the back seat. She’d started to swing the heavy bag into the vehicle when a flash of color from the front passenger seat caught her eye. She lost her grip on the handles, and the bag collided with the car’s frame and thudded to the pavement.

Oh, God, no. Not again.

 

* * *

 

“Can I give you a hand with that?”

She seemed to just about come out of her skin at his words, whirling to face him. Wide blue eyes locked onto him, and for an instant, Quigg saw fear. Not surprise. Not your garden variety momentary fright when someone startled you. This was real, raw fear. Then it was gone, and she wore her smooth Princess face again.

“Thank you, no. I can manage.”

Her voice was cool, polite, completely assured. Had he imagined the blaze of fear?

Bending, she righted the briefcase, deposited it on the car’s seat and closed the door. She must have expected him to move on, or at least to step back, because when she turned, she wound up standing considerably closer than before. Closer than was comfortable for her. He could see it in the quick lift of her brows, the slight widening of her eyes. But she didn’t step back.

Neither did he.

Damn, she was beautiful. And tall. In those three inch heels that probably cost more than he made in a week, her gaze was level with his. Throw in all that long blond hair that would slide like silk through a man’s hands, and a body that would…

“You’re that cop.”

He blinked. “That cop?”

“Regina vs. Rosneau.”

“Good memory.” They’d secured a conviction on that one, but her client had taken a walk on appeal. Though in truth, Quigg hadn’t minded over much. The dirtball had done it, all right, but strictly speaking, the evidence had been a bit thin. One of those fifty/fifty propositions.

“Regina vs. Haynes. That was you, too, right?”

Okay, dammit, that one still stung, although the insult was almost two years old now. Two defendants, separate trials, separate representation, each accused managing to convince a jury the other guy’d done it. Of course, Quigg could take consolation from knowing the noose was closing yet again around Ricky Haynes’ good-for-nothing drug-dealing neck. Haynes had since moved outside the city limits, beyond municipal jurisdiction, but Quigg had it on good authority that the Mounties were building a rock-solid case against him.

Yes, he could take some consolation in that. Some small consolation. Not enough, however, to blunt the slow burn in his gut right now.

“Keep a scrapbook, do you, Ms. Phelps? Or maybe you cut a notch in your little Gucci belt, one for every cop you skewer?”

Something that looked astonishingly like hurt flashed in her eyes, but like before, it was gone before he could be certain he’d really seen it. Then she stepped even closer and smiled, a slow, knowing smile that made him think about skin sliding against skin and sweat-slicked bodies fusing in the dark, and he knew he’d been mistaken. When she extended a slender, ringless finger to trace a circle around a button on his shirt, his heart stumbled, then began to pound.

“Definitely not the belt thing,” she said, her voice as husky and honeyed as his most sex-drenched fantasy. “At the rate you guys self-destruct under cross, there’d be nothing left to hold my trousers up, would there, now, John?”

Then she climbed in her gleaming little Beemer and drove off before his hormone-addled brain divorced her words from her manner and realized he’d been dissed.

Against all reason, he laughed. Lord knew it wasn’t funny. Certainly, young Langan wouldn’t share his mirth.

Of course, the whole thing defied reason, the way it twisted his guts just to look at her. She was rich. She was beautiful. She was sophisticated. She was the daughter of a judge, from a long line of judges. She was … what? He searched his admittedly limited lexicon for an appropriate term. Kennedy-esque.

Meanwhile, his own father had worked in a saw mill; his mother had cleaned other people’s houses. Suzannah Phelps was so far out of his league, there wasn’t even a real word for it.

She was also the woman not-so-affectionately known around the station house as She-Rex. And worse.

Much worse.

Except she hadn’t looked much like a She-Rex when she’d spun around to face him, her face all pale and frightened.

Quigg turned and headed for Queen Street, where he’d parked his car. What had spooked her? Not his sudden appearance. He was sure of that. She might not have much use for cops, but she wasn’t scared of him.

Maybe it was something inside her car.

He’d reached his own car, which sprouted a yellow parking ticket from beneath the windshield wiper. Great. He glanced up, searching traffic. There she was, at the lights a block away.

What could be in her car to make her look like that? Or was he completely off base? Was it a guilty start, not a frightened start? Hard to say. She’d masked it so quickly.

Damn, he was going to have to follow her.

Climbing into his not-so-shiny Taurus, he fired it up, signaled and pulled into traffic.

Even at this hour with the first of the home-bound traffic leaving the downtown core, tailing her was child’s play. As he expected, she headed back to her office. No knocking off early for Suzannah Phelps. She probably put in longer days than he did. Two blocks from her uptown offices, she pulled into another office building’s parking lot. Quigg guided his vehicle into the gas bar next door and watched Suzannah drive to the back of the lot where she parked next to a blue dumpster.

Pretending to consult a map he’d pulled from his glove compartment, Quigg watched her get out of the car and scan the lot. Then she circled the BMW, opened the passenger door and pulled something out. The car itself blocked Quigg’s view, but he saw a flash of mauvey/pinky floral patterned paper. Then she lifted the dumpster’s lid and tossed the object in. Quickly, she rounded the car, climbed in and accelerated out of the lot.

Quigg watched her vehicle travel east along Prospect. When she signaled and turned into her office’s parking lot, he slipped his own car into gear. Thirty seconds later, he lifted the lid to the dumpster.

Flowers? She’d been scared witless by flowers?

More likely by who sent the flowers, he reasoned. Maybe they still had a card attached. Out of habit, he patted his pockets for latex gloves before remembering he didn’t have any on him. He wasn’t on duty. He had some in a first aid kit in his car, but he wasn’t about to dig them out. This wasn’t an investigation.

Well, not a sanctioned one.

Grimacing, he retrieved the prettily wrapped bouquet with his bare hands. The florist’s paper appeared pristine, undisturbed, as though Suzannah hadn’t even looked at the contents. Carefully, he peeled the paper back. Then he dropped the bouquet back into the dumpster.

Holy hell! Long-stemmed red roses. Or rather, what he suspected used to be red roses. Now they were more brown than red. Rusty, like old blood. Dead. Probably a dozen of them.

His mind whirled. How had she known? She hadn’t even opened the wrapper.

Because it wasn’t the first time, obviously.

Because they’d been deposited in her car, right there in the barristers’ parking lot, while she was inside defending Leo Warren. While a commissionaire kept an eye on the lot. While her car doors had no doubt been locked.

No wonder she’d been spooked.

He picked up the bouquet again and examined it closer. No card. There’s a surprise, Sherlock.

Why hadn’t she told him? She knew he was a cop.

Domestic. The answer came instantly. Had to be. She knew the source, but wasn’t prepared to make a complaint because she didn’t want to make trouble for the jerk who’d done this, thereby increasing his rage. How many times had he seen that age-old dynamic in operation?

Except he hadn’t expected it from Suzannah. She was too much of a fighter. What could be going on in her head?

Quigg tossed the bouquet back in the dumpster and closed the lid. Climbing back into the Taurus, he sat for long moments.

He should leave this alone. He knew it.

He also knew he wasn’t going to.

“This, you dumb-ass, is how careers are ruined.”

But she’d called him John. Back there, outside the courthouse, she’d called him by his Christian name. Nobody called him John, except his mother. It was Quigg, or Detective Quigley, or Officer, or even Hey, pig! But back there, while her index finger had traced delicate circles on his chest, she’d called him John.

Stifling a sigh, he keyed the ignition and slipped the Ford into gear.

 

Buy Guarding Suzannah here:

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CA

Apple | B&N | Kobo | AllRomanceEbooks  |  Smashwords

 

Today I welcome a genuine rock star of the indie author world. I’ve known Theresa Ragan (who also writes as T.R. Ragan) since we finalled in the RWA Golden Heart contest in 2003, along with dozens of other talented authors. That group of authors called themselves The Wet Noodle Posse, and we’ll be celebrating our 10-year anniversary at the RWA National Conference in Atlanta in July. As fellow-Noodlers, we’ve cheered each other on, celebrated each other’s successes, commiserated over disappointments, and grieved over losses. Several Noodlers have given us a great deal to cheer about, and Theresa is foremost among them. Her perseverance is truly inspiring, as is her phenomenal success! She is now a Yew York Times and USA Today bestselling author. I would urge you to go read this Amazon article “Overnight Success, 20 Years in the Making”.

With that, I’ll turn you over to Theresa.

 

 

 

THERESA RAGAN:  Hi, Norah! I love Workspace Wednesday and I can’t thank you enough for inviting me to blog about my work space, since I finally have one.

 

 

My office is a small, ten-by-twelve room, and I love it! I finally have my own workspace. The reason I am so grateful to have a room to myself where I can actually lock the door is because for the last twenty years I wrote in the car while waiting for kids, in bed, at the dining room table, and on a tiny desk squished into the corner of my bedroom.

 

 

 

You name it, I’ve written in it or on it.

Most writers know that where there’s a will, there’s a way. If you want to be a writer, you need to sit down somewhere, anywhere, and write.

 

 

 

I had a Chihuahua, Sadie that kept me company for eighteen years during my writer’s journey. Now I have a tomcat named Lisa to watch over me. We had a Bart and Maggie at the time and the kids thought we needed a Lisa.

With six of us living in a small house, I had to make it work, so that’s exactly what I did. To block out noise, I always turn on a fan. I like white noise in the background while I write. Now that most of the kids have grown and moved away, I don’t really need the fan as much, but I’ve grown used to the noise, so I keep it on all day.

 

 

 

I’ve only had my office for a few months, so I’m still excited. When the sun isn’t too bright, I open the window and see wild turkey and rabbits and a beautiful willow tree that I planted myself.

 

Well, that’s it for now. Thanks for having me, Norah.

 

Book three of Theresa’s bestselling Lizzy Gardner Series A Dark Mind by T.R. Ragan is available for pre-order now and will be released on June 18, 2013. You can visit Theresa at:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

 

COMING JUNE 18, 2013 – AVAILABLE FOR PREORDER! A serial killer is terrorizing Sacramento, preying on happily married couples and unleashing unspeakable cruelties upon his victims. The ordeal rekindles disturbing memories for private investigator Lizzy Gardner, who barely escaped a serial killer’s clutches only years ago. But while most Sacramento residents are hiding in the shadows, paralyzed by fear, Lizzy is compelled to go after the Lovebird Killer.

So it’s no surprise that, when a routine workers’ compensation case suddenly leads her and her two young assistants onto the killer’s trail, she welcomes the chase, determined to bring him to justice before he can claim another victim. She never imagines he could be two steps ahead, watching her every move and plotting his bloodiest, most triumphant conquest of all.

 

COMING JUNE 18, 2013! Samantha Johnston, a tabloid reporter for The LA Beat, flies to New York to get the scoop on Dominic DeMarco, one of the sexiest celebrities in America. Nothing is going to stop her from being the first to find out who the mystery bride is, but instead of getting the story, Sam ends up being the story.

 

Thank you so much for visiting with me today, Theresa, and for sharing your hard-won writing space.  I absolutely LOVE that leather chair and ottoman, with that handy occasional table right there. With a cup of tea steaming on that table, I could put my feet up and write there for hours. It makes me happy knowing you’ve finally carved out this space for yourself. I’d say it’s more than overdue!

Okay, it’s on to the giveaway! Two lucky commenters will receive an e-copy of A Dark Mind, Theresa’s newest T.R. Ragan title. To call her Lizzy Gardner stories thrillers is almost an understatement. I tend to check the locks on my doors and windows when I hunker down to read one, which I’ll be doing soon as soon as my preordered copy arrives. 🙂

Okay, let’s have some comments! Are you working on your own “overnight” success that’s taken decades? Do you shoehorn bits of time or space into your demanding day to follow a passion? Have you ever had to surrender a dream, only to have an ever better one manifest? What’s your story of perseverance?

I am so pleased to welcome Cynthia Woolf for today’s edition of Workspace Wednesday. In my view, Cynthia epitomizes the talented, hard-working indie author, and she is always producing new material. She’s an active blogger who has done a ton to try to help other indie authors achieve some profile. I’m happy to have the chance to try to do the same for her. Please welcome Cynthia Woolf.

 

CYNTHIA WOOLF:  Thanks for having me on Workspace Wednesday.  I think it’s a fun idea but I was hesitant to show pictures of my workspace.  I’m a bit of a pack rat and so my desk and wall is cluttered.  My husband has the other half of the office and his workspace is worse than mine.

We turned the smallest of our three bedrooms into an office.  Me on one side of it and him on the other.  It usually works out pretty well.  Sometimes we’ll knock each others’ chairs when we both try to get up at the same time but that doesn’t happen too often.

 

 

The frames on the wall are of awards and my rankings for my last three books.  They reached up to #1 in Books-Western on Amazon and I wanted to commemorate it.  I’m actually a #1 bestselling author.  In Western’s anyway.  Someday I hope to be number one over all.  Which is exactly what we all hope for.

I don’t have a view from my workspace, I face the wall, but if I did look out the window it would just be at the neighbor’s house so we keep the curtains closed all the time.  What I’d like to do, eventually, is move my office into the breakfast nook.  The view from there is great.  It’s of Longs Peak in the Rocky Mountain National Park.  For me, having grown up in the mountains, being able to see one as unique as Long’s Peak, everyday from my desk would be heaven.

If you look hard at the picture of the wall you’ll see the cover for my WIP, Fiery Bride.  I think the cover is beautiful.  Of course, I love all my covers.  Currently, my husband is printing them all out and we are going to frame them and then hang them around the top of the walls just below the ceiling.  When that gets full (notice I say when and not if) then we’ll start on the second row.

I’ve got my latest release, Heiress Bride, in a frame but not on the wall yet, otherwise I’d have it prominently in the picture.  You can see part of it on my monitor, which I just bought.  My vision is bad and even with new glasses I wasn’t able to see the stuff on the monitor clearly.  So we went and got me a new monitor.  A 27” monitor.  It’s huge and I can see everything.  It would probably be too big for most people but for me, it’s perfect.

 

 

Thanks again for having me.  Hope everyone has a wonderful day.  Oh, I almost forgot.  I’m giving away two prizes today.  One lucky commenter will receive a copy of Heiress Bride, my latest release and another commenter will receive a $5 Starbucks card.  Be sure and leave a comment and put your email address in the comment to be entered into the drawing for the prizes.

 

Heiress Ella Davenport survived a carriage accident that killed her father. Her life saved in exchange for savage scars marring her beautiful face. Her friends, socialites, showed their true colors, casting Ella aside like damaged goods and leaving her a social pariah. Even her wealth can’t buy her the kind of marriage she wants. Desperate to find a husband who can accept her despite her scars and, without knowing about her money, she seeks to become a mail order bride. Matchmaker & Co. is her one chance to start over and leave the pain and betrayal far behind her.

Nathan Ravenclaw was run out of town by the father of the girl he was courting once he discovered Nathan’s Arapaho heritage. It didn’t matter that Nathan was a successful rancher, businessman, and a positive member of society. The white community suddenly saw only a half-breed. Even his money couldn’t buy him a wife. That was ten years ago. He moved and rebuilt everything that cold rancher once took from him. He has it all…except a wife. Matchmaker & Company promises to send him a woman willing to start a new life with him. But Nathan’s battered heart lacks the ability to trust. He longs for children, not romance. His new bride, scarred and cast aside like himself, promises to be perfect for him. Until he meets his mail order bride. Fierce desire and an even more dangerous hope roar back to life within him. Two things he swore never to indulge in again.

And love? For these two battered souls, that’s the biggest risk of all

 

 

Thank you, Cynthia! And OMG, i can’t imagine working in such close quarters with my DH. Our workstations aren’t even on the same floor! LOL. But I love that monitor. I find I need really good lighting these days. I have a giant sun-strength light on my desk, but maybe a better idea would be a giant monitor…

Before I turn it over to comments to win Cynthia’s fabulous prizes, here is some contact info for her:

Website

Facebook

Twitter

 

Okay, let’s get to it! Comment for a chance to win Cynthia’s latest book or the coveted $5 Starbucks card.

 

Today I’m pleased to introduce you to L.j. Charles. I met L.j. online early in the indie author movement, when there weren’t so many of us. And no, that doesn’t make us dinosaurs. That makes us early adopters. (Sounds so much nicer, huh?)

Okay, L.j., take it away!

 

L.j. Charles:  Thank you, Norah, for inviting me to Workspace Wednesday. It’s such fun to share my office with you, but I have to preface this by saying that I rarely work there. I’m a Have Laptop—Will Travel writer, so I’ll start by being right up front with it. I do a lot of my writing, and most of my revisions at the local Perkins restaurant as is shown here. I’m quite fond of the never-ending supply of Diet Coke they provide.

 

I do curl up on the sofa in my office to write on weekends, usually to avoid being interrupted by my Dear Husband.

 

 

He truly understands what a distraction he can be, and purchased this reminder for the door of my study.

 

 

The actual office space is quite small, and is usually inhabited by a cat or two. The black feline is Oliver Biscuit, and the wide-awake little one is Harley. The Biscuit kitty likes to sleep on my arm when I’m writing—which is one of the reasons I hide at Perkins.

 

 

There are a few things in my office that mean a great deal to me. One of them is a certificate stating that I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone. I’m not comfortable with heights, and yet I stretched out on my back and leaned over the edge of the castle roof to reach the stone. To be perfectly honest, there was a strapping young man holding me down. I can only hope the experience is a positive reflection in my writing.

 

 

Another is my Color Outside the Lines painting. It was a Christmas gift from my husband, and I use it as a focus point whenever I’m stuck on a plot point.

 

It’s been a pleasure to share my workspace with you, and I’m very excited that this blog post has serendipitously coincided with another event that I’m very excited about. I’ve collaborated with six other authors in a boxed set of mysteries titled Mirth, Murder & Mystery, and it’s going on sale today for .99! We’re having a Facebook party to introduce our readers to our heroes, so please stop by if you have a chance.

 

 

Thanks to everyone who dropped in to visit, and for those of you who leave a comment, I’m offering a print copy of A TOUCH OF ICE, and A TOUCH OF TNT to two commenters. Each winner will also receive one of my collage bookmarks.

A Touch of Ice

Everly Gray’s fingers are a magnet for trouble.  When she touches photographer Mitchell Hunt and sees the image of a dead body, she dives into the murder fingertips first. Life takes a turn for the dangerous when she discovers the body is related to a small-time crime family that accidentally stepped on the toes of notorious criminal, Delano West. Caught in a web of intrigue where nothing is as it seems, El discovers an aptitude for breaking and entering, the pain of an up close and personal meeting with a bullet, and the terror of facing a cold blooded killer. What she doesn’t learn–to keep her fingers to herself.

 A Touch of TNT

Having ESP in her fingertips gives new meaning to “get the picture,” and for Everly Gray it’s a one-way ticket to trouble. With fear nipping at her heels, out of control curiosity, and a reluctant request from the chief of police for help with a case, she stumbles across, not one, but two dead bodies. What she knows puts her in the path of a killer. What she doesn’t know—she’ll be the one pulling the trigger.

Curious minds want to know. Has anyone kissed the Blarney Stone. Has it helped your writing? Do you have pets who insist on helping you write? Both of my cats are very attached to adding interesting comments to my WIP.

 

Thank you, L.j. Loved the tour! And how exciting about your multi-author box set! Trish Milburn, MJ Fredrick and I just had a Facebook party on Monday, May 20, to launch our romantic suspense box set, In Harm’s Way. What a great way for readers to try new authors. Discoverability, right?

Okay, guys, you can check out L.j. Charles at little more closely at her website or like her on Facebook.

Now, let’s open it up for comments and a chance to win books! L.j. has given us some questions above to start you off.

 

 

 

 

Trish Milburn, MJ Fredrick and I are pleased to announce that we’ve collaborated to bring you three romantic suspense novels in one multi-author box set. The idea behind the collaboration was to try to achieve some cross-pollination. If you’re familiar with my books, perhaps it will be an introduction to Trish and MJ, and vice versa.  Each of us is an award-winning author. Each of us has finalled multiple times in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Contest. And each of us has other romantic suspense/adventure stories for you to discover, if you like what you read in this collection.

 

 

Here’s a description of the three stories:

Midnight Sun by MJ Fredrick:
This wasn’t the adventure she’d signed up for…
A sexy boss, a rough crossing, and pirates—all Brylie Winston wanted was a job to help her earn money to buy her own restaurant. She hopes to earn it by working as a chef on a cruise to Antarctica. But she’s slept with her boss, which throws her off-balance even more than the rough seas and warnings of pirates in the area. And he’s determined to have a repeat performance.Bad boy former snowboarder Marcus Devlin is running from his reputation, sent to learn the family business after decking a senator’s son and making the papers. So maybe he indulged in a last-minute fling before boarding his family’s cruise ship to Antarctica. Perhaps Fate is showing him that wasn’t so bad—the gorgeous redhead who snuck out of his bed is on the cruise. She’ll be a lovely distraction during his exile.But when modern-day pirates take over the ship, his instinct is to protect her and the other passengers. But what does a spoiled rich boy know about saving people’s lives?

Guarding Suzannah by Norah Wilson:
Criminal defense attorney Suzannah Phelps is the bane of the Fredericton police department (they call her She-Rex for her habit of shredding cops in the witness box). She is currently being stalked, but is reluctant to report it to the police, whom she half suspects of being the perpetrators. But when Detective John (Quigg) Quigley learns of it, he’s determined to protect her, at considerable risk to his career. They’ve struck sparks off each other in the courtroom, and he’s burning to do the same in the bedroom. When the danger escalates, he has the perfect excuse to pose as her boyfriend, but the closer they get, the more the lines between pretense and reality blur.

Firefly Run by Trish Milburn
Shelly Myers has finally rebuilt her life two years after her new husband, a Dallas police detective, was gunned down on the church steps minutes after they’d said, “I do.” She returned to her beloved Smoky Mountains in Tennessee to help her parents run their cabin rental and river rafting business — and to heal. Now, the murderer she helped send to death row has been released because of bungled evidence, and Troy’s partner, Detective Reed Tanner, has arrived on her doorstep to protect her from Eddie Victor, who has sworn to kill them both. Reed is determined to protect Shelly like he didn’t protect Troy. But Reed isn’t prepared for the attraction he feels toward Shelly or the fact that she obviously feels the same way toward him.

 

For a limited time, you can buy IN HARM’S WAY for just $2.99 at these vendors:

Amazon   |   B&N   |   Apple   |   Kobo   |  Smashwords  

 

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It gives me no end of pleasure to bring you Kris Kennedy today as my Workspace Wednesday guest. Kris is a fellow Rock*It Reads author. I’m looking forward to meeting her in person one of these days, but even electronically, Kris’s personality shines through. She’s smart, insightful, energetic – just the kind of person you want to be around. And she’s extremely talented too! You may have read recently that her book DECEPTION just won Romantic Times’ K.I.S.S. Award for Best Historical Hero earlier this month. Without further ado, here’s Kris…

 

KRIS KENNEDY   When I think about my workspace, I feel ambivalent. I feel happy, for me. I have lots of workspaces, and can move around as the mood strikes me. I also feel sad, for my husband. Because I can move around as the mood strikes me.

I’m what you call a ‘spreader.’ I spread out. These pictures will not capture my utter spreadability. I’m like butter.

I’m also a researcher. A mad researcher. Writing medievals and Elizabethans requires a lot of research, and not all can happen online. I need big, heavy, beautiful books, and they too must spread. All over the house.

Then I must write notes, and mark up the big heavy books, so I can capture the information and be able to find it again. All this paper must move too.

We tried to set me up in an office in our extra bedroom. Bought a nice, big desk, set it front of a window, cleared out all the exercise equipment (at which point I bought a treadmill. My poor husband.) As an office, it totally works. See? I’m all set up.

 

Except, I rarely use the desk. I think it’s the chair. What I do use, without a doubt, is the treadmill desk.

 

Note my high-tech approach to ‘desk’–I laid the cardboard packing materials that came with the treadmill across its arms. It works fabulously! I can’t write fiction on it, but I can do all my online stuff, and burn 500-1000 calories, depending on how long I’m on Twitt— I mean, how long I’m on the treadmill. 🙂

Oh, that black splotch on the wall at the head of the treadmill? It’s a dress I WILL fit into again—it’s motivation. Or shame. Which is highly motivating. 🙂

 

Here you can get a peek-a-boo view of the approximately 6,549 research books (only a few are showing here), maps, folders, and scribbled sheets of paper I metabolize. Usually about 298 books are open and in use at any one point (if you look close, you’ll see copious post-it notes.) I write a lot of thoughts down by hand—I’m far too spatial to have everything be online or on the computer. I have old maps on England and Ireland on the walls, my husband got my covers framed, and index cards are taped to another wall, plotting out various plot timelines for stories. (Which I never use. Silly plotting.) I also have my son’s microscope there, as he sometimes brings in fun and exciting items to examine more closely.

 

Downstairs, we see the real nerve center—the dining room table. My husband loves this.

I have to admit, this picture reflects a false reality—there’s usually a lot more books and papers piled up. Over the last weekend, I cleaned up and moved a lot of stuff off the table, since we’re having about 30 people come to a potluck next weekend, and my husband was getting pale at the sight of mountains of research books and paper. “And so…are we gonna get this…when? Were you thinking, what was that? Today?”

Yes, sweetie, today.  🙂

I love writing in the dining room, really. Way more than upstairs. And it only takes about 5 minutes every night to shift all the books and papers to the far end of the table so we can eat dinner, so why the heck not use it??  🙂

But the sunlight is great (when we get sun), the kitchen is right behind me (probably a bad thing), I can let the dog in and out whenever needed, and when school & work are over and everyone’s home, I’m still part of us. Although seriously, I should probably rethink this approach, because it’s not the most work-conducive. But it is family-conducive, and I guess that’s more important right now.

 

 

Note the accoutrements I get rained down upon me if I stay connected in this way—Playmobil and Legos characters appear in random places at random times, scattered across my keyboard and research papers.

I see I haven’t taken any shots of the living room couch & table in front of it, which is my other workspace. (Refrain: My poor husband.) I sit there and write while they play splash-ball hockey around me, or toss balls over my head.

So if you read any of my books, know that as I try to transport you to another world in the story, I’m probably also transporting you around my house. My family seeps in. My dog, the Lego characters, my son’s laughter as he plays out back with friends, my husband calling to my son to come have a catch, the scent of dinner cooking and the touch of my husband’s hand on my back as he walks by. All because I’m sitting in the dining room aka: nerve center, not in my ‘office.’  🙂

Silly offices.

I’ve got TWO books to give away to two commentors! Either THE IRISH WARRIOR or DECEPTION (your choice)! THE IRISH WARRIOR won RWA’s Golden Heart Award just before it was published, and DECEPTION just won Romantic Times’ K.I.S.S. Award for Best Historical Hero just last week!

So, fire away!  Do you think I’m nuts with this set-up? What does your husband/co-workers think of your work environment? Are they properly horrified, or are you the one they wish they could emulate? Is your workspace important to you, or could you write in a box?

 

Kris’s Website   |   Kris’s Twitter   |   Kris’s Facebook   |   Kris on Goodreads   |   Kris’s Amazon Author Page

 

Thank you, Kris. Silly offices, indeed. And great questions. I’m looking forward to reading the comments. Of which I’m sure there will be lots. Here are the two books up for grabs.

 

As his men are slaughtered around him, legendary Irish warrior Finian O’Melaghlin is held captive by the despised English Lord Rardove. Struggling to break free, Finian finds aid from an unlikely source: the beautiful Senna de Valery, who is also trying to escape Rardove’s bloodthirsty grasp. Risking both their lives, Senna releases Finian from his shackles so they can both flee, but their plight has just begun…Seeking safe refuge, Finian and Senna have only each other to depend on for survival. Neither can deny their immediate attraction, but indulging their desires will put them both in grave danger. Finian vows to protect the woman who saved his life, but he soon learns she is a pawn in a much larger battle. For Senna has an unbreakable link to a priceless treasure many centuries old. It is the stuff from which dreams are made and for which men will kill – and not even Finian may be strong enough to save her.

Award-winning author Kris Kennedy brings the treacherous world of thirteenth-century England to life in this scorching romantic adventure!

A dashing con man

Breaking and entering to reclaim her corrupt late father’s ledger comes surprisingly easily to Sophia Darnly. But is it mere coincidence that her misdeed unexpectedly reunites her with Kier, the outlaw lover who abandoned her years ago?

A lady skilled in trickery

Time has not erased Sophia from Kier’s heart, nor tamed her fiery spirit. She boldly insinuates herself into his plans. But Kier is on a mission of revenge, and can’t allow even the woman he once loved to stop him.

A game that could get them both killed

The danger mounts as they lure the leader of a powerful consortium who needs the fabled Darnly ledger—and all its damning details about the wealthiest merchants of England— to execute his nefarious plan. Their rekindled passion burns hot, but when they discover they too are the targets of a deadly deception, the fate of their love, and of England itself, lies in the balance.

 

Next week (May 13-18), my writing partner Heather Doherty and I will doing a AToMR blog tour in support of our newest Young Adult title, “Comes the Night“.  It’s the first book in our Casters series, and has racked up some nice reviews already. I hope you’ll find us on one of the blog tour stops and leave us a comment. There will be author interviews, guest blogs, reviews, and most importantly, giveaways! Woot! Click on the image below to see the schedule.

 

 

I’m totally tickled to bring you Zoe Dawson for this installment of Workspace Wednesday. Zoe is the alter ego of Karen Anders, award winning, multi-published author. Her writing journey started with poetry and branched out into fiction. With a couple of college English courses under her belt, she penned a historical, then moved on to contemporary romance fiction.

 

 

She is the author of the very cool Going to the Dogs Series (Leashed, Groomed for Murder). She also has a six-book police procedural series (The Misfit Squad Series) featuring a group of troubled homicide detectives who have landed in the “last chance” squad. Watch for it from Entangled Publishing in 2013.

Zoe is a woman after my own heart. Not only does she write romantic suspense and romantic mystery, she’ll soon be publishing paranormal and urban fantasy novels. I love all those genres, and as a writer, I totally get the urge (need?) to be spinning stories in multiple genres.

Okay, Zoe, take it away!

 

ZOE DAWSON:   Thank you, Norah, for having me on your blog and sharing my workspace with you.  When I first started writing seriously, I lived in Virginia and my workspace was literally in a walk in closet.  Great cosmic writing power/itty bitty writing space.  The bedroom had two walk in closets so I could fit both my clothes and my writing passion into one room.  It was a tight confined space that only accommodated my desk and chair.  But it was perfect.  I could close my bedroom door, then the door to my small space and cut out all the noise from the household.  I loved that space.

When I moved to North Carolina, I lived in a two bedroom apartment with my daughter and I wrote in my bedroom again.  But this time I had to put the clothes in the only walk in closet.  Not as conducive to writing, but then I was developing ideas and had no contracts at the time.

I then moved to a three bedroom single family home where I had a dedicated office to work out of and it was huge, but with the change in the economy, I moved into a townhouse where I now currently write.  As you can see, the view is simply wonderful at all times of the year.

 

 

Even though we live right off a busy road, you wouldn’t know it by looking out the window.  Looks like we live out in the country.

 

 

 

I share the room with my daughter and when I need some quiet time, I take my laptop into my bedroom and produce away.

I have written seven books in this space and expect to produce a lot more as I have now diversified into self-publishing.

 

Thank you for that tour, Zoe. I’m so impressed by how clean your desktop is! And don’t you love having dual monitors? And is that a dog on top of your CPU?  🙂

Okay folks, it’s your turn. Leave us a comment for a chance to win one of two electronic copies of Leashed.

 

And they call it puppy love!

When Jack falls head-over-paws for cute and cuddly Jill next door — that creamy coat, those soft brown eyes, and, yowza, those long legs, he simply cannot help himself.  Bing, bang, boom, a few weeks later, Jack has some ‘splaining to do when that cute female is with puppies.  Jack’s going to be a father, trouble is his lady love’s owner and his owner need a little shove into love.  Being a large and in-charge Great Dane, that’s no problem for Jack.  With a little cooperation and a little matchmaking, some nudging, whining and puppy dog eyes, hopefully, everyone will live happily ever after together.

 

Can a dog have a bad hair day?

Brooke Palmer owns Pawlish, an exclusive doggie spa and grooming business in upper Manhattan, but when a client’s champion poodle gets a bad poodle cut and has to undergo therapy to recover, the client sues.  The lawyer they send is drop dead gorgeous, but Brooke won’t be wooed by a corporate shark in a sharp suit.

Corporate lawyer Drew Hudson has better things to do then take on this ridiculous lawsuit, but since he works for the client’s husband, he has no choice.  After meeting the beautiful, sweet-tempered owner, he can’t keep his mind on the silly case.  But when the client turns up dog gone dead, Brooke may be a conflict of interest when she’s charged with the murder.  All Drew wants to do is prove that this sexy entrepreneur is not dangerous, except to his heart.

Can she take a chance on him?

I am so pleased to have one of my local buddies, Gail MacMillan, join me today for Workspace Wednesday. And when I say “local”, that’s relative. Gail lives on New Brunswick’s north shore, while I’m way down here in Fredericton. But we’re fellow NBers, fellow romantic suspense authors and fellow dog lovers.

Gail’s Bio:  A three-time recipient of the prestigious Maxwell Medal, Gail MacMillan is author of twenty-two books. A graduate of Queen’s University with post graduate work in Expository and Narrative Writing at the University of Western Ontario, Gail has had numerous short stories and articles published in Canada, the United States, and Europe, several of which have won awards. Her three books about Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers (the first co-authored with Alison Strang) have met with excellent reviews and are selling well worldwide. Two of her canine books, Biography of a Beagle and Ceilidh’s Quest have won Maxwell Medals from the Dog Writers’ Association of America in NYC as the Best Dog Books in their category in 2002 and 2007 respectively. Gail also writes romantic suspense.

Welcome, Gail! Take it away!

 

 

GAIL MacMILLAN: Thank you, Norah!

When Norah invited me to be her guest on one of her Workplace Wednesday’s spots I was delighted.  Then, as I read more and more about her celebrated guests’ workplaces and saw more and more of their well-appointed and even glamorous writing areas, I began to panic.  I have no such designated place. In fact, I’m more than slightly nomadic in the locations where I choose to write. So, after giving the matter consideration, I decided that honesty is the best policy.  This is my workplace story.

I’ve always written from the time I could first form letters into words so I’d have to say my first workspace was my bed where I sat huddled against my pillows in the glow of a small lamp scribbling in secret long after lights out.  These tales I hid under my bed, afraid to admit to anyone that I dared to attempt to emulate actual authors.  Authors, I believed, were next to the gods on Mount Olympus with their gifts of conjuring stories out of thin air in an absolutely enthralling fashion. I had no right to try to attempt to enter their exalted realm.

But I continued to be a closet (or under the bed one) writer for years.  When I married my husband Ron he discovered my secret addiction and insisted I join a writer’s group.  That did it.  Spurred on by that enthusiastic gathering, I wrote at every possible moment, my favorite spot being the front steps of the two room shack we called our camp in Tabusintac.   I filled notebooks and every scrap of available paper with stories and even short novels.   I bought a second hand manual typewriter and began to write boldly, openly at the kitchen table where any passing neighbor might come upon me.  Third page headlines in the Moncton Times after my first book was published dubbed me the kitchen table novelist.

Later, in attempt to find a quiet place to write, I set up shop on a wobbly-legged card table in a corner of our unfinished basement.  When the kids were finally all in school, I moved my shaky writing centre upstairs to our bedroom.  There I wrote two more books and a bunch of short stories for religious (now called Christian, I believe) magazines.  And just before I moved again, I began to write the dog stories that would take me in a whole new direction.

Two years later we finished our basement.   This remodeling included a small office for me behind the furnace and the room where we were to store our winter’s supply of fire wood.  Thus isolated, I felt I’d be undisturbed to write and write and write.  My husband, bless him, in support of my elusive dream, even built me a beautiful roll top desk that took him an entire winter to complete.

 

 

It didn’t work out.  I soon discovered my imagination couldn’t flare locked away below ground level behind several cords of hardwood with only one small window.  I found myself holding a tablet or notebook on my knee in various brighter, more convivial locations.  Later I’d force myself into that cube in the basement where, thanks to a modest inheritance, I now had a miracle machine…a self correcting typewriter…to transcribe my stories.

These days, a laptop accommodates my moods and fancies.  Summers at our cottage in Tabusintac, I set up in the gazebo out back where I have a lovely view of fields and trees, birds and squirrels, and the occasional fox.  When the chill of late October drives me indoors, I once again become a kitchen table novelist.

 

 

Winters in Bathurst I mostly write at the dining room table (apparently you can take the table away from the girl but you can’t get the girl away from the table).  From my vantage point I have a lovely view of both my backyard and the street in front of the house.  My dogs are my associate editors, always ready to tell me when it’s break time, waiting patiently when it isn’t.

 

 

My office sits alone and uninhabited except for floor-to-ceiling, well-filled book shelves, filing cabinets, and bulletin boards.  We’ve moved the beautiful roll top desk upstairs to Ron’s office.  The expensive typing chair my doctor insisted I needed to keep arms and shoulders pain-free sits gathering dust in front of my old desk top (which still comes into play whenever the laptop is ailing).  I really should be sitting in that chair, in the book-lined office, isolated from the rest of the house and neighborhood, working like a rented mule, but I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.  Instead, I sit at the dining room table, then sometimes in my grandmother’s rocking chair in the living room and dream up handsome heroes and unstoppable heroines, often in pj’s and slippers.

 

 

I admire the other authors who have been Norah’s guests.  How organized, how professional, how in control they all are.  Maybe someday when we finally build that sunroom we’ve been talking about for years, I, too, will settle down in a single location.  But until then, like the Littlest Hobo, I’ll just keep movin’ on.

 

Thank you, Gail! My favorite thing? That sweet pug. Is he the star on the cover of Holding Off for a Hero by any chance?

 

 

Here’s another of Gail’s romances, set in the wilds of northern New Brunswick.

 

 

She also has some wonderful, award-winning non-fiction books about dogs, like this one:

 

 

Okay, now it’s your turn. Please leave us a comment for a chance to win an ebook copy of Holding Off for a Hero.