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About the author:
I write contemporary fantasy, fantasy romance, and contemporary romance. My stories feature unlikely heroes and heroines who face a healthy dose of angst as they strive for redemption and a happily ever after, which everyone deserves. I live in Nashville, Tennessee with my husband, two children, three cats, and my very active imagination.
What inspired you to write your book?
She lives for song, but cannot sing without risking death for those who hear. He can sing, but his demons drive him to throw away his chance on the eve of his band’s big break. Can they survive all of this AND an evil air elemental force bent on destroying them both?
Here is a short sample from the book:
Lorelei walked through the cabin toward the front door, stopping at the small coat closet. She opened the door and glanced over her shoulder to make certain he hadn’t followed, not that it really mattered, and then conjured his guitar case. If he gave her any grief about sticking around, she could always use her nixie powers to hide it again. She lifted it with ease, but pretended to struggle with the heavy weight in order to keep up the pretense that she was a mere mortal female, and carried it back to the living area. Vance looked up at her in surprise, though he appeared pleased to see his instrument again.
“Will you play for me?” she asked, handing him the case.
He arched a brow and gave her a small smile. “Music therapy, doc?”
The corners of her mouth turned up in response. “Why not?”
“I guess I could. It’s been a while since I’ve played unplugged….”
She stared in fascination at his long fingers, now calmer, as they pulled the guitar from its case and settled it between his legs. After adjusting the levers at the top, tuning machines he called them when she asked, he settled the instrument on his right knee and strummed a few chords. Lorelei had to look away from his hands, now busy caressing the guitar’s strings and curves. The image of his hands running along her body with the same commanding strokes proved too distracting.
Looking at his face didn’t help dampen those desires. His features had relaxed, yet the tension morphed into an intense focus on the notes he created. He furrowed his brow in rapt concentration, as if the guitar were his lover, whispering her secret desires that he would all too willingly fulfill with slow, steady strokes until she bid him to play her harder.
“I got my first guitar when I was twelve,” he said, continuing to play. “It was part of a bargain I made with my mom. She’d let me pretend to be Kurt Cobain on my own time, and I’d be her good little choirboy and give her bragging rights in the parish. Pop died when I was pretty young, so she was all I had, and vice versa. I tried to make her proud.”
“I lost my father when I was young, too.”
She wished she could take it back as soon as the words escaped her. This was supposed to be about healing Vance, not about her baggage. Clearing her throat, she asked, “So the church, is that where you learned to sing, Vance?”
“No, that’s where Jersey boy Vincent Violetti learned to sing, back before Vance Idol was born,” he continued with a wry smile. “Vinnie was a pretty decent kid. Did okay in school and even thought about giving college a try, but he still wanted to be a rock star. By then he’d traded Kurt Cobain for Slash and Dave Kushner, even if he had more Scott Weiland in him. So he worked a few years, saved some cash, and wandered out to the West Coast to try his luck.”
Lorelei smiled. She knew that mortal entertainers often adopted flashy stage names. “I think I like Vincent better than Vance. It suits you.”
He gave her a lopsided grin that warmed her to her very core. “Anyway, he got some attention on one of those reality TV talent shows and then hooked up with a couple of guys who could play, too. They started getting some local gigs, cover band stuff really. Played the hell out of it though, me and Mark and Josh. Sticks came on board a little later, but we were all tight. That’s when we got serious about writing our own stuff.”
She didn’t think he was aware, but his random chords had swirled into a cohesive melody, one she recognized from his show, only slower and smoother. The words seemed to come of their own volition as well. Though he sat only a few feet from her, his mind was clearly miles away. His voice deepened a bit as he became wrapped up in his recollections. She detected a healthy dose of nostalgia and the sharp twinge of regret, but less of the bitterness she’d sensed when she first broached the uncomfortable subject of his past.
“You must have meshed well there, too,” she said soft and low, not wanting to throw him out of the moment. “Your songs and music are beautiful.”
“That was Maggie.”