by Tara Mills
Genre: Contemporary Romance, Suspense
Length: 256 pages, estimated
Published April 14th, 2014
Personal tragedy and the loss of both parents at a young age made Ariela Perrine cross self-sacrificing hero types off her datable list. But Ariela is literally swept off her feet when an accident brings her face to face with an unforgettable pair of blue eyes, a playful smile, and an overly affectionate dog.
Oh yes, journalist Dylan Bond makes her sizzle, but dare she risk it? After all, he's just returned from covering conflicts around the globe. With his assurance he'll be handling domestic stories from now on, Ariela's weak resistance crumbles and their relationship intensifies at a dizzying speed. Then an unexpected phone call lures Dylan back to Iraq and he falls off the radar. His disappearance will test them both in ways neither expected. Will it bring them closer or destroy their fragile peace forever?
One of the things I was most excited for when I decided to take the huge step to self-publish the rest of The Russian Guns series was cover art.
Mmhmm. So excited.
Because you see, with publishers, it's pretty simple. If you're lucky, you get a cover sheet. You fill it out. It's your opinion on what you'd like to see on your cover. A tiny space where you get to insert some vision of what the cover for your "baby" should look like.
The face, if you will.
Of course, authors don't really know what that cover is going to look like, or for that matter, what that vision--or parts of that vision--is going to make it into the cover until it slides into their inbox. You kind of have to just cross your fingers and hope the art department can make sense of your ramblings, hope to God they've carefully read the blurb and whatever other little info about your book they've been given and again, HOPE, they come back with something good.
Why, you ask?
Well, most contracts have a pretty simple end all statement. "Publisher has final say on..." Yada, yada, and more so and keep it on going.
We all get the point, right?
Don't let me get ahead of myself, because not all publisher's are the same. Some will work with an author, especially when they email back with a big no. Others, even when it's obvious...say the title font is the same color as the model's skin and the letter's blend in so you can't read them...won't even change something as simple as the font color. For the whole thirty seconds it would take to go into the art file and change that. Yeah, I have a pretty decent knowledge of Photoshop. Not that it matters.
Tough tits, I guess.
I sound a little bitter, right?
I'm not, not really. You read and sign the contract, so you know what to expect.
But covers are important. They are the face of the novel. One of the very first things the reader sees. Something that is, in part and as a whole, supposed to reflect the words behind that picture. Important isn't a good enough word, in my opinion.
As a reader, I will pass on a bad cover. Don't judge a book and all that, sure. It's also the digital age, so what we get is exactly what we get. We don't get much beyond a small excerpt or the chance to "look inside". Sometimes that's just not enough.
So, for me to say I'm excited to work on my cover for The Life hands on, exactly as I want it to appear, may be a bit of an understatement. This is the face I wanted. I likely would not have gotten this "face" with a publisher. I have the files for it ready, and now it's just the slow coming design of the rest.
And I cannot wait to share!
The Blue short story line is erotica. For us, erotica is about the fulfillment of a sexual fantasy. These stories are sexy, very graphic, and are by no means a “traditional romance”.
For romance? Well. the very lovely Jewel Quinlan has two new books in my TBR pile this week. Both short stories, and I do so love short stories. Her Surrender Sweet Succubus and Extreme Heat look pretty awesome--and hot--so I can't wait to dive in.
And hopefully, if I have any time, I'll fit in some writing.
Happy coming Easter!
Erotica, GLBT, Romance
lost him once, and as they're forced to pull together to unravel the mystery surrounding the parentage of a teenage girl, their love for each other blossoms.
One more report and he'd leave. As it was, Absinthe the cat would give him the cold shoulder. Edan chuckled to himself. How stereotypical was he? Gay, on his own, and with a cat for a companion. And anyone who said cats were self-contained and no trouble had never met Absinthe. That cat could make her thoughts and needs known with one meow and a glare.
The knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He jumped and pressed keys, making an 'sssssssss' row across the report, and swore. Who on earth would be around at—he glanced at his watch—shit, nearly nine o'clock at night. Where had the time gone?
"Yeah?" He pushed up his glasses, and rubbed his face. God, he was tired. "Come in."
The door opened and Athol walked in. Edan’s tiredness dropped away like an old washcloth.
The newcomer nodded. "Yes please, here or do you have somewhere else in mind?"
Edan laughed. "Well, that's the rub, isn't it? You ready for a little subbing yet?"
"In your dreams, mate. I'm the Dom."
Edan nodded. That was the sticking point and always had been.
"Yeah, and so am I. So there we have it. Or don't, as the case may be. Why are you here? I'm sure it's not just to tell me you're not prepared to negotiate."
His words made Edan grin. "Innocent never was comparable with you or me, mate. Ah, Athol. Bloody hell, I've missed you."
Athol didn't answer. He looked unhappy, and Edan wished he could retract his words
"Dammit, in other things as well. Someone to laugh with, to share the ups and downs, and someone to high-five when everything works out."
Athol grimaced. Edan realized more than ever this wasn't just a social call. Here was one of the two people in the world he truly loved, one whom he hadn't seen for over five years, and his feelings were as strong as ever. And, typical, it seemed nothing had changed. For years they'd met up, chatted, argued, and gone their separate ways. The last few years they hadn't even done that. He had never told Athol where he lived, what he was doing, or how miserable he'd been. Just sat and agonized through those few hours they'd spared for each other. Why the hell couldn't he give in, just a little bit? If Athol were prepared to switch, Edan would do so gladly. But he wasn't going to be the only one, not any more.
"Maybe one day," Athol said slowly. "Once we've sorted this crap out. Life as a lonely Dom ain't all it's cracked up to be. Not when everyone around you is loved up and pairing up. Well, nearly everyone," he said. "I can think of a few who need help. I had a blast from the past at the club last night."
"God almighty, have you forgotten all our late-night sessions, not the sex ones but the angst ones? Psychiatrist, Edan, watch my lips." He repeated the word.
Edan couldn't help it. He punched his friend's shoulder and grinned. "Works every time, sucker. Okay, chill. What club and why?"
"Dommissima, because I want to."
Edan whistled. He'd heard about that. One of the premier and exclusive BDSM clubs in the country. "Playing with the big boys, eh?"
Scotland, along with her husband and their two cats—their children having flown
the nest—surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings
in her books.
sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to
say nothing of the scourge of Scotland—the midge.
understanding, and long-suffering DH, is used to his questions unanswered, the
dust bunnies greeting him as he walks through the door, and rescuing burned
offerings from the Aga. (And passing her a glass of wine as she types