I loved opening Weekend Meltdown in my hero’s point of view.
That’s not how my first draft started out, but my Silhouette editor asked me to throw the reader more into the story right off the bat (I only had 100 pages to work with), and I loved the result. And it sounds like from your comments, the hook did it’s job just fine ;O)
But, now you have to meet Felicia. Well, you already met her, and Tony REALLY met her. 
But get inside her head a litte in this next excerpt. I think you’ll like the ride, LOL!
Oh, and since the new TV season’s coming on strong–those of you who haven’t watched “Raising the Bar” yet, make sure to get you some this month. Do it. Yes, it looks a lot like Law and Order from the outside, and it is gritty. But the writing. The anti-heroes you still want to root for. The new twist on what’s good and what’s bad and what is grey and in between and we just have to accept it that way or go mad… Yeah, I like it. If feels more St. Elsewhere to me, than modern legal drama. Scrapping and scraping and no real heroes to light the way, except maybe for some of the clients. I promised I’d share more of what I watch and read, so there you have it. My start. Can’t wait to raise the bar some more. Make sure you listen to the dialogue. Really. Just close your eyes and listen to what they’re saying. It’s amazing stuff.
Oh, and I can’t wait for “Mad Men,” too. Weird little show, but not so little, and really not that weird, since they’re focusing on human beings, once you get past the amazing sets and wardrobe and the kick ass acting. The human element. Flaws. Redmeption. My kind of stuff, I guess.
So, here’s more from my Winter Heat anthology, due out on Jan. 13th. There are chats and guest blogging coming up to help us celebrate it’s realse next week. But for now, you get to read what’s not even on shelves yet ;o)
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Weekend Meltdown
Chapter Two
“You’re drunk, Ms. Gallo.”
Felicia was drunk all right, swimming in a golden, sensual haze. But not from the few glasses of expensive wine she’d imbibed between the airport and the lodge. Blinking, she tried to clear the dazzling glare from her vision. Glare that had nothing to do with camera flashes.
“Ms. Gallo?” prodded the sinfully-sexy man holding her.
His mouth was near her ear, so no one but her would hear. The wash of his breath over her sensitive skin wrecked her balance even more.
“I’m per…perfectly fine,” she insisted.
And just to prove it, she didn’t shamelessly throw herself at Tony Rossi again. No matter how badly she wanted to.
This was Willard’s fault. All of it.
“Of course you’re fine, darling,” insisted the mastermind behind her humiliation. Willard hitched a supportive arm under her elbow, then batted his lashes at Rossi’s Steve McQueen glare. “I’m sure this fine specimen has a valet at his disposal, to fetch our bags away while we get you checked in.”
“Everything’s exactly as described in your prize package.” Rossi stared down the photographer who was still snapping away, until the poor guy gave up and got lost. “If you think you can manage, Ms. Gallo, I’ll help you register, then take you to your suite so you can…rest. I’m sure you’ll want to be at your best for tonight’s activities.”
And Felicia’s best clearly wasn’t good enough at the moment.
Steve McQueen seemed to have forgotten his enthusiastic participation in her Willard-inspired naughtiness.
No fear this weekend, Willard had insisted ever since they’d jetted away from Manhattan. Willard and her, and the brand new wardrobe she’d purchased to ramp up her battered sexual confidence. No holding back.
She was a goddess, she reminded herself. Not a woman so wrapped up in her high-powered career that her fiancé had dumped her for the coat check girl at Willard’s East Village trattoria, Viva!
Too kiss-wobbly on her fuck-me platform sandals to make another scene by stomping away—but determined to remind Rossi that it had been his tongue inspecting every inch of her orthodontist’s handiwork—Felicia sidled closer. She ran an acrylic nail down the yummy fabric of his expensively distressed shirt. Batted her own heavily massacred lashes.
“I think you’ll find that I’m always at my best, Mr. Rossi.”
Willard’s wicked chuckle was a dear thing, no matter how pissed she was at him. She let him lead her into the lodge. He’d pay later, when they were alone and she’d reclaimed enough brain cells to punish him for baiting her into embarrassing herself. But for now, she needed his sass to feed her own.
Head high, adding extra sway to the undulation of her hips, she tossed her hair over her shoulders and left a frowning Rossi at the curb.
“Well played, my dear.” Willard lead her into the luxurious lobby that wasn’t exactly the tranquil, Gatsbyesque scene she’d expected. “How come you never put that weenie Phillip in his place like that?”
“You promised never to say that name to me again.” She fake-smiled through her teeth at a passing couple.
“Well, your Big Mistake of 2007 didn’t deserve you. And you haven’t deserved beating yourself up over the asshole for two years. How did it feel, propositioning the first hunk of a man you saw, then leaving him in your dust?”
“Mortifying.” And unsatisfying.
It had to be the sparkling wine they’d found waiting for them in the Town Car, making her crave more.
Two glasses of champagne?
Right!
That’s why she felt so woozy.
Rossi, the real culprit behind the buzzing in her brain, had a backside as amazing as his front. And of course, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. He flanked the bell man and their cart of bags as far as the elevators. Then he headed Felicia and Willard’s way, oozing such intoxicating intensity, she realized she was panting for air.
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” she whined.
“Because it’s a freaking dream weekend, girlfriend. And you’re going to take advantage of every second. You’re more in need of a winter meltdown, than any woman I know—including myself.”
“You just want to swap lip gloss secrets with Maddy Lov.” She ignored her gay husband’s wounded moue. Out of the corner of her eye, she tracked Rossi’s approach, and every amazing thing his body did to the tailored slacks he wore. “This farce is about you storing up tidbits to share with your divas in Manhattan.”
“You’re the only diva I care about this weekend, love.” Willard caught her tugging at the fur-trimmed neckline of her top. His eye-roll destroyed the last of her champagne’s golden glow. “You’re wearing Cloe played with Blahnik. Very, Shut your mouth, I’m not an uptight lawyer freaked out about being the main draw at the party of the season! Now own it. Take some chances. Let me see you slinking back into your lawyer’s shell, and mama’s going to slap your hand—or some other part of your anatomy.”
The threat came with another affectionate wink.
Felicia laughed.
Even being annoyed with Willard called to creative, exuberant parts of her. The parts she usually draped with classic Chanel suits and St. John dresses, when what she secretly lusted after was Prada and Cavalli.
“How are we doing?” Tony Rossi asked at her side.
Speaking of lusting…
“Never better.” She focused on her surroundings, rather than the impulse to run her hands through the guy’s caramel-brown hair again.
Romantic couples cuddling by firelight would have been a bit much, she supposed. But Winter Pass’ aura was more like Manhattan’s high-energy dating scene, than a quaint venue for the poetry readings, elegant dinners, and the wine and cheese cocktail hours described on the lodge’s Webpage. Willard was right. It was going to be the party of the season.
He drew her to the registration desk, an arm draped supportively about her waist. A whoop went up from the lobby’s wood-paneled bar. Gales of laughter followed. Felicia glanced toward the mayhem, the skin on the back of her neck tingling at Rossi’s nearness.
Maddy Lov was one of her father’s law firm’s top celebrity clients. At one firm VIP function, Felicia had watched Maddy drink men twice her size under the table, daring her besotted admirers to keep up. And Rossi thought Felicia needed a nap so she could rein in her inner wild child?
The kind of alluring wild child she’d let her ex-fiancé’s rejection convince her she’d never be.
Suddenly fed up with years of weak second-guessing, she left Willard to handle things with the registration attendant and turned on Rossi. She thrust the plunging neckline of her halter top out and smiled her best siren’s smile.
“This place isn’t exactly how things were described in the prize package,” she challenged. “I must say, I’m a little disappointed.”
“I know exactly how you feel.” Rossi stopped checking out her cleavage and consulted what looked like a vintage watch. Then he took in her over-the-top ensemble again, making her even more determined not to let him know how unsettled she felt in her risqué fashion. “Why don’t I show you to your suite, while your friend finishes taking care of the particulars. I’m already late to help set up for the welcome reception, and—”
“No need.” Willard took her hand and kissed her fingers. “But once I help this lovely creature freshen up, maybe you and I can get better acquainted.”
Rossi’s answering annoyance went no further than the chill in his gaze.
“I’ll look forward to it.” He sounded as if eating dirt would be more appealing, but his congenial smile was rugged perfection. “Especially since Ms. Gallo’s due to recite her grand prize winning poem after dinner.”
“I’ll try extra hard to make it a memorable moment.” She pushed past Rossi, annoyed by this all-business side of him. Where was the passion and lust from before? “I’ll look forward to your critique afterwards.”
Critique? Willard’s raised eyebrow asked as they neared the elevator.
Eat shit!, she smiled back, feeling Rossi track their progress toward their third floor suite. Once inside the elevator, she turned and met his gaze, shivering.
What kind of man made even blatant disapproval look sizzling hot?
The doors whooshed shut. Willard watched her rub at the chill bumps skittering up and down her arms.
“The first man wasn’t the old guy at the concierge desk,” he quipped. “That’s a plus.”
She punched him as a reward, nearly missing his forearm while her body shivered in awareness. He’d dared her to seduce the first unsuspecting guy she saw. And like a fool, she’d played along, just for fun. What could it hurt?
The elevator slowed, then stopped.
“I just sexed up the most obnoxious man in the place,” she reminded her friend as the exited. “The guy’s acting like he’s ready to toss us both out, when he was crawling all over me outside. I’m an asshole magnet. What’s wrong with me?”
“Absolutely nothing, except you need to relax and enjoy the ride. Stop worrying. I wouldn’t mind finding someone that obnoxiousof my own to spar with this weekend.”
“He’s all yours.” Felicia needed someone less…everything, to test her battered self-esteem on.
“Ah, good.” Willard ushered her toward their suite. The cart with their things on it was positioned outside the open door, the bell man still unloading. “See, darling. We get to stay the night, despite you shamelessly making the most fantastic man I’ve ever seen your love slave.”
“I did not make Tony Rossi my love slave!” Felicia turned into the suit in time to catch the shocked expression on the bell man’s face as he screeched to a halt in front of her…
Then came the surprise the week before the week before Christmas–a call from a lovely Harlequin NY editor (my super’s are published out of the Toronto office), who wanted to know if I’d like to participate in a single title anthology (with their HQN mainstream imprint) that will be headed by a New York Times best-selling author, and, oh, will also be joined by a USA Today best-selling author:
