HARD HARVEST, part of the “Three Kinds of Wicked” series.

Futuristic, Ménage à trois, Parnormal & Occult

Purchase link.

In twenty-second century America, war, disease and pollution have wiped out three-quarters of Earth’s population and left most women sterile. Scientists are battling the specter of human extinction. Now they’ve devised a DNA test and built a database to help each of the remaining fertile females find her perfect genetic counterpart, thereby ensuring healthy, hardy offspring.

For Midwestern farm girl Hannah Jenkins, this means accepting a stranger as a potential mate. Unfortunately, the handsome Dr. David Cabot isn’t everything she’d expected. Distant and humorless, he spends all his time in the makeshift laboratory he’s set up in the family barn. He and Hannah use more energy sniping at each other than communicating their wants and needs. After a few months of passionless monthly encounters with no pregnancy to show for it, Hannah is certain David will abandon her at the end of their trial marriage.

Then a stranger saves Hannah from robbery at gunpoint, and Hannah hires him to work as a farmhand. The mysterious Trey intrigues both Hannah and David, but can he show them how to make love without making war?

EXCERPT:

“I want to help you, Hannah. Do you believe that?”

Hannah drew a long breath and let it out on a sigh. All at once, she felt bone-weary and a thousand years old. “Yes, I believe it.”

“What if I told you it might take something…” He paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Something unconventional to help your marriage.”

She shook her head. “I’m not following you.”

He smiled and his gaze traveled over her, making her feel wanton and next-to-naked in the middle of her own damned kitchen. “What would a woman like you consider unconventional, Hannah?”

His eyes held hers from across the room, plainly trying to communicate his meaning without resorting to clumsy words. Again she heard the echo of that faraway wind and the brokenhearted woman who called his name—had been calling his name for long years, waiting for the return of the man she loved more than life, the man she trusted with the fate of her very soul….

Hannah scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m too tired for riddles, Trey.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But will you think about it?”

As if she had any choice now that he’d put the idea in her head. She nodded, looking away from those sad, dangerous eyes to the cracked linoleum beneath her feet.

“Good.” He let the screen door close quietly behind him on his way out.

When he was gone, Hannah climbed the stairs and headed for the bathroom. The house was quiet. Her brothers had proven yet again how soundly they slept, so she left the door open to catch the breeze from the open window in the hall.

From the top shelf of the linen closet she took three thick, beeswax candles, lit them and set them on the floor near the ancient, claw-footed tub. Then she opened the tap and let it run for a scant minute. She filled the tub only a quarter of the way, her concession to the recent lack of rain. Her body felt lazy and stupid as she stripped out of her clothes and slid into the water.

Unconventional. It could’ve meant a few different things, but when she closed her eyes, all that came to mind was the three of them—Trey, David and herself—lying together in a shameless sprawl.

Both men, at the same time. Their hands, their mouths, their…other parts, touching her, inside and out. Using her for their own pleasure, and letting her make use of them.

She shouldn’t have wanted it. Even if he didn’t act like it, David was her husband. It was her duty to want only him. But like as not, both he and Trey would be gone by the time the wind blew snow like a tattered bridal veil over the landscape. Then she’d be left with only memories until the next candidate showed up—assuming he ever did.

Of course, Trey might’ve meant something entirely different. She couldn’t be sure without asking, which she intended to do first chance she got.

But if she was right? And if Trey somehow managed to talk the supremely stubborn Dr. Cabot into allowing such a huge breach of his precious Commission protocols?

Hannah wouldn’t say no.

***

If you’re interested, you’ll find my last three Tales from the Crit posts here, here and here. Today’s post is on the topic of nostalgia and what a sap I’ve turned out to be in my advancing middle age. Quelle surprise.

Wishing you and yours a joyous holiday season. 

Today I’m blogging at Tales from the Crit about what I’ve learned in 2009.

(This is normally where I’d insert a smart-assed remark, but I’m posting between doctor’s appointments and, frankly, I’m not just not feeling it today. Good wishes for a happy outcome gratefully accepted.)

And what a week it was, huh?

Don’t know about anybody else, but I’m ready to get the @#$& off the Romancelandia Intrawebs and drown my bitter, bitter tears in a vat o’ gravy. And be THANKFUL, already.

In that spirit, I’ve crafted a paean to my crit partner – the fabulously brilliant and ever-stylish Barbara Caridad Ferrer – over on Tales from the Crit.

Enjoy, and be well at this start of the holiday season. 

As has been noted pretty much everywhere on the publishing blogosphere, Harlequin has caved in the face of general censure and sanctions from the RWA, SFWA and MWA.

Author and all-around nifty guy John Scalzi has one of the best takes on the issues at hand, including a fantastically snarky read on Harlequin’s “poor, poor pitiful me” letter implying the RWA is not only MEAN and NOT NICE for sticking up for its members, but also behind the times for not recognizing the amazing potential of vanity publishing to make tons of money (for Harlequin/Torstar/ASI and virtually no one else).

Also, my crit partner — the ever-stylish and fabulously talented Barb Caridad Ferrer — answers Harlequin editor Stacy Boyd’s personal — and not associated with Harlequin in any way (see comment below) — blog on the topic of RWA/Harlequin relations in the wake of the HQN Horizons debacle here.

Questions remain. Will Harlequin further distance itself from this vanity press hot mess by removing all references to it from the eHarlequin site? Will they forbear from including solicitations for the vanity operation in rejection letters? Will they scrub the Horizons site clean of all “be a Harlequin author!” propaganda? Will any of this be enough to restore their standing with the various professional organizations they’ve managed to antagonize, not to mention the scores of authors — the legendary Nora Roberts among them — whom they’ve disappointed and disgusted?

And will the RWA — specifically those members who are also Harl authors — pay a price for their tough stance on this issue?

Tune in next week/month/year to find out, I guess. Same batshit crazy time, same batshit crazy channel.

My first romance novel was a Betty Neels-penned Harlequin titled BRITANNIA ALL AT SEA. My second, also by revered Harl author Neels, was called RING IN A TEACUP. I don’t remember a lot of titles after that, but I do recall buying Harlequin romances like bags of corn chips and enjoying them with just as much gusto.

As I matured into a snotty adolescent pursuing a degree in English Lit and an elitist attitude, I considered my own addiction to romance novels a sort of guilty secret. My friends read Angelou and Cather and Atwood. I snuck Harlequin novels under the covers in my dorm room.

In the last several years, I’ve made plenty of jokes — here and elsewhere — about the ludicrous titles to be found in the Harlequin Presents line, as well as the antiquated and misogynistic values they too often represent (particularly the fetishizing of female virginity).

But never — no, not EVER — did I disparage the IDEA of the largest, most respected publisher of romance in the world. A company run primarily by women, for women, catering to the reading needs of the average woman who wants to lose herself in the fantasy of love conquering all, in all its many flavors.

Indeed, there abides on my hard drive even today a half-finished manuscript I’d planned to submit to Harlequin (Blaze? Superromance, maybe?) sometime in the near future, plus another intended for Spice Briefs. I observed the opening of Carina Press with interest and anticipation, and wondered how big the slushpile would grow before I felt comfortable subbing a manuscript to an untested publisher (especially in the wake of the crash and burn of Quartet Press, the revolutionary new epub that never was).

Unless I can figure out how to restructure that unfinished manuscript to single title length, it will likely never see the light of day. The story meant for Spice Briefs will go elsewhere. I will delete my links to the eHarlequin site, where I shopped at least a few times a year and frequented the boards as a lurker.

In one fell swoop — by the simple expedient of opening a vanity press branded with the Harlequin name and using deceptive, insulting language to offer services of suspect value at exorbitant prices to rejected writers and whatever other gullible souls they can lure into their shell game — Harlequin has re-positioned itself as the antithesis of a respected publisher in my eyes and those of many others.

Apparently, the RWA feels much the same — and hallelujah for that. Yes, their removal of Harlequin from the list of eligible publishers and their branding of the company as a vanity press has the potential to hurt their members who are also Harlequin authors, but rumor has it that most Harl authors have come down squarely on the side of RWA’s decision. This action alone has restored a chunk of my faith in RWA. They’ve done nothing more or less than told the truth, and then acted according to their own, much debated bylaws. If I were a member, I’d be proud.

There are those who say the confusion over this new venture of Harlequin’s will not dilute their brand. To them I say, “Have you seen The New Yorker today?” Oh, it’s elitist? An organ of East Coast snobbery, and never supportive of genre fiction anyway? And therefore doesn’t matter? Was it also elitist several months ago when it did that glowing piece on Nora Roberts? Can’t have it both ways, folks. The brand dilution has begun, and with it another round of ghettoizing romance as a genre.

How did Harlequin/Torstar fail to see see this coming? The loss of stature, the loss of respect? The derision flung by those both in the industry and outside of it? The reader confusion, the author betrayal? The rejection by the largest professional literary organization in the world?

Were they truly so blinded by the prospect of making money by selling a vanity press option to rejected authors? And through the owners of Author House, no less — one of the very least respected vanity press operations in business? How lamentably short-sighted.

It will be interesting to see if they continue to send their mouthpiece around to the blogs to defend this shameful endeavor. She’s been called a liar and worse. (Offering bound copies of vanity-pubbed books to authors for delivery to agents? ARE YOU KIDDING?? Way to completely discredit yourself as a knowledgable industry insider. Agents are pointing and laughing as we speak.) Will she show up again to try to sell this original sow’s ear as a silk purse of inestimable value?

Only The Shadow knows, and he ain’t talkin’.

In the meantime, here’s a fresh and growing list of links on the topic:

Author Barbara Caridad Ferrer

Author Jackie Kessler

Agent Ashley Grayson (He’s a MAN, baby! /austin powers)

Author Allison Brennan

Most, if not all, vanity presses make the vast majority of their profits on fees collected from writers.

(Money flows to the author.)

Very few writers end up recouping their investment on vanity-press published projects.

(Money flows to the author.)

No matter what they tell you, if you pay up front to hold a copy of your book in your hand, you’re not published — you’re PRINTED. “Publishing” implies a vetting process and some sort of editing FOR WHICH YOU DO NOT PAY.

(Money flows to the author.)

Yes, even if you are traditionally published by a major house, you may pay to promote your book beyond whatever promotional support your publisher offers. That’s not the same thing as paying to have your book copy edited, printed and offered for sale. You can say, “Yes it is,” as many times as you like, but… it’s not. It’s really, really not.

And so my power ballad becomes a dirge. Hum along if the spirit moves you.

(MONEY FLOWS TO THE AUTHOR.)

Coda:

As to the issue of the RWA in this brand, spanking new venture of Harlequin’s… Well. I’m not a member. No dog in that particular fight. But given that approximately 70% of the RWA membership is comprised of unpublished authors, I think the organization has a responsibility to make sure its members know the difference between being “published” and paying to be “printed,” and to take a strong position in this matter according to their own, much touted, standards. It will be fascinating to see if this Board of Directors has the balls to put their money — and their relationship with the largest publisher of romance — where their mouths are.

Other blogs on this subject:

TeddyPig,  EREC,   SmartBitches (scroll thru comments for the good stuff)

Anne Aguirre, Barb Ferrer

Today I’m posting over at Tales from the Crit on the topic of juggling relationship dynamics when writing a ménage. Please feel free to come tell me I’m full of… applesauce.

What? I’m trying to clean up my fucking language.

It’s a work in progress.

A quickie:

My latest novella, Hard Harvest, part of the “Three Kinds of Wicked” series at Red Sage, will be released January 1, 2010!

Also, I’ve joined a group blog, Tales from the Crit, and my first post went up today. Barring catastrophe, I’ll be posting every Tuesday.

They seem like a lovely, talented, well-behaved group of writers there. Let’s see how long it takes to drag them down to my level.

KIDDING.