How Charity Sunday works: for every comment made on this blog post, I will donate money to the charity named. The same promise is made for every blog site listed in the group–click the Linky Links link at the bottom of this post to see the list of participants and read/comment on any of them to see a donation go to that blogger’s charity. We’re all different! Thanks for your help and your participation!
This month’s charity is Folds of Honor. The mission of Folds of Honor is: “To provide educational scholarships to spouses and children of America’s fallen and disabled service-members. … Honor their sacrifice. Educate their legacy.” So this charity helps two ways that are near and dear to my heart—it helps give people who need the boost an education they might not be able to afford, and it honors those who have given much. Please comment!
I wrote Burning Bridges as Anne Krist. It’s not an erotic romance, but it’s a book full of emotion and is a true love story. The hero, Paul Steinert, is in the Navy and about to ship out for Vietnam when he first meets Sara Noland. Perhaps his child could have benefited from Folds of Honor!
Excerpt:
Virginia Beach, Virginia – January, 1970
“Of all days to debate about whether to wear the short skirt or the shorter one,” Sara wailed to her best friend, Cindy. “We’ll be lucky if we aren’t late.”
The blue Volkswagen Beetle sped down the highway. Or as fast as it could speed, with the tiny engine pushing from the rear, and Sara having to shift gears so often because of traffic and lights. She huffed in frustration.
“Oh, we have plenty of time. I had to make sure I looked just right. You never know who we’ll see,” Cindy replied with her usual assurance.
“I hope you’re right.”
“You worry, Sara, and things always turn out okay. Just keep your mind on driving and we’ll be fine.” Cindy clasped her hands and shrieked with excitement. “I can’t believe our parents bought us tickets to see Michael Wales!”
That brought a real smile to Sara’s face. “I know! Our parents are the best.”
She flicked a knob on the radio as she veered into the parking lot, silencing Neil Diamond’s “Holly Holy.”
“See? I told you. You worry too much. We’re here with a good ten minutes to spare.” Cindy flipped her straight blonde hair over her shoulder. She turned the rearview mirror toward her and applied a fresh coating of lip gloss.
“We’re only ‘here’ if I can find a place to park.” Sara maneuvered her little car up one aisle and down another, until finally, “Good! There’s one.” Before she could get to the space, a sleek, red Corvette swung in.
“Oh, no! That was our space,” Cindy cried.
Two men unfolded themselves from the little sports car, the driver with olive skin and hair as dark as the passenger’s was golden. The men started toward the building. Suddenly, the passenger looked at Sara and then back at the space.
The low-hanging sun framed him, a fair giant with short hair and the physique of a warrior. For a brief moment, Sara pictured him with sword and shield at the helm of a Norse sailing vessel. Her heart fluttered and her breath caught. Then she brought herself under control.
The girls watched as he talked to the dark-haired man and gestured to them. The driver looked around then shook his head before continuing toward the building. The blond shrugged apologetically at Sara and followed his friend.
“Shoot! I thought maybe he would have a heart.” Sara eased off the clutch and started forward again.
“They were cute.” Cindy swerved in her seat to watch the men as they picked their way through the parked cars. “I wonder what the chances are of seeing them–”
A piercing whistle cut through Cindy’s words. “Stop, Sara! The blond guy is waving at us.”
Sara turned to look behind them. The blond man was indeed waving, gesturing for her to come toward him. “What does he want?” she muttered. Deciding to ignore him, she drove on, turning to the right.
He whistled again.
“He wants you to pull around there. He’s still waving.”
“Oh, all right,” Sara grumbled. “But make sure your door is locked, Cindy. And don’t roll your window down.”
Cindy laughed. “You sound like my mother. What do you think is going to happen right here in the parking lot?”
Sara managed a U-turn and drove to where the man stood. Rolling her window down an inch, she said loudly, “What is it?”
He bent down to peer through the glass at her, a lopsided grin on his face. Good Lord, he was cute. Muscled shoulders and arms, angular, strong features, hair a rich blond, and dark, sapphire-blue eyes.
“Oh, my heavens,” she heard Cindy say under her breath.
For once, Sara understood her friend’s meaning. His grin made her stomach do flip-flops and her palms sweat.
“I don’t bite,” he said around a chuckle, motioning to the almost closed window. “I just wanted to tell you, there’s a place right over there. I think you can squeeze your Bug into it.” He turned and pointed at a half space at the end of the aisle, a couple of cars away.
Flashing him a look of gratitude, she put the little car in gear and pulled into the spot. The tall, handsome stranger followed.
When Sara turned off the engine, the guy opened the door for Cindy and held out his hand to assist her. Out of nowhere, a sharp pang of jealousy struck Sara. Its intensity and suddenness disturbed her. After all, she didn’t know this man; what difference did it make if he and Cindy hit it off?
By the time she collected her purse, stepped out and made sure the doors were locked, Cindy and the mystery man were like old friends. Again she felt the Green Monster strike, and gave a mental shake to rid herself of its clutches.
“Sara,” Cindy said, smiling dreamily at the tall man, “this is Paul Steinert. Wasn’t he just wonderful, finding us this space?” She tittered.
It was all Sara could manage, not to gape. Cindy always flirted but tittering was something new.
“Paul, this is my best friend, Sara Noland.”
Paul smiled and held out his hand. “Hello, Sara. I’m sorry about the other space. This one is closer to the door, though.”
She locked gazes with him and her tongue twisted in her mouth. Surges of heat flew through her body. If his smile had that effect, what would his touch do to her? Something wonderful.
No, something forbidden.
About me:
A few years ago, Dee S. Knight began writing, making getting up in the morning fun. During the day, her characters killed people, fell in love, became drunk with power, or sober with responsibility. And they had sex, lots of sex. She is the primary persona of three pen names—triplets, if you will: Dee, Anne Krist, and Jenna Stewart.
As noted above, Dee S. Knight writes erotic romance—emphasis on the romance! She was part of an anthology named a Top Pick in Romantic Times magazine (Resolutions) and the sole author of another Top Pick designation, for the paranormal erotic romance, Passionate Destiny.
“Sister” Anne Krist does not write erotic romance. Her book, Burning Bridges, has received high praise and multiple 5-star reviews because of the depth of the romance and emotion. Burning Bridges is Anne’s first book but she has a series planned that she hopes to have out soon.
Third of the triplets is Jenna Stewart. Jenna has tried her hand at ménage—in both historical and shifter books. She wrote the Sisters O’Ryan series set during the westward migration in the U.S., the Great Wolves of Men-Edge, and Unlikely Bedfellows.
Regardless of the name she uses to write during the day, their dream man, childhood sweetheart, and long-time hubby are all the same guy. What happens during their nights are their secret.
For romance ranging from sweet to historical, contemporary to paranormal and more join the girls on Nomad Authors. Sign up for Dee’s newsletter with Jan Selbourne and have access to fun free reads. Also, once a month, look for Charity Sunday blog posts, where your comment can support a selected charity.
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Click here to see the list of other authors participating in today’s blog hop! I hope you’ll visit them too, to find out about the charities they are supporting.
To set the stage, I attended Mary Washington College of the University of Virginia (now University of Mary Washington), in Fredericksburg, Virginia. At that time, sooooo many years ago, the University of Virginia was all male. The exception were those women who had majors that had to finish in Charlottesville, like nursing majors. If you were a woman and wanted to attend UVA, you went to the girls’ branch, Mary Washington. All female, when I attended, we were just a couple of years way from having to wear a skirt or dress when leaving the dorm and being forbidden from getting into a car with a male without a chaperone.
on the hall. Her roommate had immediately christened her Caddy, based on her initials, and that’s what we all called her. She was tall and kind of willowy where I was stubby and not willowy at all. She had naturally curly auburn hair (that took forever to dry) and a fair Irish complexion. We hit it off right away, partially, I’m sure, because she didn’t go home very often and neither did I. She had (still has) a wickedly sharp sense of humor, an amazing intellect, and one of the kindest hearts I’ve ever known. She’s very loyal to her friends but she’s not a pushover. She loves her family fiercely, and she’s a damn hard worker.
I really don’t know any writing programs, so I suspect I don’t use them. Or maybe this means writing tips and suggestions? Those I use—on and off.
nothing works for me except what I use—which is nothing like a plotting program! Sometimes I start a book with only a kernel of an idea, and that’s kind of too little to use in a plotting program.
Writer, photographer, social critical artist, musician, and occasional actress, J. Arlene Culiner, was born in New York and raised in Toronto. She has crossed much of Europe on foot, has lived in a Hungarian mud house, a Bavarian castle, a Turkish cave-dwelling, on a Dutch canal, and in a haunted house on the English moors. She now resides in a 400-year-old former inn in a French village of no interest and, much to local dismay, protects all creatures, especially spiders and snakes. She particularly enjoys incorporating into short stories, mysteries, narrative non-fiction, and romances, her experiences in out-of-the-way communities, and her conversations with strange characters.
Since it’s snowing as I type this and is supposed to be for part of every day for the next 10 days, I feel qualified to describe what I could do on inclement days like these. I could paint a masterpiece, sew a glimmering ball gown, sculpt a museum-worthy bust of Alfred E. Neuman, or compose an opera in Italian.
say you do stuff like bake bread, organize a caroling group to appreciate the snow with song, or anything like that. You’ll just make me tired and I’ll have to slip in a nap between reading and writing.