Hens Lay Eggs
food for thought
Her cheeks flamed. #MFRWhooks
Russian Pride (Russian Love Book 4)
nby Holly Bargo
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nRescued from domestic abuse, Bratva princess Inessa recuperates from the latest beating in the home of Giovanni Maglione, the mafia captain of Cleveland. Learning that her husband double-crossed the Chinese triad, and they want their pound of flesh–and they’re happy to take it out of Inessa–her parents ask Giovanni to marry their newly widowed daughter. The Chinese triad will be looking for a Russian mobster’s wife, not the wife of an Italian mobster. Inessa agrees to this marriage of convenience which, of course, isn’t so convenient. The ruse fails, which forces Giovanni into a violent and bloody mob war, because he protects what’s his… and Inessa is most definitely his.n n |
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Excerpt
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n“We are strong,” Olivia stated with staunch support.
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n“They outnumber us at least five to one,” Maksim pointed out. He wiped a broad hand down his face. “And they have no honor.”
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n“Der’mo,” Olivia cursed.
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n“I have called Sergei,” Maksim said, naming the Bratva’s Northwest leader. “He will meet us there and accompany us. He knows the Triad leader in Seattle and will bring some of his own men to this meeting. A show of force is necessary—enough to impress, not enough to threaten.”
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n“Give Sergei my thanks and invite him to visit,” Olivia nodded and replied. “It has been too long since we have seen him and Alyona.”
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n“Da.”
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nMaksim sighed again and ran his hand over his face. He turned around and walked back out of the room, his bulky, heavy body moving with surprising lightness. Latasha waited for several minutes to allow Iosif’s employer some private time with his daughter, then excused herself to return to her duties.
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nTo her surprise, Giovanni Maglione stood in the room, looming over the human wreckage in the hospital bed.
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n“Giovanni?” she queried.
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nHe looked up and shook his head. “The man who does this is a coward.”
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n“Did. Was.”
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nHe raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.
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n“Olivia assures me that Inessa need not fear him ever again.”
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n“Good.” He reached down and stroked a finger along a lank tendril of auburn hair inherited from Olivia. “She was lovely, you know.”
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n“You’ve met her?”
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n“Olivia showed me photos.” He looked at Latasha then back at Inessa’s sleeping form. “She married Ruslan the day after her eighteenth birthday. She was three months pregnant.”
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n“She has a child?” Latasha blurted in surprise and then dismay. “Did we leave a child in Seattle all alone?”
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n“No, she lost the baby in the second trimester.” Giovanni’s expression darkened. “Olivia thinks Ruslan beat her and caused her to miscarry.”
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n“Damn,” Latasha breathed out. “How long was she with that scumball?”
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n“Eight years.”
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nStunned, Latasha blurted, “That long? Why in the hell did they let her stay with him for eight years?”
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n“They couldn’t prove anything and Inessa wouldn’t admit to abuse. Too proud.”
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n“Fuck.”
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n“Language,” the man warned with a small smirk.
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nShe glared at him.
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n“If I tell Iosif about your foul mouth, he’ll put it to better use.”
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nHer cheeks flamed. “Go away, Giovanni.”
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nHe chuckled and took his leave.
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nWhen Iosif picked up after the night shift nurse arrived, he must have spoken to Giovanni first, because he did indeed put her filthy mouth to better use that night. And she enjoyed it.n
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Sometimes, the best ideas don’t stick
While finishing the draft for Hogtied, an idea for a sequel emerged from the depths of my imagination and swam just beneath the surface, shark fin poking through to announce the presence of another story. Some of my best books began like that.
By “best books,” I don’t necessarily mean those that sold the most copies or received the most reviews. I mean the books I enjoyed writing the most: the stories I liked best.
The sequel to Hogtied isn’t shaping up like that. It began with a bang, strong and loud in my brain. I knew the main characters and where they were going. As usual, I just wasn’t sure how they’d get there. They must have taken a detour, because the story has been difficult to corral and guide and just write. I initially expected to be ready to publish this as-yet untitled sequel by the end of August. That, my dears, ain’t gonna happen. Then I delayed release until the end of September. That probably won’t happen either, but I’ll work on it.
It would be helpful to know which of my books readers liked best. That would at least give me an idea as to whether the ones I found easiest to write are also the ones readers prefer. Does level of difficulty equate to reader preference? That would be interesting to know. Whether such knowledge would change what I do or how I do it is entirely beside the point. Sometimes, satisfaction of curiosity is its own goal.
In the meantime, I’ve got yet another idea shark circling in the depths of my imagination. It’s a new story, not intended as a series starter; but then, none of them ever are. It returns me to the paranormal romance sub-genre where I really like to play. It also involves a literary device that I strongly dislike: time travel. That aspect occurs only once and in the beginning of the story, but I dislike it all the same. Unfortunately, I can’t figure out a way to make the story work without it.
Before I started scheduling (more or less) production of books, I’d table an idea if it didn’t inspire me. I’ve got scads of such story starters saved. Most will never be developed. Focus was actually one of them and I think it turned out pretty well. Of course, I had a running story in my head for years that I started writing and quickly shelved. I may yet return to it. Writing such a long-running story in which I starred as the protagonist removes me from that lead role. Oh, the heroine will still imbue aspects of my personality, but she will no longer be me. I think there’s a part of myself that dislikes relinquishing the association, to make the heroine someone other than yours truly.
That’s a hazard, I suppose, of being an undisciplined “pantser.” We can’t plan a story for love or money.
5 Star Review Focus by Holly Bargo
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nProfessional photographer Dana Secrest has a secret and doesn’t even know it. When she storms from her best friend’s home on Christmas Eve—not the wisest decision she’s ever made—security contractor Sam Galdicar follows her to save her from her own hot temper and impulsive action. Upon arriving home, Dana discovers her apartment has been ransacked. Then an attempt is made on her life. She doesn’t know who’s trying to kill her or why, but Sam is determined to protect the woman whose eyes don’t need a camera to see the truth. n |
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Excerpt
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n“Dana, where in the hell do you think you’re going?”
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n“I’m going home.”
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n“You live eight miles across town,” he pointed out.
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n“So, go back home if you’re too weak to walk,” I sneered and wished I’d either not forgotten my purse and camera case or that I’d worn footwear more appropriate to an evening hike across the city in winter. My feet in their kidskin ballet flats and nylon tights were freezing. I would have preferred a ride in a warm taxi.
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nHe grabbed my arm again. I spun around on a patch of ice and clutched at him to keep from falling. Sam steadied me and I slapped at his arm.
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n“It’ll take you four hours to get home if you don’t freeze to death by then or wind up a crime victim,” he pointed out.
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nI slapped his arm again. That time he released me.
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n“Look, dickwad—” city living had really downgraded my vocabulary, another reason to move back to a rural village where manners tended toward that famed Midwestern civility “—if you want to escort me, I can’t stop you. But I am not going back there.”
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nSam sighed. I started walking again, albeit a little more carefully due to the icy patches on the sidewalk. He fell into step beside me. I pulled up the collar of my wool coat and hunched my shoulders, shoving my hands as deeply as possible in the pockets. Damn, I should have worn gloves. And lined woolen pants with wool socks and boots. And a hat. Oh, hell, I shouldn’t have stormed out of there without my belongings.
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nHe held his silence for the next umpteen blocks, for which I told myself I was grateful. My breath puffed in white clouds as I hurried, despite knowing that a steady pace would have been more prudent to cover the distance. The temperature sank like a stone and I shivered as I walked. Although I clenched my jaw, I couldn’t help the chatter of my teeth. A taxi rolled by, its wheels crunching on dirty snow and ice.
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n“Dana, you’re freezing,” he declared.
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n“I know,” I managed without stuttering.
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n“You’ve got to stop and warm up.”
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nCasting him a quick glance of intense dislike, I said, “Unless you’ve got a hot bath, a warm bed, a hot meal, and a fresh change of clothes tucked away in your pocket, I’ve got to keep going.”
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nA few steps more and his hand again clamped around my arm and yanked me to a stop.
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n“This is getting old,” I grumbled.
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nHe pulled a key from his pocket and smiled at me. “Everything you demanded is right here.”
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n“What?” Apparently, the cold had turned my brain into icy slush.
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n“I live three blocks over. You’re coming home with me.”
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n“No.”
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nHe grinned at me. I wanted to swat that grin off his face, but shivered too violently for decent aim. Of course, I told myself, his height—fully a foot taller than mine—had nothing to do with it.
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n“Bath, bed, food, and clothes are just three blocks over. Now keep your word.”
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Author
Hard boiled, scrambled, over easy, and sunny side up: eggs are the musings of Holly Bargo, the pseudonym for the author.
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Karen (Holly)
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