Jeannie Watt

Just Desserts Chapter One

2012-02-07T20:05:00.000-08:00

LAYLA TAYLOR WASN'T DRUNK enough to be hallucinating, which meant that Justin Tremont was not a figment of her imagination. Her childhood nemesis and the sworn enemy of all she held dear was indeed standing in the doorway of the Lake Tahoe lounge, scanning the room.

Crap.

She ducked her head, hoping he wouldn't see her drowning her sorrows, alone, as she waited for her sister to come pick her up. The lounge was dimly lit and crowded. There was no reason he should notice her, but less than a minute later she felt the vinyl bench give way beneath his weight as he sat beside her.

This evening just kept getting better.

"Hi, Layla," he said, when she cut him a sideways glance. "I'm here to take you home."

"Over my dead body."

"Whatever."

Layla leaned her head back against the black vinyl booth cushion, noting with some alarm that when she closed her eyes, the room began to spin.

"Why are you here?" she asked without opening her eyes, certain that if she concentrated hard enough, she could make the spinning stop. Besides, she didn't need to see to know exactly what Justin was doing—smirking at her. Just as he'd smirked at her for her entire life. Well,not all of it. Only the ten years they'd lived down the street from each other, and her younger brothers and Justin, who were all a year behind her in school, had enjoyed some kind of an outlaw bond. The three ofthem had made her life miserable whenever possible.

"Sam called," Justin said, bringing her back to her very realproblem at hand—him. "She asked me to take you home when I got off shift."

She'd called her sister to rescue her, and Sam had got Justin to come. Was no one in her entire family responsible? Easy answer there. No.

She was going to kill her sister.

Layla opened her eyes to find Justin studying her with a slight frown, as if assessing her condition. She didn't like being assessed by Justin.

"Go home," she said, the last word slurring slightly. She wasn't going to tolerate any more smirking or misery at his hands. If he thought for one blinking second that she was going to allow him to be party to yet another of her humiliations, and drive her back to Reno…well, he could kiss her ass.

"I fully intend to do just that. Once I deliver you home as per Sam's orders."

Sam could kiss her ass, too.

Layla attempted to fix him with her teacher stare, the one that could melt a kid at twenty paces. Big mistake, because in doing so she had to focus, and that caused a dull pain to shoot through the front of her forehead, and her vision to waver. She clamped a hand to her head before she realized what she was doing.

"You know Sam wouldn't have asked me to give you a ride unless it was an emergency."

What in Sam's life wasn't an emergency? That was how her siblings—and her parents, for that matter—seemed to live, rebounding between emergencies. As if it energized them, for Pete's sake. She was, without a doubt, adopted. There was no way she shared DNA with her family.

"You want to help? Call me a cab."

"Are you kidding? From the lake to Reno? You don't make that kind of money." He stretched his arm out along the back of the booth, his fingertips making light contact with her shoulder.
Layla let out a breath. The connection actually felt kind of good. As if she wasn't alone in all this. But she was halfway drunk and her perceptions were not to be trusted. She didn't move any farther away, though, because that would have meant she cared.

"What happened with Sam?" she asked resignedly. Hopefully, not something that would require Layla to bail her out.

"It's snowing pretty hard. Didn't you know? There's no way her little car will make it up here and back unless she's right on a snowplow's ass."

Spring in the Sierras. Great.

"There wasn't much coming down when we drove up," Layla muttered. The wet flakes had melted off the pavement as rapidly as they'd fallen. But if it was snowing hard now, then Sam's small Ford Escort wouldn't be safe on the road, and Justin probably had some kind of vehicle that could handle icy conditions. A vehicle she would not be getting into.

"I'm fine here," she said. "I'll just get a room."

"Sold out. The Mind Breakers. Remember?"

"Trying to forget." The concert was the reason she was there. Layla took the stem of the empty martini glass between her thumb and forefinger, spinning it slowly as she thought. "Robert had a room for us," she muttered. Robert the blackheart.

"What happened with Robert?"

"He's sleeping with some trollop who works with me." Layla couldn't believe she'd just said that. That was it for martinis. The room was spinning. Her mouth was out of control. She shoved the glass across the table. Justin picked it up and set it on the tray of a passing bar server, who smiled at him and asked if he wanted another.

"We'll pass," Justin said, easing his hip up to pull out his wallet. He set a bill on the tray.

"Thanks," the woman said, with a pert smile that made Layla want to smack her for some reason. "See you around, Tremont."

Layla half turned in the booth to face Justin. She was going to try a new tactic. "I do appreciate you offering to take me home, but I'm just going to sit here for a while. My head will clear and then I'll figure out how I want to handle this. It's really none of your business." It took her longer to make the speech than expected, since some of the words tangled her tongue. But she got it out, and Justin, to her relief, slid from the booth.

"Fine."

Really? Oh, please let it be that easy.

"Remember how Derek used to practice for his fireman test?"

Layla's eyes widened. "You wouldn't…."

Justin simply tilted his head.

How could she have even asked such a stupid question? Of course he would. Justin loved nothing more than a dare. "Leave me alone!" she said with sudden venom. "I don't want you to rescue me."
"Why?" he asked with a touch of weariness.

"Why? Because of all the crummy things you've done to me."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Name one."

He looked as if he didn't think she could. He was so wrong. Layla drew a deep breath and fought the fog in her brain. "You…picked on me as a kid."

He appeared unimpressed by the generic description of his actions, so she searched her brain for the perfect representative incident. There were so many to choose from. Finally, she stabbed a finger at him. "You talked my date out of going to the prom with me."

Justin gave a soft snort. "He was a jerk."

Maybe so. She pointed at him again. "You put a frog in my lunch bag." The lunchroom had been packed when she'd let out a bloodcurdling scream as her bag started to move.

Justin shrugged.

Another stab of the finger. "You ran my bra up the ROTC flagpole.You glued my English comp book shut. You put pudding in my slippers. You…you…" Had done so many small things she couldn't remember them all.

"Do you want an apology?" he asked quietly. "For all the many wrongs you've suffered at my hands? Then would you come with me?"

"An apology wouldn't suffice."

"Good. Because I'm not sorry for most of it." He placed one palm flat on the table and leaned his face close to hers, so close that she could see tiny flecks of navy blue in his green eyes. "Now get your stuff so we can start home before the real blizzard hits."

"If you don't leave," Layla said between clenched teeth, "I'm going to call security." Or someone.

"Go ahead," Justin replied. "No, wait. I'll do it." He straightened and glanced across the lobby to the uniformed man standing near the slot machines. When Justin raised a hand and gestured, the security guard started toward them.

"You will regret this," Layla said with a slight smile. Because she was not as drunk as he seemed to think.

"Hey, how's it going," the guard said, breaking into a smile as he clapped Justin on the arm.

Layla groaned.

"The wife was so happy with the anniversary party," Mr. Security continued. "She told me she was glad we went with you guys instead of the other caterer she'd chosen. For once I was right."

"Great," Justin said, smiling back. "I was wondering if you have any of the emergency hotel rooms available."

"Robert has a room," Layla muttered. "But I am not staying there." Justin touched her back reassuringly as the guard shook his head.

"Not one. Mind Breakers are big."

"So," Justin continued smoothly, "if Ms. Taylor here is feeling a bit…ill, it'd be best if I took her home?"

The guard's dark eyebrows drew together. "As opposed to…"

"Her hanging out somewhere in the hotel waiting to sober up?"

Oh, great mental picture. Layla stood abruptly, hitting her thigh on the edge of the table. It scooted sideways with a screech of metal on tile, and the room swam once she was vertical. She automatically reached out and clutched Justin's shoulder. It was either that or go down. All her arguments about being fine and not needing him to butt into her life evaporated when the guard's face wavered in front of her. Oh, boy.

"Take her home, Justin," the man said. Layla kept her mouth shut as she fought to regain her balance.

Justin settled a hand on her waist to help steady her, and she felt the warmth of his fingers through the thin silk of her black dress. But she didn't move away, because she couldn't.

Robert-1. Justin-1. Layla-0

Triple-teamed in the worst way. Hell, if she counted the gin, she'dvbeen quadruple-teamed.

"Hey, Miss Taylor!" A teenage voice penetrated the fog and she moved her head to the left, focusing on the group of people passing in the hall, headed toward the concert venue. Students. Her students. Sheforced the corners of her mouth up, but was not so foolish as to try to speak. Or wave, since she was still hanging on to Justin.

She glanced down at the bench, wondering how a few feet of altitude could make her head spin so nastily. She had to do something. Mind Breakers were big and several of her rather privileged students were likely here in the hotel. Along with their deep-pocketed parents.

"Get me out of here," she muttered to Justin, without looking at him. "Please," she added, just to make her humiliation total and complete.

LAYLA WAS TRYING HARD to walk without leaning on him. She was losing the battle. Justin didn't know how many martinis she'd downed after receiving the happy news that her boyfriend was sleeping around, but he knew from experience that the bartenders at this particular hotel didn't play coy with the booze. They charged a lot for a drink and they delivered.

What Justin wanted to know was whether Robert had abandoned her at the bar after she'd found out he was sleeping with the "trollop," or if she'd stormed out of their room and taken refuge in the bar while waiting for Sam. Because if Robert had abandoned her, drunk as she was…well, Justin might have to do something about that.

They stepped out the front doors onto the freshly shoveled sidewalk. The snow had let up a little since he'd come into the hotel, but it wasn't done. Not by a long shot. Just a lull. Layla clamped a hand to her stomach, and Justin stopped walking. If she was going to be sick, he'd prefer it wasn't in his car.

"I'm fine," she said in a brittle voice as she took a resolute step forward. Justin moved with her, only to have her stop dead a few seconds later and look around wildly. He steered her off the sidewalk, through the snow and as far around the giant juniper bush flanking the walkway as he could before she heaved. She swung at him when he tried to get hold of her hair, so he let go of her and stepped aside, allowing her to commune with the bush. When she sat back on her heels and drew in a shaky breath, he held out a hand. She clutched his fingers, allowed him to help her up, but she didn't look at him.

"I…feel a little better."

Justin shook his head and, after brushing the wet snow off her knees and the front of her black wool coat, helped her back to the sidewalk. People had paused to watch the spectacle, but now moved on.

Show's over, folks. Nothing to see here.

He and Layla started for the car again, which was parked in the employee lot, even though Justin wasn't an employee of this particular hotel. Layla was walking better now that she'd emptied her stomach, and Justin hoped she had no memory of puking in the bush in front of a crowd, because, tight-ass that she was, she wouldn't be able to handle it.

"Layla!"

She stopped dead, her entire body going stiff at the sound of the man's voice calling her name. Then she turned with what sounded like a growl to face the guy jogging lightly toward them through the snow. He stopped a few feet away, eyeing Justin suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"Old family friend. Here to help pick up the pieces. You must be the Robert I've heard so much about."

"Is he?" Robert asked Layla. "A family friend?"

"Who he is…is none of your business," she said with an air of dignity and only the slightest slur.

Robert grimaced. "How much have you had to drink?"

Justin's jaw slid sideways and he took a step toward the guy.

"Since you walked out on her, you mean?"

"I'm not talking to you."

"But I can't help hearing the conversation."

"I'm not going to have her driving off this mountain in a snowstorm with someone I don't know." Robert fished in his pocket. "I hadn't realized you didn't have the room key," he said to Layla, holding it out to her. "Take it. You can spend the night as planned. Your overnight bag is in the room."

Layla stared down at the plastic card, then slowly raised her eyes to Robert's face. He continued to hold the key, giving it a slight shake as if encouraging her to take it. She pulled in a breath that made her shoulders rise a good inch, then drew back her arm and punched him square in the jaw.

He stumbled backward as she lost her balance and went down. Justin made a grab for her, grunting when her elbow smacked into his cheekbone with a healthy crack.

"Oh, shit…" Tears sprang to his eyes as Layla slowly struggled to her hands and knees, and finally, her feet. She stared at Justin in horror as he stood with his hand over his eye. Five yards away, Robert held a hand to his nose.

"Oh, I'm sorry. So sorry." She continued to stare at Justin, a dazed expression on her face.
"Get out of here," he said to Robert, keeping his full attention on Layla, half afraid of what she might do next. "Leave her bag in the room and I'll take care of it."

"I'm not—"

"I honestly am a family friend. I know her middle name andeverything."

"What is it?" Robert asked through his fingers, and Justin had to give him points for not abandoning her.

"Sunshine. Layla Sunshine Taylor."

"Brothers?"

"Twins—Eric and Derek. Sister is Sam. Formerly Belle Blue, from the song "Bell Bottom Blues." She renamed herself when she was five because the kids called her Ding Dong."

"Good enough." Robert turned and walked away without another word, still holding his nose.

"You didn't have to tell him all that," Layla said as Justin put a hand under her arm and steered her the last few feet to the car.

"I think he already knew." Justin held the door open and she got into the passenger seat, then carefully arranged her coat over her knees. "Where do you live?"

She muttered an address on Bannock Drive. He made her repeat it, since it wouldn't be cool to drag her up the sidewalk of someone else's house. Then he asked for her keys.

"Why?"

"So that you have them when we get to your place."

With a deep sigh she spilled the contents of her purse onto her lap, then pulled the keys out of the jumble. She slapped them into his outstretched hand before haphazardly shoving stuff back into her bag.

Justin closed the door and walked around to his side of the car. By the time he got the beast started, Layla was leaning against the leather headrest and her eyes were closed. Good. He hoped she stayed that way during the entire trip.

It wasn't to be. She got sick again at the top of the grade leading down to Carson City, where, thankfully, it wasn't snowing. She was still a bit green when she collapsed back into the passenger seat and fell asleep.

Justin couldn't say he was unhappy about that because he wanted to focus on the road, not on his passenger. Nearly a year ago, he'd had a close call on this road, when fellow employees at his hotel deduced that he was a narc, due to his association with his current brother-in-law, a drug task force member. About a mile past the summit, Justin had been hit from behind, and his car sent plummeting down the ravine. He was so damned lucky to be alive, and he'd never felt the same, driving this road.

Forty-five minutes after passing the spot where his car had been wrecked, Justin pulled into Layla's drive. He roused her and helped her out, then put an arm around her as they made their way through the slushy spring snow to the front door. Not a bad place. In fact, it was very much what he'd expected from Layla. An efficient box of a house, with neat little shutters, a sturdy fence in front, a no-nonsense white and-navy-blue color scheme. The bushes were all trimmed into submission, even though it was the middle of winter.

There were only three keys on the ring, so he had her inside within a matter of seconds. Once the door was closed, she attempted to focus on him. The way her forehead wrinkled, it must have hurt. She started to say something, but got only as far as opening her mouth before she shrugged out of her coat, letting it fall behind her in a heap. Then she headed down the hall.
Justin hesitated, then followed. By the time he reached her bedroom, she was sprawled on her stomach over the purple duvet on her bed. It looked like something that would need an expensive dry-cleaning if she were ill again, so Justin carefully peeled it back and rolled her onto her side on the sheets.

He stood for a moment then, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, staring down at her. He hadn't seen her in several years—not since her folks had sold the house down the street from his family's. She'd put on some weight. In a good way. And her straight dark hair was longer. But she was still Layla. Only not so perfect now. He hoped she could deal with it.

With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he set her keys on the dresser and headed out the bedroom door.

LAYLA DIDN'T WANT TO wake up. Her head was pounding. Her mouth was dry. So dry! And why was she drowning in a sense of impending doom?

The memories started to drift in, each more cringe-worthy than the one before. Had she thrown up outside the hotel? Worse than that, had Justin been there?
And then the biggie hit her. Robert. Robert and Melinda. Layla's insides roiled as a wave of depression mixed with pain, betrayal and disgust washed over her.

"You need anything?"

Layla shrieked at the unexpected masculine voice, and scrambled to her knees, ready to defend herself with the pillow she'd grabbed.

"Justin!"

"Yeah. Me."

She lowered the pillow and sat back on her heels as a surge of nausea welled up. But her stomach was too empty to do anything about it.

"Let me get you some aspirin. Where do you keep it?"

She simply stared at him. "Why are you here?"

"You can't leave a drunk person unattended. Remember what happened to all those rock stars that drowned in their own—"

Layla held up a hand. "Stop. No more." She dropped her head on the pillow she held in her lap. It made sense, really. Justin had been part of so many of the humiliating moments of her life that perhaps he was on call. He sensed "Layla devastation" and showed up to add to the misery.

"It was too late for Sam to come and stay with you."

Layla nodded, her head bobbing into the pillow. He had a point. He'd done the safe and logical thing.

"Thank you for bringing me home." She vaguely recalled trying to stay in the hotel until she sobered up. And students. She remembered seeing her students. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought. Hopefully, she hadn't appeared too out of it. Private schools were not very keen on their staff being seen drunk in public.

"Aspirin?"

Layla lifted her head. "I'll get it." She steeled herself for the trauma of going vertical. "What happened to your eye?" Another dim recollection was taking form in her brain.

"You punched Robert when he tried to give you the room key."

"Did I…punch you, too?" Had all her pent-up frustrations burst forth? Culminating in a brawl?

"No. You accidentally hit me when you fell."

Layla swallowed hard and looked down at her hands. Well, now she knew why her knuckles were bruised and her knees felt skinned.

"You can go home now, Justin." She was certain he probably couldn't wait to get out of there, even though seeing her like this was probably entertaining as could be. "Thanks for everything."

"All right." He stayed where he was, though, and for once he wasn't smirking. He looked tired.

"Where'd you sleep?" she finally asked, after a few beats of silence. For some reason, he wasn't leaving.

"In one of those baskets you call a chair." He leaned his shoulder against the door frame. "How many drinks did you have?"

"Three." Layla closed her eyes for a second, hugging the pillow to her chest, fighting the urge to topple over. "And a half," she added, for the sake of honesty.

"How many after Robert dropped the bomb?"

"I told you about that?" Had she no pride when intoxicated? Heat rose in her face, scalding her cheeks.

"I'm not a mind reader."

Layla felt like melting into a puddle on the bed. "He told me in the room when we were getting ready to go down to dinner." Actually, that wasn't quite true. She'd guessed and then he'd confessed. "I hid out in the lounge and called Sam."

"Just wondering if I need to hook up with this Robert guy for leaving you drunk and alone in a hotel lounge."

The last thing she wanted was for Justin, of all people, to defend her honor. That would be so wrong.

"Justin…I'd really like to be alone now."

"If you're sure you're okay."

"I'm okay." He cocked his head, and she added, "Physically." Obviously, she had some other nonphysical issues to deal with. That seemed to satisfy him, and a few seconds later the front door closed. She heard the purr of a powerful engine coming to life.

What had they driven home in?

She couldn't for the life of her remember. Perhaps because her memory was so jumbled with other more humiliating images. The bush outside the hotel came to mind. And…oh yeah. She'd tossed her cookies once again along a road somewhere.

What did they put in those drinks?

Lots and lots of alcohol. And she was a lightweight.

She gingerly crawled off the bed, realizing only then that she still had on her slightly damp T-strap high heels. Justin hadn't taken off her shoes, although he had removed the duvet cover. Well, they were buckle shoes, perhaps too complicated for him.

She'd started for the bathroom when the doorbell rang. What on earth had Justin forgotten? She glanced at the domed mantel clock on her way to the door. Ten-thirty? Criminy. She'd lost twelve hours of her life.

The doorbell rang again, the sound reverberating through her skull. Must disconnect that thing. She pulled the door open, about to ask, "What did you forget?", and then almost slammed it shut again as she found herself facing the sweet, round face of Kristy Mendoza, the girl who lived next door.

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A Writer's Dream

2012-01-30T17:59:00.000-08:00

I’m about to blog about a dream I had last night, even though I’m well aware that other people’s dreams can be a bit boring.

I’m driving down a straight road at night. I go through a small town with good lighting. I’m very familiar with this town and comfortable there. I drive on, but realize that I can’t see. I’m swerving around and my headlights aren’t showing me the way. I stop the car and turn on the interior lights to discover that I’m on the edge of the wrong side of the road, about the go into the bushes. I travel back to the well lit town, where I feel safe and familiar, then take off again down that long dark road toward my destination (which happens to be a writing conference.) Once again my headlights are inadequate. This time when I stop, I decide to do a three-point turn in order to return to the well-lit town. While making the turn, I accidentally drive backwards down a road I didn’t even know was there. The road is wonderful, even if I came at it backwards while trying to do something else.

And that’s my writing process. In a nutshell. In a dream.

Cello Wars

2012-01-21T19:53:00.000-08:00

I played the violin in 5th/6th grade school orchestra back in the day and my best friend played cello. When I saw this video, I simply had to share because as Lyle Lovett says, "There's always room for cello." Besides, electric cellos are so cool.

Writing Advice: It's Not One Size Fits All

2012-01-16T12:10:00.000-08:00

The biggest thing I discovered since starting to write is that there is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to writing how-to's. You take other peoples’ advice and try it on for size, but rarely are you going to find something that works for you as is. You must tweak. Adjust. Abandon.

As a newbie writer, I was distressed because I couldn’t plot an entire story when I wrote the synopsis. (I tried to write a synopsis first, because I was following the "rules" I'd learned in English class and from the few writing books I'd been able to check out of the public library.) My synopses started out well enough, but by the time I hit the middle, the story fizzled. I knew where I wanted the characters to end up, but had no specifics as to how that was going to happen. Therefore, my synopses were filled with general statements such as: “Brad and Janet work together to overcome obstacles in their quest to find a telephone during the storm.” What were those obstacles? I had nary a clue and felt awful because I couldn't plot a book. Other people did it. Surely I should be able to do it, too. Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a writer. But I couldn't stop writing.

Finally I gave up on doing things the “right” way and simply wrote a story without having a synopsis, totally unaware that many, many authors use that method. I managed to write an entire book, even though the middle gave me fits because I didn't know what was going to happen. I wrote my next story, which sold to Harlequin, in the same way. At the time I knew nothing about character arcs, etc. I simply wrote by instinct. I made errors in the first draft of that story—mainly plotting and structural errors—but my voice was good and because of that, I was lucky enough to have an editor work with me. I rewrote the book three times before it sold...and that was when I realized that my gift lies in revisions. The real book often appears after my second go. So in a way, my first draft becomes my synopsis. A really, really big synopsis.

Currently my method is a hybrid of plotting and pantsing. I use novel plotting templates—but usually not until I’ve hit the middle of the book. By that time I know my characters and many of those surprise situations I hadn’t anticipated have shown up and must be woven into the story. I do write a synopsis before I begin, since I now understand arcs and internal and external conflicts, and I usually follow the synopsis. But I love it when I'm writing that first draft and suddenly I’m off in a direction I never expected and the story becomes richer because of it. And now I'm confident I can smooth everything out during revisions.

So my advice is to experiment. Read all the how-to articles you can, then follow your gut. Write the way that feels most comfortable to you. When I try to fill out character sheets, my characters become wooden. When I simply write, my characters come to life. The opposite can happen for other authors. Keep tweaking and adjusting until you come up with the method that feels most comfortable to you, regardless of what everyone else is doing.

I Wish It Would Snow!

2011-12-17T16:21:00.000-08:00

We're rolling up onto Christmas and still no snow. Here in the high desert, if there's no snow pack to melt slowly during the summer, our creek goes dry in late June or early July, which means that the trees get very little water through the heat of July, August and September. That tends to be rough on them. I do water them from the house well, but I can't give them nearly the water they get from the pump in the creek.

Losing the creek also means I have to water the stock out of the house well--which means I have to remember to turn off the water running into the stock tanks, which sometimes doesn't happen. I really hate sitting up in bed in the middle of the night because it suddenly hits me that I didn't turn the water off.

I'm still hopeful that we might get snow. We had a couple smallish storms in December last year, followed by the driest January on record. January was followed in turn by recording breaking (or close) snows in February and March. Last summer was the third time in 18 years that the creek ran all summer long. The trees were so happy.

So here's hoping for a white Christmas, which doesn't seem to be in the cards, or at the very least a white Valentine's Day.

Undercover Cook Chapter One

2011-12-13T17:27:00.000-08:00

The second book in the Too Many Cooks? series will be on the shelves in January. It's already available as an ebook. I hope you enjoy my "middle child".

UNDERCOVER COOK

CHAPTER ONE

"COOKING LESSONS?" Detective Daphne Sparks paused with her coffee halfway to her lips and made an are-you-kidding face. "We have a missing, probably dead, informant, and your solution is cooking lessons."

"Dumb idea," Marcus Jethro echoed from across the table.

Nick Duncan kept his eyes on Daphne, his partner, because if he looked at Marcus he was going to say something he regretted.

"It's simple," he said. "I go with Granddad to the lessons at the catering kitchen, get the layout, figure how best to get at the company financial records." And from those, determine whether Tremont Catering, based in Reno, was laundering Lake Tahoe drug money. As he’d said. Simple.

He pushed his chair back slightly to make room for his legs under the small table in the back corner of a Virginia Street deli—the place where he and Daphne usually met for lunch in the late afternoon, after the noon-hour crowd was gone and they could talk.

"How is it that the lessons happen to be at this particular kitchen?" Daphne asked mildly, pushing long black hair over her shoulders. Nick shrugged. "I see," she said, lifting her coffee cup in a small salute.

"Any information you get that way is totally inadmissible," Marcus interjected in a superior tone, before adding a carefully measured half teaspoon of sugar to his coffee. He hated to be left out, and since he was a forensic accountant for the Reno PD, and because of that usually chained to his desk, he often was. Marcus had visions of crime fighting glory that weren’t quite working out.

"I'm not going to seize the records," Nick said. "I'm going to examine them, see if we're wasting time on something that isn't going to pan out."

He and Daphne had been working for months as Reno PD members of the Washoe-Tahoe Drug Task Force, trying to get a toehold into the drug traffic moving through the Tahoe Summit Hotel and Casino. They knew kitchen personnel were involved, and they'd gotten some indication of how the money might be moving. But task force funds were spread so thinly that after eight fruitless months of investigation, the Tahoe Summit had been shoved to the back burner…despite the fact that Nick and Daphne's twenty-one-year-old confidential informant, Cully, had recently gone missing. Nick thought that circumstance warranted further investigation. His lieutenant had disagreed. Strongly.

"I don't like it," Marcus said.

It didn't matter if he liked it, because Nick didn't answer to him. Technically, since his asshole lieutenant had suspended him for thirty days after their heated "discussion," Nick didn't answer to anyone in the department, which was why his investigation into Tremont Catering fell into the unofficial category. His own time, his own dime. But how the hell else was he supposed to get the answers he needed, not only to work on the drug trafficking, but to find out what had happened to Cully?

"What do you suggest?" he finally asked Marcus, more to mollify him than anything. They needed his expertise once Nick got copies of the financial records.

The accountant rolled his shoulders and then took on a thoughtful expression while slowly stirring his coffee. "If you decide to go with the cooking lesson angle, you could use it as a means to conduct an indirect investigation and try to determine if there are indications of expenditures exceeding legal income. Then go before a judge and ask for a warrant."

"And perhaps wait for a glacier to melt in the process?" Nick asked.

He flushed. "It's the only course of action that will lead to admissible evidence."

"Look," Nick said. "I understand admissibility. And I don't like doing things this way, but I also don't want to waste time." He stabbed his fork into a bowl of ravioli, spearing one and holding it poised in the air. "I don't need to make a formal case. All I need is enough information to get Justin Tremont to roll and give me names if he's involved."

"And if he isn't?" Marcus asked, putting the spoon on a napkin.

"Then we're at a dead end. For now." In Nick's last discussion with Cully, the CI had indicated that Tahoe Summit drug money was being laundered through a small Reno business. He'd sounded excited when he'd called to set up a meeting, and Nick had been relieved to finally get a break in the case. Chasing dirty money often resulted in a bust.

But Cully never showed for the meeting. Or called. Suspecting the worst, Nick and Daphne had started digging into small businesses connected with Tahoe Summit personnel. It hadn't taken long to discover that only one person on the kitchen staff had ties to a small business. Justin Tremont, part time pastry chef, owned a catering business with his two sisters.

Marcus shook his head. "Risky. My way may take time, but at least you won't end up getting investigated by Internal Affairs."

"That won’t happen," Nick said.

"You hope." Daphne eyed him over the top of her coffee cup.

"Stop being such a ray of sunshine," he muttered.

"I vote against this idea," Marcus said, pushing his lank dark hair to the side of his forehead.

"You don't have a vote," Nick said.

"When you want me to look at the figures, you might change your mind on that."

"All right, you have a vote. But it's still two against one."

"Marcus," Daphne said, fixing her large, coffee-brown eyes on his face in a way that told Nick she was on her last nerve. Marcus was, of course, oblivious. "I have sworn to uphold the law. I truly believe in the law, but I want to get the sons of bitches that nailed Cully. Don't you?"

"Of course I want to get them," the accountant said adamantly. He wanted anything that Daphne wanted—he'd had a wild crush on her since he'd first come to work two years ago.

"Then man up!" she said, and Marcus went instantly red.

"Fine," he sputtered. "I'll man up. I'm more than capable of bending the rules."

“You don’t need to bend anything,” Nick said. "All we want is your unofficial expertise after I get the financial records in an unofficial way. All right?"

Marcus was still red. He shot a quick look at Daphne who stared back impassively. "Yes. All right. But I'm not the dweeb you think I am."

"No one said you were a dweeb," Nick insisted, since Daphne wouldn't. She had no patience with their colleague and Nick couldn't blame her, since Marcus was hell-bent on impressing her and impervious to hints—or blatant declarations—that she wasn’t interested.

"You don't have to say it," the accountant said sullenly. “I can see what you think.”

Daphne dropped her napkin onto her plate, obviously having had enough. She reached for her purse, took out a handful of one dollar bills and started counting them.

"What are you going to do now?" Nick asked.

"I am going to take my partnerless self back to the office to work on busting drug buys near the campus. Because it looks good in the newspaper." She raised her eyes. "I don't care how much of a jerk Lieutenant Davidson is, don't ever do this to me again."

Nick pulled a twenty from his wallet. "I'll try very hard to never rile him again." Frankly, he wasn't normally the lieutenant-riling kind, but this Cully deal bugged the hell out of him. Yeah, Cully had been slick, but he'd also been a sweet, personable kid, with plans, no less. Both Nick and Daphne had, during weak moments, mentioned that as much as they appreciated what he brought them, he needed to find a safer line of work.

Cully had laughed them off, saying that he was eventually going to Police Officer Standard and Training academy to become a professional undercover agent. He wouldn't have gone to ground without contacting either Daphne or Nick, and it had now been four weeks since they'd last heard from him.

EDEN TREMONT KICKED off the killer heels she wore to all her client meetings the instant she stepped inside the back door of the catering kitchen. She sighed as her bare feet hit the blessedly cool tile floor, then reached for her orange kitchen clogs. It didn't pay to be short.

Sunday morning meetings were not the norm for her. Usually she spent that time prepping meals for the two families she cooked for on a weekly basis—the Stewarts and the Ballards—in addition to her catering duties. Today, however, was the only time a prospective bride with a vicious travel schedule could meet with her, and Eden went with it. Happily so, since she had a signed contract in her hand.

No one was in the kitchen yet, so she stowed her portfolio and her purse in the small back office. Grabbing an elastic band off the top of her desk, she pulled her blond hair into a haphazard knot and secured it just as the rear door of the kitchen banged open, scaring the bejeezus out of her. Patty Lloyd, their prep cook, did not slam. Ever.

Then one of the lockers next to the back door rattled and Eden let out a breath. Justin. Her brother. Who wasn't supposed to be in until early afternoon.

"Why are you here now?" Eden demanded, leaning out the door.

"Guess." Justin barely held back a yawn before pulling a white, jersey cotton stocking cap over his choppy blond hair. Sometimes Eden wondered if he still cut it himself, as he had when they were kids. It wasn't that he couldn't afford a haircut. He was just never able to find a barber who could give him the dangerous skater punk do he wanted.

"You took a cake order when you shouldn't have?" Her voice dripped sisterly sarcasm.

"Hey, you're one to talk. You volunteered to help with geriatric cooking lessons when you're swamped."

"I'm not as swamped as you, I have help with the lessons and it's only for six weeks." She folded her arms. "Besides, it's community service and that's not only great for the soul, it's excellent public relations." She cocked her head, scowling at her brother. Sometimes she honestly worried about him. "How late did you get in last night?"

Just in shrugged into a chef's jacket with a blue food color stain dribbled down the front. His favorite jacket. He said it unleashed his creativity. "Two? Two-thirty?"

"So you got what? Three hours sleep?"

"I'm too tired to do the math," he said as he headed past her to one of the two stainless fridges and pulled open the door. A weary smile transformed his angular face as he glanced over his shoulder at Eden. "Did I tell you that I love Patty? That I'm going to make her my bride?"

He pulled out a stainless steel bowl of what had to be cake filling, and held it up. "One less thing to do. If I play my cards right, I may be able to sneak in a nap before I head back up to the Lake." The Lake being shorthand for Lake Tahoe, where Justin had his second job. By day, Justin was the Tremont Catering dessert chef, but he also worked three nights a week at a Lake Tahoe resort hotel as the pastry chef, and, in spite of those two jobs filling much of his time, he kept making high-end cakes. The more he made, the more the orders poured in as word spread. And they all seemed to be rush jobs. If they weren't to begin with, then by the time Justin fit them into his jammed schedule, they became rushes.

"You've got to stop doing this," Eden muttered. Her words were barely audible, since she knew they would do no good. She'd been saying the same thing over and over again for how long now? Since he'd taken that first emergency cake order for a bakery that'd had an electrical fire. Even on that first order he'd been pushing things. They'd had three big catering events that week, yet he'd still somehow pulled off a masterpiece. And Eden knew the argument she'd get in return—the cakes brought in a lot of extra income. Some old equipment had finally been replaced, thanks to those cakes, and Justin had been able to refurbish the classic Firebird he'd bought from one of Eden's clients. Plus he was socking away money to make a balloon payment on his condo.

At some point all this was going to catch up to him, physically, if nothing else. It would, even if he did have Patty. When, exactly, had she made the filling? She was supposed to have gone home shortly after Eden left. Obviously she hadn't. Their prep cook needed to be needed, and with their sister, Reggie, out on maternity leave, and Justin's ridiculous schedule, Patty was working at the right place.

"When's this cake due?" Eden asked as she started breading beef for stew. She made five days of container meals for the Stewarts and the Ballards every Sunday and delivered them late Sunday evening. During the remainder of the week, between catering events and prep, she planned menus and typed up reheating instructions, which she saved to her computer for repeat performances. She had the personal chef gig down to a fine science now.

"Tomorrow," Justin said. "I have Donovan coming over to help me deliver."

"Then I can have the van tonight?"

"All yours," Justin agreed.

"Great." Eden hated delivering in her small Honda Civic.

"Am I making crème brûlée for the Wednesday deal?"

"Yes. And mini tarts."

"Got it." Justin disappeared back into the alcove known as the pastry cave, and turned on his music. Eden chopped vegetables in time to classic Green Day songs as she browned the sausages for the lasagna the Ballard family requested as a weekly staple. Easy for two teenage boys to fill up on.

By the time Patty came in at eight-thirty, Eden had every burner on the stove going, as well as two ovens. She tended to hog the kitchen on Sunday, which was why they avoided Monday events if at all possible. Today was officially Patty's day off, so she would be coming in for only one reason….

"Good morning," she said, pulling a scarf from her permed curls. "I thought I'd stop by and see if Justin needed some help."

"You know he does," Eden said. "How late were you here last night?"

"Only until eight, but I didn't put down the extra hours. It was my choice to stay."

"Put down the hours," Eden said. "It comes out of the cake money, since that’s what you were here for."

"If you insist," Patty said. "Even though I'm happy—"

"I insist. But, really, you shouldn't stay late to help Justin out of situations he gets himself into."

"It's for the good of the company."

"Yes." Hard to argue with that.

"The oddest thing happened last night," Patty said as she tied on her oversize apron. "When I went out to my car, there was a young man hanging out in the alley near the van."

Eden looked up from the carrots she was dicing. "Just…hanging around? Loitering?"

Their Reno neighborhood was a quiet one, consisting of a couple small bistro type restaurants that were open only for breakfast and lunch, law offices and boutique stores in refurbished houses, and a quiet, upscale lounge two blocks away. They didn't get many people lingering after hours—especially in their alley, which was dead-end.

"Yes. I thought it was strange, but I just walked straight to my car, got in and locked the doors. Once I had it started, I checked and saw the man slipping into the space between our building and the law office, apparently on his way to the street. When I pulled out of the alley, he was gone. Or he may have been hiding between the buildings."

"Any chance it was—"

"It wasn't Ian," Patty said in a definite voice, referring to Eden’s ex-boyfriend.

"Hey, Justin?" Eden called, loudly enough to be heard over the music. Her brother came out of the pastry room, stainless steel spatula in hand. "Patty said there was someone hanging around the van last night when she left. Maybe you should take a look at it, see if he tried to pry the doors open or something."

"Yeah. Sure." He put the spatula down on the counter nearest him and headed for the back door. "Any chance it was Ian?"

"Patty says it wasn't," Eden answered wearily.

A few minutes later he was back. "Nothing. Maybe just a homeless guy looking for a place to sleep."

"Probably," Patty agreed.

"But maybe you should park out front on the days you're working late," Eden said. "And keep an eye on your surroundings, all right?"

Patty sniffed. She was the designated lecturer.

"For your safety," Eden added. Ever since Reggie—her and Justin’s older sister—had started maternity leave, Patty had all but declared herself a full partner in Tremont Catering. Granted, they needed her. She was dependable and honest, and without her Justin would be in deep trouble. But she did have a few quirks, control issues being at the top of the list.

"I'll watch myself," she said. "And I am positive it wasn't Ian. This man had dark hair."

Eden gave a quick nod of understanding before she walked into the dry storage area. She hated that Patty was so aware Ian would be her number one suspect. Eden very much liked to keep her private life private. It was her own fault, though, that Patty was so well informed on the ex-boyfriend front, since Eden had taken a strip off his cheating hide when he'd had the audacity to show up at the kitchen with flowers and an apology, delivered with the perfect combination of sincerity and humility.

Eden hadn't budged, and after a few words it became clear that he didn't think coming on to his best friend's wife in the guest bedroom at a dinner party counted as cheating. He had, after all, been drunk, and they hadn't done anything but a little kissing and groping. It was all a big misunderstanding. Surely Eden could see that? His friend understood, so why didn't she?

Shattering her trust? No big deal. Being drunk? Hell of an excuse.

Eden dragged the stepladder from one end of the metal shelving units to the other and started climbing so she could get two large cans of fire roasted crushed tomatoes. After a stressful childhood with a father who said anything to keep people happy, then did as he damned well pleased, she had no tolerance for subterfuge, lying or "misunderstandings." Which was why she didn't care how many bouquets of flowers or apologies Ian sent her way.

They'd dated once before and he'd left her, shortly after college. It'd taken her a long time to get over him. When he'd appeared back in Reno six months ago, he'd come to see her. Apologized for being such a short-sighted jerk. Asked her back into his life. Eden had taken a chance, thinking they’d both grown and that Ian had dealt with whatever issue had caused him to leave her in the first place.

And the flame had burned hot.

Now it had abruptly gone out, and that was it. Over was over, and he needed to get that through his thick head. Unfortunately, Ian hated to lose. That probably made him a good lawyer. It also made him a pain in the ass.

Amazing just how quickly things changed once a person discovered that the guy who was supposed to be watching her back was actually more interested in someone else's boobs.

"WHAT DO YOU mean, you aren't taking the cooking lessons?" Nick stared at his stubborn grandfather, who stood next to the patio door of his small apartment wearing his favorite plaid flannel shirt and baggy police tactical pants. A couple quail ran across the courtyard lawn outside.

Gabe pulled the door open. The quail instantly took cover in a juniper bush. "Why in the hell would I want to take cooking lessons?" he asked as he grabbed the bag of seeds off the bookcase by the door.

Because I want to take them. "Lois says you guys need to eat better. This is one way to do that."

"I'm eating just fine."

"You're downing too much salt and fat. She said your blood pressure has redlined a couple times. If you don't start eating right, she's going to sentence you to the cafeteria."

"When did this happen?" Gabe asked, shaking his head before reaching into the bag and tossing a handful of seeds out into the grass.

"What?"

"When did I hit the point in my life when I have to be treated like a damned child?" He didn't look at Nick, just threw more seeds, his movements jerky. Angry.

Nick didn't have an answer for that. His grandfather was a seventy five-year-old heart attack survivor. After the heart attack it became apparent that living alone in his north Reno home was no longer a possibility, so Nick had helped him sell the house and move into the Candlewood Center, an assisted living facility that would allow him the most personal freedom. It cost a bundle, but Gabe had made a huge profit on the house, which allowed him to pay the fees and still have money in the bank.

Not a bad outcome, except for the part where Gabe resented being told what to do.

He did okay with community living, and had made several friends. But while he happily played poker, took the weekly trip to the golf course, sat in front of the huge TV and ate low sodium popcorn while watching sports with his friends, he steadfastly refused to partake in the meal plan offered by the facility.

After Gabe had balked, so had a couple of his new buddies. Their rebellion was driving the woman in charge of health care in Gabe's block of apartments crazy as their blood pressures inched up. Fortunately, Lois was no pushover and had come up with this cooking lesson angle as a way to get the guys to eat healthier meals. And when she'd mentioned her plan to Nick—in hopes that he'd convince his grandfather, the ringleader, to cooperate—he'd had the happy suggestion that perhaps she'd like to contact Tremont Catering, which was less than a mile away, and see if they could rent their large kitchen for the lessons. It made more sense than trying to squeeze all the participants into the relatively tiny cafeteria kitchen at the facility.

The only downside was that instead of simply renting the kitchen, the Tremonts had insisted on being involved with the lessons. Nick would have preferred to have the place to himself, in order to snoop around while Lois did her thing, but this was definitely better than nothing.

"I'm not going to live forever," Gabe said, pushing the door shut. Little quail heads appeared out of the juniper. "But while I am alive, I want to eat decent food."

"That's what the class is all about. Taking stuff you love and making it healthier."

"Making it taste like cardboard, you mean. Your grandmother went on a health food craze twenty years ago. Let me tell you, that stuff she made with those healthy—" Gabe's mouth twisted into a disdainful sneer "—recipes was awful. And your grandmother was a damned fine cook."

"Things have changed." Nick assumed they'd changed, anyway—hadn't everything changed in the past twenty years? He knew nothing about cooking, other than frying up the occasional steak. Everything he ate came from the freezer or a take-out bag. "I was kind of hoping you'd take the lessons for my sake."

“Your sake?” Gabe sounded surprised, then his expression shifted. “There’s no possibility that an attractive woman might be teaching these lessons, is there?”

Not that again.

Nick toyed with the idea of simply saying yes, but heaven only knew what his grandfather would do then. Nightmare scenarios shot through his head. Nick’s wife, Miri, had died more than two years ago in a car accident and Gabe, who’d adored her, had grieved along with Nick. But after a year and a half had passed and Nick had remained buried in his work, with no social life and showing no sign of changing his ways, his grandfather had grown impatient. It was time for Nick to move on, “join the land of the living” as Gabe put it.

Nick was in the land of the living; he’d finally gotten over the raw pain of losing his wife, but he felt no desire whatsoever to try to fill the void she’d left in his life. Yes, the void was dark and unfulfilling, but it didn’t hurt. Why fill it with something that might cause him pain later?

“I want to learn some cooking techniques, Granddad,” he said in an exasperated voice. “Not flirt with the instructor.”

Gabe’s mouth twisted in annoyance. "Take your own damned lessons, then. Leave me out of it."

"Damn it, Granddad. Stop being so effing stubborn."

"Effing? In my day, we just came out and said—"

"I'm trying to be polite."

"Why aren't you at work?" Gabe suddenly asked.

Nick rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to explain about his tool of a lieutenant or the reason he’d been suspended. For one thing, it was embarrassing. For another, Gabe would want every detail leading up to the suspension, and Nick wasn't discussing the matter. Nick did not have a short fuse, but he'd been hot with the lieutenant. A little too hot.

He honestly had a soft spot for the kid who’d been feeding them information and had then so abruptly disappeared. Wanted to look into the matter instead of having it shoved onto the back burner in favor of easier and more high-profile case—such as busting drugs near the campus. Maybe they hadn’t made much headway in eight months, but in light of what had happened, pulling them entirely off the case made no sense either.

"Different assignment, different hours," he said dismissively. Gabe narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and Nick was suddenly reminded of all the times he’d unsuccessfully tried to pull a fast one on the old guy when he’d been a kid. "Come on, Granddad. Take the lessons. I want to join you, since I know jack about cooking, and I can't if you don't."

"You want to take the lessons? You want to learn to make old-people food?"

"I want to learn to cook something healthy so I don't end up having a heart attack."

Gabe scowled at him, then shoved a hand through his thick white hair. "That's dirty pool."

"Only two of the guys have signed up, but more will if you do. And I honestly want to go."

Gabe grunted, setting the birdseed bag down on the small table next to the window. "Sign me the hell up, then. You're not going to rest until you do."

"No. I'm not. It's a win-win."

Gabe then said the word that Nick had avoided in the name of politeness.

NICK WANTED TO take cooking lessons? Ha. Nick wanted to maneuver his grandfather into doing something he didn’t want to do and wasn’t above using emotional blackmail. Gabe still wasn’t quite sure why he’d let himself get wrangled into these lessons, except that it was obvious Nick had an ulterior motive and Gabe was curious as to what it was. Too bad it wasn’t the one he’d suggested—a cute teacher his grandson wanted to get to know.

Nick had changed since his wife had died. Drawn into himself, which was to be expected under the circumstances, and thrown himself into his work to deal with the grief. But after two years, he was still withdrawn, still totally focused on work and nothing but work, which worried Gabe.

He’d done the same back in his prime, after his wife had left him. And the result had not been good—in fact it had cost him dearly—and now here he was, alone, stuck in an old folks’ home. And he didn’t even have any decent memories to keep him company. The only think that helped was that he was with some of his own kind. Lenny Hartman, the old son of a bitch, had been in law enforcement down in Vegas, and Paul Meyer had been a firefighter until he retired. Both men had checked into Candlewood voluntarily, after their wives had passed away, something Gabe would never understand. He’d hung on to his independence until the last possible moment—where it was either Candlewood or Nick moving in with him after the heart attack. Nick had offered. Gabe had declined. His grandson needed to be in a position to get on with his life, and living with a cranky grandfather was not conducive to bringing home a hot woman.

Gabe walked over to his computer and brought up a screen, pleased that he was feeling a lot more comfortable using the contraption. For years he’d put off learning to use one, had allowed himself to be intimidated even though Nick had given him a laptop, until that damned Lois had forced him and the other guys into taking a basic class just a few months ago.

He couldn’t remember seeing a more intimidated group of men than he and his fellow inmates when they’d first settled in front of the computer screens at the community college technology lab. Lenny’s first official act had been to pour coffee over his keyboard by “accident,” only to find that all the instructor had to do was unplug that keyboard, set it out to dry and plug in another.

After that they decided resistance was futile and discovered, grudgingly, that, yes, a computer could change a guy’s life. Open his world.

Make it seem less like he was in stir.

Gabe sat in his chair—an ergonomic model Nick had given him for Christmas instead of the recliner he really wanted, a blatant effort to get him to learn to use the laptop. He had to admit, though, that he liked the chair and because of it spent more hours on the computer than he had ever expected.

Which was how he knew that Nick didn’t even have a Facebook page.

How in the hell was he going to socialize if he didn’t have the gumption to sign up for a social network?

Somehow Gabe had to come up with a way to kick his grandson in the ass and make him get on with his life—to not make the same damned mistakes Gabe had made in the name of professional achievement.

And fear.

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The Baby Truce Chapter One

2011-11-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

The first book of my first trilogy, Too Many Cooks?, will be released in a few days. The Baby Truce is already available as an ebook, but there's something special about seeing your book actually on the shelves. And I get to do it three times in a row!

The Too Many Cooks? stories are about two sisters and a brother who run a catering business in Reno, Nevada. They haven't had the easiest lives--their mother died when they were in grade school and their father spent most of his time on the road long haul trucking. They raised themselves and now they're still close enough to run a business together without killing each other.

Reggie, the oldest sister, is the logical sibling, who does the books and business planning. In fact she plans every aspect of her life. Getting accidentally pregnant throws her for a serious loop. Eden is the impatient say-what-she-thinks sibling who hates being called perky--even if she is a touch perky. She has serious trust issues, so falling for a guy who isn't being truthful with her in the second book, Undercover Cook, is a problem. Justin, the youngest, made a career out of getting into trouble and visiting the emergency room while growing up, but now he's a laid back pastry chef. Or so it seems... When he hooks up with his childhood nemesis in the third book, Just Desserts, to help her break into her former school to steal her material back, he ends up in a situation where he has to take a hard look at his life and the secret he's been trying to keep.

I'm posting the first chapters as they become available. Here is Chapter One of The Baby Truce. Next week I'll post Chapter One of Undercover Cook.

THE BABY TRUCE

Jeannie Watt

PROLOGUE

TOM GERARD CAME AWAKE suddenly, aware that something wasn't right. He reached out and found the other side of the bed empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

"Reg?"

The suite remained silent, and although he couldn't see into the living room, he felt the stillness.

"Reggie!" He got out of bed and walked out there naked. His clothes were still scattered across the floor, but hers were no longer there.

He stood taking in the emptiness, not liking it. She was gone, and he didn't think she was out getting coffee and the newspaper. That had been his Sunday morning task during the year they'd been together. Hers had been to laze in bed until he returned. Then they would drink coffee, share the paper, make love again.

Those days were almost a decade past, but when Reggie had come to his suite with him last night, he'd assumed everything would be the same. For a while anyway, until they went back to their real lives—hers in Reno, his in New York City…or wherever he got hired. So far San Francisco was a bust, but he didn't care, because, honestly, he was an East Coast chef. California cuisine didn't do it for him.

The phone rang and Tom scooped it up. "Reggie?"

"It's Pete." Tom's long-suffering business manager, who took a nice slice of his income in return for that suffering. "I just booked you a ticket to New York. You leave at noon. Jervase Montrose wants to talk about a job. It looks good."

"Great." Tom wasn't surprised to have nailed an interview with Jervase, despite Pete's concerns. Yeah, he'd gotten his ass fired a couple weeks ago—the second time in two years—but he was still one of the top chefs in the country. Jervase would be lucky to get him.

Pete gave him the flight information, then added, "Be on your best behavior."

Hey. It wasn't like he was a wild man. He simply knew his own worth and he didn't suffer fools gladly. Was it his fault that he'd run into a hell of a lot of fools lately?

"I'll call you when I land." He hung up the phone and stood regarding the empty suite.

In all the time he'd known her, Reggie had never once walked out on him without a word.

CHAPTER ONE

REGGIE TREMONT SNAPPED off the TV and tossed the remote onto the sofa, startling her fat cat, Mims. "Damn it, Tom."

Fired again.

Not a world event, but he was enough of a bad-boy chef to get a small blurb on the E! entertainment network. Volatile chef dismissed. Celebrity witnesses involved.

They'd flashed a photo that made him look more like a pirate than a chef, with his black hair pulled into a ponytail, scruffy facial hair, dark eyes glinting. She was quite familiar with that unrepentant expression—a mask he popped on when he didn't want anyone getting too close. Or when he was getting ready to walk away.

Reggie grabbed her red cardigan off the arm of the recliner, where she'd left it the night before. She slipped it on while Mims twined around her ankles.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." She headed for the pantry, where the cat food was stored. Like she'd forget to feed the cat. Mims was as wide as she was high.

Reggie opened the can and dumped it into the ceramic dish with Meow spelled out on the bottom, wrinkling her nose as the scent of fish mixed with who-knew-what hit her nostrils. Her stomach roiled. Second day in a row. That did it. She was going back to the old brand.

She fanned the air as she retreated from the kitchen. She had to make a quick stop at the catering kitchen she ran with her sister, Eden, and her brother, Justin, to pick up her portfolios, before her client meetings and site visits. At noon she'd trade her business heels for kitchen clogs and prep for a luncheon the following day. Full days were good days.

She glanced at her watch after pulling her hair into a barrette at the back of her neck and double-checking her makeup. Please let the traffic be with me for a change.

The kitchen still smelled of the awful cat food and she tried not to breathe as she retrieved her keys from the hook next to the sink. Once she got outside the house and took a deep breath of fresh, non-catfood-tainted air, she felt better. Well, a little better, anyway. The scent of the lilacs blooming beside the house was surprisingly strong and cloying, but not nearly as bad as Mims's new food.

Reggie pressed the flat of her hand to her stomach as she walked to her car, parked on the street, since her tiny brick house had no garage. She would not, could not, come down with something while they were short one prep cook.

Mind over matter. That was the trick.

EDEN SWIVELED in her chair as soon as Reggie walked into the tiny Tremont Catering kitchen office. "We have three applicants for the prep cook position!"

Finally. The employment agency they used for catering temps had taken its sweet time. Eden and Reggie had been fighting to keep their heads above water after their last employee quit.

"Have you set up interviews?" Reggie asked, dropping her tote bag on the floor next to her small workstation. She was still fighting queasiness and now her forehead felt damp.

"Day after tomorrow. Back to back, starting at one o'clock."

"Great."

Eden slipped an elastic band off her wrist and gathered her dark blond hair into a haphazard knot, then pulled a clean white chef's apron off one of the hooks next to her station. She wrapped the strings twice around her before she tied them. Eden was petite, but…

"I think that's Justin's apron," Reggie said.

"It'll do," she replied distractedly. "After the agency called about the applicants, I got news that the Dunmores have an unexpected guest this week, so I have to figure how to stretch what I made yesterday and add a couple more dishes. Then I still have all the morning prep for that luncheon."

Reggie glanced at the handwritten schedule she kept next to her computer. "Justin's coming in at nine?"

"New cake order and he wanted to get started."

"Of course," she murmured. He wasn't quite overextended enough and had to take on that one extra project to tip the scales.

When they'd first started Tremont six years ago, all three of them had worked extra jobs to keep the business afloat. Reggie, who like many would-be restaurateurs and caterers, had taken business and accounting classes along with her culinary courses, did the books for a couple small firms. Eden worked as a personal chef and Justin had snagged a part-time job as a backup cook for a resort at Lake Tahoe.

Reggie had long ago given up the bookkeeping to run Tremont full time, but Eden still cooked for three families on a weekly basis and Justin was a backup pastry chef and fill-in cook at the same hotel. And he made cakes. Exquisitely crafted and gloriously expensive cakes that were gaining popularity and bringing some serious money into the business. At the same time they were forcing him into a ridiculous work schedule that didn't involve a lot of sleep.

"I saw that your ex got the ax again," Eden said.

"I saw it, too," Reggie said, without looking up. She tucked her site notes into the wedding portfolio.

"I guess he should have kept his mouth shut." Eden breezed by her and disappeared into the kitchen.

"A lesson for all of us," Reggie muttered. A lesson Tom wasn't learning.

She shut off her monitor before shouldering the leather portfolio. Her stomach tightened as she walked into the kitchen, where Eden had beef stew simmering.

"There's something wrong with your stew," Reggie said, wrinkling her nose. She stopped a few feet away from the stove.

"What?" Eden lifted the spoon and sniffed.

"Can't you smell it? It's…off."

Eden sniffed again, then tasted. "No it's not."

Reggie came closer, took a deep whiff of the rich brown broth, and her stomach roiled violently. She clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Reg?"

The leather portfolio hit the rubber floor mat in front of the stove as Reggie turned and raced for the bathroom, barely making it before she heaved. She pushed away from the porcelain bowl as sweat broke out on her forehead. Then pulled herself closer as she heaved again.

"Reggie!" Eden knelt beside her, one hand on her back, offering her a wad of toilet paper.

"I'm fine," Reggie said automatically, taking the tissue to wipe her mouth.

"Oh, yes. Totally fine."

"No. Really." Reggie focused on her sister. "I feel better."

Eden regarded her for a moment. "Could you stop by the seafood shop right now?"

Reggie's stomach convulsed at the mere thought of fish. It must have showed.

"Uh-huh." Eden helped her to her feet. "You need to go home and lie down before you get really sick."

"This was just a fluke. Besides, I have meetings." That she couldn't afford to throw up in.

"How long have you been feeling like this?"

"A couple days," Reggie said. "Just a little out of sorts. Kind of sick in the mornings."

"Morning sickness?!"

Reggie met her sister's eyes, then slowly started shaking her head. "No. I feel sick in the morning. There's a difference."

"Oh, yeah? And what is that difference?"

"I believe what you're talking about is called pregnancy," Reggie said.

"No chance…?" Eden asked.

"Who are you talking to? I never take chances."

Eden merely stared at her in a decidedly unconvinced way.

"Ever," Reggie added. She glanced down at her shoes, which, thankfully, hadn't suffered any damage.

"You've been damned cranky lately and now you're puking in the morning." Her sister lifted her chin, looked Reggie in the eye and asked flatly, "You swear there's no chance at all?"

Next she'd have her putting her hand on the Bible.

"None," Reggie replied. After all, she and Tom had used condoms.

TOM WALKED DOWN Fifth Avenue, hands shoved deep in his pockets, chin tucked low to his chest against the pelting rain. He hated rain. Right now he hated just about everything, and especially Jervase Montrose. It was one thing to get canned, and another to get canned in front of his kitchen brigade just after service. Jervase had planned it that way. He'd all but called in a news crew. And he'd made such a fricking big deal about having taken a chance on him.

What chance? Tom had delivered everything he'd promised. The number of covers had increased exponentially since he'd taken the helm of Jervase's restaurant.

Ungrateful bastard.

Tom climbed the four stone steps to the entryway of Pete's office building. The security guard nodded at him as he passed on his way to the elevator. His business manager's receptionist did the same, then ignored him during the twenty minutes Pete kept him waiting. He hadn't even sat down in one of the sleek ebony chairs on the opposite side of the equally sleek but cluttered desk when Pete announced, "It was your fault."

Tom didn't bother sitting after that, since it was going to be one of those kinds of meetings. Pete might be a good six inches shorter than Tom and generally soft spoken, but didn't take crap from anyone. "My fault? How the hell did you come to that conclusion?"

"Eyewitness reports."

"What? Who? Because anyone there last night could tell you—"

"Not last night. The night before. When you told the group of diners how ridiculous upper management was."

Tom shifted his weight impatiently. "I didn't say anything that wasn't true." Rampant inefficiency was making it damned hard for him to do his best work, and it wouldn't have been that tough to fix it.

"But unfortunately, you said it to one of the men responsible."

Tom snorted. "All the more reason to say something. If they would have listened to me weeks ago—"

"Play the freaking game, Tom! Other people do. Why can't you?"

He placed his palms on Pete's desk and leaned closer. "Because the game bites. If there's a problem, you identify it and fix it."

"Well, apparently Jervase has identified the problem and fixed it."

Tom had no answer for that. Jervase was within his rights to fire him. He was stupid to, but within his rights.

"What now?" he asked.

"What the hell do you mean, what now? You're burning bridges faster than I can build them."

"Build faster."

Pete slumped back in his chair. "Jervase is well respected. I hate to say this…but you may have burned your last bridge. For a while, anyway."

"Meaning?"

"If he wants to, he can blackball you."

Tom's chin came up. "He's a money man. He doesn't know squat about running a restaurant—or creating a menu." One of their first bones of contention. "I mean, seriously."

"Money talks." Pete got out of his chair and came around his desk. "Consider an apology. Possibly even a public one."

"An apology?" Tom almost choked. "Give me one frigging reason why I should apologize to him when his head is so far up his—"

"He can do you some major damage, no matter how good you are." Pete paused, then added significantly, "Even more damage than you're causing yourself."

"I am not the problem."

"So this has all been what?" Pete asked calmly. "A run of bad luck?"

Tom slapped his hand down on the desk. Why in the hell couldn't the man see what was going on? "It's been a run of idiots with money thinking they know more than the experts they hire. Assholes who can't handle hearing the truth because they didn't think of it themselves."

"Assholes who do the hiring and firing." Pete pointed a finger at him. "Assholes who hold your future in their hands."

"They don't hold my future," Tom said. "I hold my future."

"Don't be so sure of that."

Tom's head started to pound. Pete was missing the point, and Tom needed to get the hell out of there before he really blew. He turned and headed for the door. "I've got to go."

"Don't do anything stupid," Pete said. "Or should I say stupider."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Tom yanked the heavy paneled door open and strode out into the hall. "I'll check back with you."

Pete didn't answer. Tom didn't know whether that was good or bad, and didn't care. Pete had been his manager since he'd been a candidate for the James Beard Upcoming Chef awards, and once they weathered this particular storm, things would be good again. He could see why Pete wanted to make nice with Montrose—after all, Tom wasn't Pete's only client. But he was his biggest name, and Tom would pound nails with his knife before he'd apologize for speaking the truth.

Let the man do his worst.

THE UNOPENED PREGNANCY TEST stood like a sentinel on Reggie's kitchen island. She walked slowly around the granite-topped fixture, not quite ready to take the plunge, mainly because she couldn't be pregnant.

No. Way.

She and Tom had used condoms. Both times.

So why didn't she just pee on the stick and get it over with?

Because the possibility of being tied to Tom for the next eighteen years was simply too much for her to handle. Yeah, she'd once loved him. But that wasn't why she'd slept with him.

Never sleep with someone you don't want to raise a kid with—no matter how hot they are. Her ninth-grade health teacher's words, which had been repeated at least fifty times during the semester.

No question about Tom being hot. And if Reggie pushed aside her resentment about how he'd walked out on her, how he'd chosen a high-risk job on the other side of the ocean over staying with her and starting the catering business that had become Tremont, she could concede that he had good points besides hotness. But he wasn't father material. Fathers needed to be steady. And there.

Reggie grabbed the box and opened the top. Enough. She was settling this once and for all.

IT TOOK TOM A LONG TIME to wake up enough to realize that the constant ringing was not in his head. He pushed himself upright on the sofa, stared at the cell phone he held in his hand, then answered.

"Are you crazy?" Pete barked into his ear, making him wince.

"According to you, I am," Tom said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat twice, trying to ease the cotton mouth. "Why?"

"Do you recall talking to any reporters lately?"

Tom planted a palm on his forehead, trying to hold in the pressure. "Why in the hell are you calling me about reporters?"

"Because of what greeted me in the paper this morning!" Pete, normally the most patient of men, even when Tom was on a rampage, sounded utterly pissed. "I sent you the link. Take a look once your vision clears enough to read it." The phone went dead.

Tom let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. Closed his

eyes. His head was throbbing. Mescal? Was that what he'd drunk? He remembered demanding something strong to kill the disappointment of having everyone he'd called for a job lead give him a helpful suggestion as to somewhere else he might want to call.

Whatever he'd drunk, it'd been a killer night. But he hadn't talked to any reporters. He was certain of that.

The room spun as he got to his feet and trudged naked to the bathroom. A woman's red sequined top hung on the doorknob by one strap. He stared at it for a moment, then continued into the john, closing the door just in case. When he came back out, he looked around the apartment, which didn't take long since it was only four small yet highly expensive rooms. No woman.

He sat in front of the computer, brought up his email and clicked on the link Pete had sent. Obviously some tabloid had manufactured a few lies, twisted a few truths.

And that tabloid was called the New York Times.

Oh, shit.

In a small but clear photo he had one arm draped over a woman wearing a sequined top very similar to the one on his bathroom doorknob. With the other hand he pointed directly at the camera, his mouth open as he obviously expounded.

And how he'd expounded, according to the article beneath the photo. The text wasn't long, but it was colorful and explained exactly what he thought of Jervase Montrose and his restaurants, plus his feelings on all corporately managed eating establishments. The reporter had also helpfully included Tom's insights into the personal habits of several food critics. There were many, many quotation marks.

Tom slammed the laptop shut and jumped to his feet, needing to move. He sensed the need for some damage control.

He punched Pete's number into his phone. The business manager answered on the first ring. "You read it?"

"Yeah."

"Then you'll understand what I'm about to say next."

"Which is?"

"I quit. Please seek other management."

REGGIE HAD HEARD OF WOMEN in denial buying three and four different pregnancy tests, just to make certain the first two or three were correct. She was about to join their ranks. The only thing that stopped her was the landline ringing as she went for her purse and keys. Ignore her sister or get it over with?

If she ignored her, Eden would show up at her door.

"Well?" Eden said when she answered.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"No!"

"I said I don't want to talk about it." Reggie planted the palm of her free hand on her throbbing forehead, trying to ease the tension there. "I'm going to buy another test. This one may have been old."

"Old?"

"Or compromised in some way."

"Or the reason you're throwing up is because you're pregnant."

Reggie dropped her hand. She couldn't bring herself to respond. "I'll be right over," Eden added.

"Don't tell Justin," Reggie said through gritted teeth. Her brother did his best to appear as if nothing bothered him, but it was a front. Justin was the most protective male of her acquaintance, and right now she didn't need protection. She didn't need to hash this through with Eden, either, but better to get it over with now, while she was still numb.

"Wouldn't think of it," Eden said. "See you in twenty. Just…stay calm."

Reggie rolled her eyes and hung up. Stay calm. Oh, yeah. She headed for the door. She had just enough time to get to the nearest drugstore and back again.

No. She'd wait for Eden and then go to the drugstore. They could go together. Reggie stopped in the middle of the room and pressed her palms against her abdomen. How? How could there possibly be a baby growing inside her?

When Eden showed up twenty minutes later, Reggie was sitting on the sofa, holding Mims on her lap and staring at the opposite wall. This was real. She had accidentally become pregnant at the age of thirty.

Unless, of course, the test was wrong. It happened.

Reggie stood as Eden let herself in with her own key. They were dressed almost identically in white T-shirts and jeans…and Eden's jeans were going to fit her in six months. For a moment the two sisters simply stared at each other, then Eden crossed the room to wrap her arms around Reggie and hug her tightly.

"You're not alone in this. All right?"

"I know."

Eden released her and stood back. "It's none of my business—"

"Tom." No sense being coy.

"Gerard?" Eden's mouth fell open. She waited, as if expecting Reggie to say, "Just kidding." That didn't happen. "When…where…? Isn't he in New York?"

"Sommelier class. San Francisco. He was staying at the hotel while interviewing for a job. We ran into each other the first day of class."

"So you slept with him?"

Reggie gave her sister a weary look. Obviously.

"You—"

"We used protection," Reggie said. "It didn't work."

"But…Tom?"

She wasn't going into the wherefores and the whys—mainly because they sounded lame. And she didn't want anyone to know that she'd gotten pregnant proving to herself that she was over a guy; that she could walk away, just as he had. Especially when she'd made the rather startling discovery that physically, at least, she wasn't over him. Regardless of what her very logical brain was telling her. Sleeping with Tom after all these years had been…something. And if it hadn't been for her realization that she still had issues with him, she would have pushed back her departure. Had another night with him.

"Yes, Tom." She picked up a squirming Mims, who'd had about enough of being used as a security pillow. "And now I have to tell him."

Eden's expression became closed. "Why?"

Reggie hugged Mims tighter, holding the cat's plump gray body against her chest. "What do you mean, why? Because he's the father. He has a right to know."

Eden let out a sigh as she reached up to pat Mims, who escaped to the back of the sofa after Reggie released her. "It's just that he made you so damned unhappy when you guys broke up, and now…" She gave a small shrug. "But it isn't like he's going to want to settle down or anything."

"No." Again, obviously. He hadn't settled into anything for more than a couple years since leaving her. Her kid was going to have a normal life, and Tom's life was anything but normal.

Her kid. What a concept.

"And I guess he should pay support," Eden added.

"I don't know that I want him to." Because if he paid support, he'd have a say in the child's upbringing.

But would he want a say?

She'd been officially pregnant for all of an hour and was already drowning in unanswered questions and potential complications. And she was still grappling with the thought of a tiny being growing inside her. "I guess the smart thing to do, after I go to a doctor and make sure I'm really pregnant, is to see a lawyer." She sat on the sofa, reaching up to stroke Mims on the cushion next to her head. "It's going to take a while to get used to this idea."

"For all of us."

Reggie dropped her hand into her lap and looked up at Eden, who still stood next to the recliner. "I always figured that if one of us got into this mess, it would be Justin."

Eden's mouth twisted in ironic acknowledgment. "Instead, it's the responsible Tremont. Go figure."

The responsible Tremont who had no idea what to do next.

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Blast From the Past

2011-11-14T17:22:00.000-08:00

Recently my editor, Victoria Curran, did a webinar as part of Harlequin’s So You Think You Can Write digital conference. The topic was Beyond the Call: Working with a New Writer. (Check it out.) I’m the new writer—or I was. Now I guess I’m more of a seasoned author.

The examples for the webinar were taken from the line edits of my first book, A Difficult Woman. I went through the original line edited document, now almost six years old, looking for examples and thus reliving one of the more amazing periods of my life—one filled with firsts. First contract, first line edits, first galleys, first ISBN, first cover. I’d love to say first revisions, but no—I believe those were my fourth on that book.

Short of receiving The Call, there is nothing like getting your first cover. Every day I brought up my Amazon page, only to be greeted with a white blank where the cover should be. Then one day, ta da—no white blank. Instead I had a cover. There it was, with my name on it and everything.

The scene was just as I’d described in my art fact sheet. The heroine was spot on. The only minor, minor problem was the hero…I didn’t recognize him. Not that there is one thing wrong with the hero on the cover—it’s just that I lived with this guy in my head for over three years and I know what he looks like. We’d been through a lot, he and I, and for the record, he looks like this.

<------

Actually, since he wears glasses, he really looks more like this. That’s my hero. For the record. ------>

So in conclusion, if you have thirty minutes and get an in depth look at a writer-editor collaboration, check out Victoria’s webinar.

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

2011-11-12T09:58:00.000-08:00

I stopped blogging (and doing laundry) sometime in mid-July, around the time that the overlapping deadlines for my three-book continuity Too Many Chefs? reached their pinnacle…and my husband decided to paint the house. I thought painting a house would take a week--you know, one day for each of the short sides and two days for each long side. Uh…no. Big lesson there.

I confess that I’m exaggerating about not doing laundry for six months, but with deadlines and slinging paint, something had to give. I suggested laundry, but my husband rebelled, so it ended up being sewing and blogging and, for too short of a time, housework.

Now I’m back to all three. I also had an epiphany during my time off—blogs can be short. Perhaps because I write Superromances, I think long. Short is good. Short is doable. Short is the plan.

Back At It

2011-07-25T21:18:00.000-07:00

Today was the first day in three months that I haven’t been staring a deadline in the face and it seemed like the perfect day to start blogging again. My next deadline is two weeks away! Yay!

Life caught up with me about mid-April when I started revising book one of my three book SuperRomance series Cooking Up Trouble?. The revisions took longer than I anticipated, which ate into my writing time for book two, which also had revisions, which ate into my writing time for book three. I revised a lot of book two on the eleven hour drive to Montana to visit my mother in early June. On the drive back I worked on book three. I continued to work on book three on the flight to New York at the end of June. I’m happy to say everything has been turned in and all that’s left is the final author proofread. It’s been a crazy ride, but it’s over and I once again have time to blog.

I have managed to squeeze a few things in between my last blog and tonight, but I was usually typing while I did it.

In May I went to San Francisco and ran in the 100^th Bay to Breakers. I saw a lot of interesting people there. A guy dressed as a birthday cake beat me across the finish line. Some days are like that.

In early June I went to Montana and spent several days with my mom, who’d branded before I got there, so I got out of that little spring chore. My son had gone up the week before us and he got to help brand. My timing was impeccable.

In mid June, I discovered little falcons in my barn—two parents and three babies. The babies learned to fly while I was in NYC for RWA Nationals, and the family of five now hunts around the house every evening.

Thanks to a friend of my daughter, one of the falcons is named Millenium. Those familiar with Star Wars will not need an explanation.

RWA Nationals were a blast as always. My daughter and I roomed with Ellen Hartman and Sophie Gunn—two very entertaining ladies whose books I highly recommend. This was the view from our room the first night. Even with the lights off, the room was really bright.

I saw the Statue of Liberty and a Naked Cowboy. One of those two things I can see in Nevada, but I took his photo anyway.

It’s great to be back.

Jeannie

Mosaic Mirrors Up for Auction

2011-04-29T05:33:00.000-07:00

I have felt guilty every single Tuesday that I haven’t blogged, but between the writing, the teaching and the glass work, something had to go. I’m thrilled to say I’ve finally got my mosaic mirrors up on Brenda Novak’s auction for juvenile diabetes. I currently have two students dealing with this condition and I’m happy to be able to donate to this cause.

The largest mirrors are 12x12 inches, since packing and shipping can be a challenge—miles of bubble wrap—and all that glass gets heavy.

Bead accent mini mirror

Butterfly min mirror

These first two mirrors are very small—6x8 inches—so I call them mini mirrors. They’re great in an area that needs something, but isn’t very large. I buy designer paper, then decoupage it onto a board. After that I cut and break clear textured glass to cover the paper and then grout. The last step in all my mirrors is to decoupage mulberry paper on the back for a finished look.

The rest of the mirrors are colored glass. The wolf was an experiment. I do a few western themes—cowboy boots, etc, and decided to try a landscape. Thus, the wolf.

Wolf 8x10

The rest are flowers, ranging in size from 7.5x11.5 (the gold flowers) to 12x12 (the purple flowers and pink flowers).

Red Flowers 6x12

Red Bouquet 8x10

Gold Flowers 7.5x11.5

Purple Flowers 12x12

The background glass in this purple mirror is the prettiest pearlescent pink-gray. Love it.

Pink Flowers 12x12

I hope you’ll stop by Brenda’s auction and even if you don’t need a mosaic mirror, I’m certain you’ll find something you’d like. This year’s auction is spectacular. If you want to bid on the mirrors, look for Jeannie Watt's Mosaic Mirrors in the menu in the left margin.

My Mal

2011-03-22T18:29:00.000-07:00

I’d like to introduce my Belgian Malinois (mal-in-wah) Juni, who will be seven years old this fall. My husband had a German Shepherd Dog when I first met him many years ago—Chip. Chip was a guard dog school dropout because he was too chicken to be a good guard dog. He was a gorgeous, huge animal that my husband adored. We've had many other excellent dogs during our life together—Springer Spaniels, Border Collies, Australian Shepherds, Labs—but my husband loves German Shepherd Dogs and always wanted another. So why don’t we have a GSD now? That’s my fault.

In our small town, up until a few years ago the local K-9 was a Malinois. (I believe this dog was a dropout from bomb sniffing school. His nose was good for drugs, but not good enough for bombs.) He came from Holland, as did Juni’s sire, responded to Dutch commands and was a town celebrity. I loved the look of the dog and after doing a little research, I discovered that Mals are not only common police dogs, but also Search and Rescue dogs and herding dogs. They are one of four closely related dogs known as the Belgian Shepherds. They have a straighter back than a GSD, so are less likely to have the hip problems that plague many shepherd breeds with sloping backs and low hips. Malinois are lighter weight than GSDs. Males, I believe top out around 75 pounds and females around 50. Chip weighed well over 100 pounds and took me for walks. Because of the smaller size and less chance of hip problems, we went with the Mal. And have we learned a lot.

When you see a German Shepherd-like police dog flying high through the air and hitting a person wearing a whole lot of padding, that dog is probably a Mal. These dogs are all energy. They are prone to heat stroke because they simply will not stop doing their job. Mals are also known as Malingators, because they snap like a gator when going after prey or their ball (or a bad guy). They also chatter when excited--as if they're cold. It's an interesting sound.

Juni’s prey drive is incredibly strong and it took a lot of training to keep her from heading out after everything that moved. She can actually catch jack rabbits. She wants to herd the horses. She wants to manage the cows. It isn’t going to happen—for her sake as well as the horses and cows. But she’s highly intelligent and wants to please, which helps keep her under control. When I make the uh-oh noise, her ears drop to half mast.

The world is better if Juni can hold your arm in her mouth. Just hold it. These dogs love to have things in their mouths. She prefers her ball to a treat as a reward. She likes to sleep on the bed and tries to crowd us out. We only let her on the bed until the lights go out. Then she has to get on her rug. Grudgingly. It’s much warmer with us.

Malinois are loyal, protective, intelligent, and they love to play. They are good natured and want to please. But they require tons of time and exercise. They have to have a job. Juni’s job is to chase the ball, run with us and help feed the horses. She also makes sure that the cat doesn’t hog the bed.

I wouldn't recommend a Mal to just anyone, but if you know what you're getting into, these are excellent, excellent dogs.

Mosaic Mirrors

2011-03-15T06:00:00.000-07:00

The mirror I made for Samantha Hunter.

I discovered glass mosaics two years ago. I've painted for years, but tend to be a bit obsessive about my paintings. I can't stop until they're perfect. I got to the point that I had to turn the canvas to the wall, or have it upside down when I wasn't working on it, or I would spot imperfections and stop whatever I was doing and go to work on the painting.

When I discovered mosaics, it was very freeing, because I could work with small bits of color, which I really like, and it didn't have to be perfect. It could be close to perfect, because once you grouted, it changed the whole look of the piece. The process is simple. Decide on a design and start breaking glass into small chunks and glue those chunk onto a plywood board. It's very much like doing a jigsaw puzzle. I love watching the picture take form and the feeling of satisfaction when I get just the right shape of glass for an area that needs filled. And the beauty is that I don't have to keep redoing one tiny area. It is what it is and you move on. A mirror takes anywhere from a weekend to weeks to finish, depending on how complex I make the picture.

I made this mirror as a wedding present.

I'll be donating several mirros to the Brenda Novak Juvenile Diabetes auction in May. I'll post a link and more information when my donation page goes up.

I donated this mirror to Brenda's auction in 2009.

I really like lizards. This guy took forever.

The Ranch Hand Rodeo

2011-03-09T17:54:00.000-08:00

I spent the weekend at our local Ranch Hand rodeo. It's the first rodeo in a series that features teams of working cowboys competing in ranch style events--calf roping, cow doctoring, branding, cow mugging. What you might ask is a cow mugging? Five cows are released into the arena. Five mounted cowboys try to rope one of the cows--at the same time. Once they get the cow roped, then their team has to run out and somehow wrestle the cow to the ground. It's my favorite event and someday I'm going to get a camera that can take action shots in the arena, so I can document this spectacle.

I did document a few things from the mezzanine where I had my vending booth. (I sell horsehair jewelry and western themed mosaic mirrors.)

This is a black and white photo because my husband had the camera set on black and white. I didn't even know this was an option. I like it though.

This is the warm ups before the rodeo begins.

This is me making my butt bigger with cheese fries. I only ate one. Honest.

The thing I like best about the Ranch Hand is that I get to see my neighbors. Many of them are competing in the competition and others are there to spectate. The same people seem to stake out spots on the mezzanine in front of my booth, so I've seen high school kids become college kids become part of a married couple with children. It's an amazing exerience. I was talking to one of my friends as we watched some younger women dealing with their toddlers and babies while trying to watch the rodeo. I said to her, "Remember when that was us?" She smiled at me and said, "Yes. But we're the dry cows now."

And on that happy note, I'll leave you. Have a great week.

Plotting Away

2011-03-01T11:06:00.000-08:00

I’ve been missing in action because of proposals. I want to get my next story ideas in front of my editor before starting revisions on books one and two of my chef series and finishing book three. Last night I think I finally nailed down the fourth story line, so now *all*I have to do is write it up and submit.

Some stories pop into my head almost fully formed, others I labor over, and there seems to be a direct link to how much time I have to come up with a synopsis. When I plotted Cowboy Comes Back, it was because SuperRomance was planning another Cowboy Country month and I wanted to be part of it. They had one slot open, so I fired a synopsis off the top of my head, using the hero’s best friend from A Cowboy’s Redemption as the heroine. Things just fell into place and, to tell you the truth, it’s one of my favorite books.

The problem with a story practically writing itself is that it makes me think I should be able to do it that way every time. Unfortunately, that simply isn’t the way things work. I labored over three of these proposals for much longer than I intended--mainly because one of them is a marriage of convenience and those are tricky. People in this day and age have to have a compelling reason to engage in an MOC and it took some time to come up with that reason. The other two involve a bit of suspense and I wanted all my suspenseful “i”s dotted and “t”s crossed. That also takes time.

I hope to have these in by the end of the week. I’m proposing three cowboy books and a book starring a secondary character from one of the chef books—someone I never intended to be a heroine, kind of like the heroine in Cowboy Comes Back. Guess which storyline flowed from the end of my pen with practically no pain at all?

But What Will the Neighbors Think?

2011-02-14T21:16:00.000-08:00

I post this at the risk of showing my age. I grew up in the olden days, when the mom stayed at home to raise the kids and houses had one only bathroom and one TV. It was simpler in some ways and more complex in others.

From the age of eight until I graduated college, I lived in farm country—wheat country, where the men did the plowing and harvesting and the women took care of household chores, tended the garden and did all the cooking. It was very traditional. My family, however, was not very traditional. My mom worked as a secretary, trimmed the horse's feet and was pretty handy with tools. My dad had a job many miles from home, but when he was home, he sometimes cooked. Our excuse for breaking tradition was that we didn’t come from farm country—not this farm country, anyway. We came from farm country where people moonlighted as loggers and miners. A rougher kind of farm country.

So, as I hung around my deeply-rooted wheat country born friends, I was conflicted. Who was really supposed to cook? Were gender roles and chores interchangeable? Or was my family a bunch of rule-breaking rebels? It’s interesting how kids are always assessing what is normal, what isn’t—looking for clues, putting pieces together—in a way that we forget about as adults. I liked that my mom brought in a paycheck and would tackle any job—even those she had no business tackling, like say the year she hauled many tons of hay with just us kids for help because my dad was working a job far away from home. I liked that my dad cooked. But I wasn’t sure that my friends should be aware of this deviant behavior. It always seemed like everyone else’s family was so darned…normal.

I’ve since discovered, of course, that normal is often an illusion, a front put on for others to see. I only saw my neighbors under controlled circumstances. For all I know, Gerald Berglund may have cooked up one hell of a soufflé, but he wasn’t going to let his farm buddies know about it. His wife may have been a better mechanic. Their kids may have hoped that no one found out. Now I understand the value of growing up with a dad that cooked and a mom that tackled the impossible in a time when that wasn’t so usual. It helped me understand that I could do the same. I could break the traditions—as soon as I stopped caring about what the neighbors might think.

Got Overload?

2011-02-08T14:27:00.000-08:00

I did it again. I overloaded my schedule, which makes me think that overloaded is my preferred state--a kind of a homeostasis that I try to maintain--and I suspect I’m not the only one. It was only a month ago that I had a book due at the beginning of January and another at the end of May, plus my Rita judging. Totally doable, so I had to tinker with it. A plea came out for Daphne judges. I answered it with an affirmative. I wasn’t able to put anything into Brenda Novak’s auction last year because I put it off for too long, but this year I was determined to not only put stuff in, but to host a page. Done. I can make eight mosaic mirrors by May if I work on my lunch hours at school. I have two small ones done already. Now I’m bound and determined to get my proposal for my next books in by the end of February, right after I turn my sample chapters in for book three. Also, I’m preparing to give a workshop at Nationals with my lovely editor, Victoria Curran.

So how do I feel? Excited to have so much to do. I guess I was just born to have too many irons in the fire. I can only write for three or four hours a day before my writer’s brain turns off and then I have a whole lot of time left in the day. I’m glad I filled it. Am I alone? Are there others out there like me?

A Cow Post

2011-01-31T18:50:00.000-08:00

Maddie Inherits a Cowboy should be hitting the shelves, soon. I’m excited. My last two books, Maddie and Once and For All, have had cows in them. People who haven’t spent much time around cows may think of them as placid and slow-witted. Well, maybe Bessie the milk cow is placid, but in general cows that haven’t been handled much—or at all—are crafty survivalists. I live on open range, so I have to fence the cows off my property. That works really well, unless they decide to jump my fence to eat my hay. I’ve seen a cow jump a four-foot fence with barely a running start. Cows are amazing jumpers. Thankfully, not all of them know that they can jump. So they don’t. Once they learn, though, it’s a pain trying to keep them on their side of the fence.

Cows will take you out, too. If a horse runs at you, all you have to do is wave your arms vigorously and they’ll shy away. If you wave your arms vigorously at a charging cow, she may shy away. Or she may not. That’s what fences are for—to leap over, or roll under, if Bossy decides that you’re on her hit list. You learn to read the beasts and act accordingly. If she’s pawing the ground and tossing dirt over her back—perhaps it would be best to stand back.

I have a lot of respect for cows and the people that handle them. There are many, many sweet natured cows in this world. Some are family pets. My folks had a bull called Big Al that the kids could sit on. As a teen, my mother had a friend that rode a steer because her family wouldn’t get her a horse. My friend, Rox, still morns her first cow, Daisy, who passed on a few years ago. The cows I encounter at my haystack aren’t that kind. I carry a big stick and wave it menacingly. So far they’ve fallen for my bluff and have allowed me to herd them out the gate—if they’re in a good mood. If they’re not, then they jump the fence and rip out the top wire with a hind foot.

Oh well. Such is life on the open range.

One more pony post

2011-01-25T18:29:00.000-08:00

Continuing with the pony theme...

I promise a new subject soon, but I couldn't resist.

I Heart Ponies

2011-01-18T03:00:00.000-08:00

Me and Bunny in the Sandpoint, Idaho 4th of July parade--back in the day

I got my first pony when I was six. I wanted a horse. My mom had bought a Thoroughbred mare and worked out a deal to have a two-year old pony thrown into the bargain. Thus I got Bunny, a black pony with a white star. Kind of Black Beauty in miniature. She was adorable and spunky and not a horse.

My mother, ever up for a challenge, taught me to ride on an unbroken pony. By the time she was done, the pony was broke and I was one heck of a rider. The only problem with Bunny was that she was not a horse. And her name was Bunny. Being a big fan of The Lone Ranger and Roy Rogers, etc, I wanted a mount by the name of Wild Black Pearl or Black Star Lightning. My parents started calling Bunny “Wildfire”, because she was a feisty little thing, and perhaps they sensed my dissatisfaction with her given name. I was thrilled. When people asked me what my pony’s name was, I’d answer, “Wildfire, but we call her Bunny,” thus covering all the bases, in case I slipped up and called her Bunny in public.

I loved Bunny. Truly, I did, but we also had a big old retired work horse named Topsy, who was a gentle soul and really, really tall. My brother, three years younger than I, got to ride Topsy, while I rode Bunny. He towered over me on our rides and, well, it just didn’t seem fair. I was the oldest after all. But when I mentioned this to my mother, she reminded me of the time my brother grabbed a tree branch as we rode under some low lying limbs and forgot to let go. He was left hanging from the tree while the horses moved on. Bunny never would have put up with such shenanigans. I had to admit she had a point. Topsy was more my brother’s speed. But, oh, how I longed for a horse taller than ten hands.

When I was eight, I joined the United Pony Club of America, an organization dedicated to instructing youth in horse husbandry and English riding. I was the only person in the local chapter to take the title literally. Everyone else had a horse. I had a pony. For years I thought I was incapable of doing a posting trot. I didn’t realize that my mount trotted triple time and there was no way I was going to post on her. I faked it and developed great thigh strength. And longed for that horse.

Eventually I got my taller horse—Eagle. By that time I’d outgrown dramatic names and when asked what my horse was called, would reply, “Eagle—I didn’t name him.” But Bunny stayed with the family and was the queen of our ever changing herd. We loaned her out on occasion to families with children. She taught many a child the joys of pony ownership and she accepted all riders—up to a certain weight limit. Once the kid hit that limit, she bucked him or her off. That was that. She was done. Bring on the younger, lighter sibling.

When I was in college, my father loaned Bunny to a guy he worked with. A week later while I was visiting home, we saw Bunny staked out in a yard on the freeway. Oddly, the man my father loaned Bunny to did not live there. Come to find out, the guy had SOLD Bunny. We drove straight to the guy’s house and after my dad finished his “conversation”, the guy guaranteed that Bunny would be back with us the next day. She was. We never loaned her out again.

When I brought my husband-to-be home for the first time, my mother told him straight out that if he married me, he got the pony. He thought she was kidding. Five years later, she drove from Idaho to Nevada with Bunny in the back of the truck under a canopy shell, and Bunny became a Nevadan. An semi-urban Nevadan at that, since we lived on the street that separated the city from the county. She taught my children to ride and mowed our lawn. Then she moved out to the country with us when we bought our present home.

I was forty when Bunny passed away. She was thirty-six. By that time I knew that I loved ponies more than horses.. After her passing, I longed for another pony. I ended up with five. And a stud. Many ponies later, I’ve narrowed the herd down from a high of thirteen to three—Studly, who is no longer studly, Desi and Dottie. They don’t do much except for hang out and eat and make me happy, but what the heck? Once a pony lover, always a pony lover.

Me and Dottie

Desi, Dottie and me

Maddie Inherits a Cowboy ~ Chapter One

2011-01-14T18:22:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from my February 2011 Harlequin SuperRomance,

Maddie Inherits a Cowboy.

Chapter One

It came upon a midnight clear...

As soon as Ty Hopewell heard the familiar voice and recognized the opening bars of the song, he made a conscious effort to focus on his breathing, on the people passing in front of where he sat in the lobby of the Nugget Hotel and Casino. On anything except for that song. He hadn’t lived in the boonies for so long that he’d forgotten that the day after Thanksgiving was the kick off of the Christmas season. But he’d forgotten that every public place in Reno seemed to play music.

That glorious song of old...

Ty swallowed and then drew in a breath. He could do this. He could sit here and wait for his appointment. Or he thought he could, until he made the mistake of closing his eyes.

From angels bending near the earth...

Instantly he was lying on the frozen ground, disoriented and in pain. The truck was on its side, the cab caved in, the headlights cutting through the darkness at an angle that was just plain wrong.

The truck’s front wheel slowly spun.

Bing Crosby sang.

For a moment it had been too much to process, and then he’d realized that the radio in the demolished truck was still playing. Somehow. Bing’s rendition of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” was the only sound in the cold desert night, so out of place in the aftermath of a violent wreck.

And then there was another sound—his own voice screaming for his friend, demanding that Skip answer him....

Ty opened his eyes and he got to his feet. He’d go outside, away from the music, to collect himself. Great plan, but he hadn’t taken more than two steps when he saw her crossing the casino lobby. Madeline Blaine. Skip’s sister.

It had to be her, since the time was exactly ten and she was wearing black slacks, a short red jacket and a black-and-white checked scarf, exactly as she’d described on the phone the day before. She zeroed in on him, although she had no way of knowing what he looked like, and made a beeline toward him. Ty took off his hat as she approached.

“You must be Mr. Hopewell,” she said briskly, extending her hand before he had a chance to speak. He took it briefly, knowing his own hand was probably ice cold. It was the first time he’d met any of Skip’s relatives. The funeral had taken place back east, where Skip had grown up.

“Yes. I’m Ty.”

“Madeline.”

He was struck by how little she looked like Skip. Her hair was straight and dark while Skip’s had been light brown and wavy. Her eyes were green, his had been brown. And Skip had been a big guy. His sister was on the small side, her features delicate. The only similarities he could see were the distinctive high cheekbones and fair skin. Skin that tended to fry under the Nevada sun. Skip had been forever sunburned.

She gestured at the chair where he’d been sitting a few seconds before. Ty obligingly sat and she took the chair kitty corner to his, so they could face each other. Obviously Ms. Blaine was going to run this meeting. Ty just wanted it to be over. Hell, he wished he knew what it was about—and he wished Bing would shut up already, but the singer geared up for another verse.

Peace on the earth, goodwill to...

Ty ran a finger around the inside of his collar and Madeline Blaine tilted her head as she appraised him, a slight frown drawing her dark eyebrows together. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Except for the guilt that was crushing in on him as Bing sang. Technically Skip’s death had been an accident, but one that clearly could have been avoided if Ty hadn’t been so damned stubborn.

He’d reached the point after twenty-three months where he didn’t think about it as much—sometimes he could go several oblivious days at a time. But when he did think about Skip’s death, it ate at him.

He looked into Madeline Blaine’s clear green eyes, having no doubt about what had triggered him today. He hadn’t been looking forward to this meeting with Skip’s sister, and Bing hadn’t helped matters.

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Blaine—”

“Dr. Blaine.”

Oh-kay. Ty had known she was a professor of anthropology, but he hadn’t realized he had to use her title. “Dr. Blaine.”

“Madeline.”

Ty took a deep breath. “I hope you didn’t fly out here just to meet with me.”

“Why else would I have come?” She spoke quickly, with an unexpected defensiveness. Ty was a guy who watched people and picked up signals. The signal he was getting here he didn’t quite understand.

“I thought you might have plans to do something else, to have some fun while you’re here.” Fun. Shit. Yeah, she should have fun while on a trip to settle her brother’s estate. “What I mean is that there’s stuff to do here in Reno.”

Madeline sat a little taller. “I came to meet with you,” she said, clasping her hands together. “About the ranch, as I’m sure you’ve surmised. The reasons we’re losing money.”

“We broke even this quarter,” Ty pointed out. And they’d had this same discussion on the phone more than once. He understood her impatience, but the cattle market wasn’t exactly booming right now—-although organic beef was doing better than regular beef.

What he didn’t understand was how flying across the country to meet with him face-to-face was going to help. To use the guilt factor perhaps? No matter how guilty he felt, it wouldn’t make the cattle sales rebound any fast than they were.

But...whatever.

“The market is better than it was six months ago, yet that’s not reflected in the ranch profits,” Madeline said.

“There are some things you need to understand.” Things he’d thought he’d explained before, but, for some reason, Madeline wasn’t getting it. “I’ve had to sink money into the ranch—money Skip would have had to sink into the ranch—to keep the infrastructure intact.” He’d refenced the property and reroofed the barn, eradicated weeds, worked on the roads. The ranch wasn’t in bad shape, but that was only because of the hours he’d put in after the accident, trying to forget the unforgettable.

Madeline nodded. Old news.

“Feed costs are up.” Which was a double killer when cattle prices were down.

“I thought you raised your own hay,” she said coolly.

“Not enough to feed the entire herd over the winter,” Ty replied, still wondering why they were having this discussion in the lobby. Yet another carol played in the background. But at least this way they could get this meeting over with and Madeline could go about her business, whatever it might be. There was no way she’d flown across the county to meet with him in a casino lobby.

“Then perhaps you need to plant more hay,” Madeline said reasonably, as if pointing out a solution that had escaped him. But there was something in the tone of her voice that made Ty shift in his chair.

“The fields can only be irrigated during the spring because of the power and water situation, so that limits the amount of hay we can grow. And living off the grid, generating our own power, is expensive, what with ongoing generator maintenance and repairs and fuel.”

She leaned back, studying him for a moment before saying, “I want to see the ranch.”

Ty frowned. If he would have known that, he would have sent photos. Real photos. The ones Skip had posted on various social Web sites had been misleading. They hadn’t exactly shown anything except for a spectacular view and cattle in the field. He’d probably sent his family the same photos.

“In person,” she added, reading his mind.

If Ty’s teeth hadn’t been clenched so tightly, his jaw would have dropped. “It’s a five hour drive.”

“I’ve leased a car.”

Leased? As opposed to rented? He felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “Look, Ms...Dr...” Ty gave up. “It’s your right to come look at it, but I don’t see how it’s going to help. It’s a long trip and then you’ll just have to turn around and drive another hour and a half back to the closest town so you have a place to stay.”

“I plan on staying on the ranch.”

Somehow he managed to say, “Why?” rather than “Are you nuts?”

Madeline pulled her shoulders back, making her posture even more upright. “Because I want to know exactly what’s going on. I want to see how the operation runs and try to figure out why it isn’t making money. Skip was no fool. If he went in with you, then the business, the property, must have had merit.”

She was correct. Skip was no fool. But he’d been a romantic and thoroughly swept up in the cowboy mystic. Organic beef raised in an isolated environment off the grid appealed to him. “The property is good for what we wanted.”

“Yet according to you, the property itself is part of the reason you’re not making money.”

“That and the market,” he pointed out grimly. He rested his forearms on his thighs, holding the brim of his black felt hat between his fingers as he met her eyes.

“The problems you’ve outlined are all problems Skip was dealing with when he was alive, and yet the ranch made money...then.”

It was the way she emphasized the word “then” that finally clued Ty in to what Madeline Blaine was getting at.

“The ranch will make a profit again,” he replied in a low voice, his expression stony.

Madeline drew in a breath through her nose, the action eloquently conveying her feelings on the matter, and Ty’s back went up. He wasn’t used to being treated as if he was trying to pull a fast one. A guy who’d caused an accident that had killed his friend, yes, but not a con artist.

He twisted his mouth as he debated, then he looked straight into her green eyes and asked, “Did you fly out here to accuse me of cheating you out of your half of the profits?”

She eyed him coolly. “Either that or mismanagement.”

“Your accountant has the books.”

She said nothing, but he could practically hear her asking, “Which set?”

He stood then, his hat in his hand. Reminding himself of her loss, of his culpability, he tried to hold his temper. But Madeline Blaine didn’t appear to be suffering over the loss of Skip. She seemed a lot more concerned about getting cash from the ranch. Well, that was her right. He owed her.

He also didn’t like her.

“I’m not ripping you off.”

She ignored the edge to his voice, which was a mistake.

“Unlike my brother, I tend to see the reality of situations without romanticizing them. I’m going to the ranch. I’m going to spend some time there and when I’m done, I’ll know whether I need to audit, sell or hire someone to run my part of the business. Efficiently.”

“Good luck with that,” he said abruptly. Ty wasn’t easily insulted, but this woman was taking wild swings at his integrity. “Keep me posted.” Then he started for the stairs to the parking garage.

“Wait.” He stopped and turned back. She was still standing next to the leather chairs. “You need to show me how to get there.”

Ty stared at her for a second, then shook his head and started walking again. “You may as well show me” she said, catching up to him. “I’m going to spend the next several weeks there.” She spoke as if he were foolish to ignore obvious logic.

“Then you’d better bring some food, lady, because I’m not sharing.”

Maddie Inherits a Cowboy ~ Harlequin SuperRomance February 2011

available from: eharlequin Amazon Barnes and Noble

New Year, New Blog

2011-01-13T17:50:00.000-08:00

January seems like the perfect time to start a blog, so in the spirit of all things new, I'm participating in two blog start-ups--the SuperRomance Authors Blog, which kicked off on the 3rd of January, and this, my own weekly blog.

For those of you who are stopping by for the first time, I'm Jeannie Watt, a Harlequin SuperRomance author. My ninth book comes out in February 2011 and I'm currently working on a three book cooking trilogy tentatively called Cooking Up Trouble. The books will come out in December 2011, January 2012 and February 2012.

Most of my stories in involve cowboys, although I have written two cop stories. I live in a ranching area, and my son is a reserve police officer, so I found writing the cowboy and cop stories relatively painless in a research sense. (Writing a book is never painless in the creative sense, but it's like childbirth. Once you've finished the book and get to indulge in the fun part, you forget.) The cooking books have been more of a challenge, although my son did go to work in a restaurant kitchen about the time I started writing the first book, so I do have someone to ask questions of. I have finished the first two books and book number three is currently bouncing around in my head. I hope to have the first three chapters on paper and in to my editor for approval by next Friday.

I hope you'll stop by every now and then and see how the writing is going. I plan to post weekly, although I'll probably post more frequently during the first few weeks as I get the site rolling.

I hope this finds you all well,

Jeannie