But speaking about returning to the past...
I wasn't? Well, I should be, because this weekend is the Backlist Bloghop, courtesy of my friend and fellow author Sharita! See the end of my post for more details about the hop. Right now, I think I'll mention some of my backlist and have a contest. Yes, a contest! I love contests, don't you? I'll choose two people to receive a copy of anything from my backlist. Plus, if I get at least fifty replies, I'll double that and make it four! All you have to do is comment, and don't forget to leave your email address! Simple, right?
Also, I'm spreading myself thin today. I'm over at Cate Master's blog, so go see what's up there, why don't you?
A Special Christmas
Blurb: Christmas is coming to Prohibition era Chicago, and two young immigrants are about to have their world rocked. When Florian and Nick meet by chance in a speakeasy in Romeoville, their worlds will never be the same. Is it Chance, or has Destiny brought them together?
Excerpt: Florian Donati could charm any woman with a single glance. One flutter of his fabulous baby blues was enough to induce cardiac arrest among the strongest females. One warm glance could halt all traffic within a thirty yard radius, never mind that disarming smile. His lips alone could make a nun regret her vows of chastity. Black wavy hair, free from artificial intervention, and a dimpled chin completed the perfection that was the twenty-year old Florian.
Florian remained blissfully unaware of his charms, for he was possessed of an almost child-like innocence, set within the body of a god. He was graced with a sweet and generous disposition, and the patience of a saint. As well as an undying love for the greatest singer who'd ever lived — the late Enrico Caruso.
When Caruso died, in August of 1921, the sixteen-year-old Florian had been devastated. He'd wanted to attend the funeral, in order to pay his respects. But that was logistically impossible, as services had been held in Naples, in the old country, home to his family for many generations. So Florian had to content himself with holding a private memorial service at the dry cleaners which his family owned and where he worked, in Cicero, Illinois. The only other person in attendance also worked there — his co-worker and friend, Loria.
The Donati family were long-time friends of Johnny Torrio — and in Cicero, that meant a great deal. The crime lord had been instrumental in their being in the dry cleaning business. He had brought them from New York with him where he had given them the funds for their first store —Donati's Dry Cleaning Emporium, on South Whicker— and they were very grateful to him. He helped them to buy the store in Cicero, and recommended the establishment to all of his colleagues. When circumstances forced Torrio into taking early retirement in 1925 (after nearly being killed by a would-be assassin, he decided that Florida possessed a certain charm), his business interests became the domain of his associate, the amiable and well-dressed Alphonse Capone. And just as Capone inherited Torrio's territory, so did the Donatis inherit Capone's dry cleaning.
The silver bell attached to the shop door tinkled whenever it was opened, signaling the advent of a customer. During the summer, the front door, as well as the back, remained open, mostly due to the heat from the equipment in the back room where the actual cleaning and pressing was done. This heat would build up until it virtually flooded every nook and cranny of the emporium with an intense warmth that was almost infernal. But during the winter, the store provided a welcome respite from the fierce Midwestern cold without.
Florian did not work the equipment, although he'd been around it all of his life. That was Loria's job. She also waited on the customers who came into the store, took their clothes and tagged them, checking them carefully for rips and tears, loose buttons that might otherwise meet an untimely end if not taken care of, and she supervised the dry cleaning that was actually going on in the back. She retrieved the clean clothes for returning customers, and she took their money. Florian's job was to keep the floor swept and the windows clean, keep fresh flowers upon the counter, and to help Loria with heavy lifting should she require his assistance. But his primary duty was to radiate sunshine, to make the customers feel at home — and to sing. Although he was no Caruso, and he had no desire to follow in his idol's illustrious footsteps, he had a sweet untrained voice, somewhere in the baritone range, and he was the delight of everyone that stepped foot inside Donati's.
Loria had been bugging him all morning about his singing. Not that she disliked it, far from it. She loved to hear her friend sing, she would listen to him twenty-four hours a day if she could. No, it was nothing against his ability to carry a tune; it was his choice of material. For here it was, almost Christmas, and he refused to sing any Christmas carols, preferring instead to favor her either with selections from his favorite operas, or with the Italian melodies he had grown up with.
"Uccello," she protested, leaning against the counter, watching him sweep the already immaculate floor. He was such a perfectionist. Uccello was the nickname he had acquired as a young child, when first he began to sing. Uccello canterino bello. Pretty songbird. "Uccello, just a little something for Christmas, for me?" The thirty-something blonde reached out as he came within reach and punched his shoulder lightly, in her typical Loria manner.
Florian was an accommodating guy, but he also had a bit of a mischievous streak in him. In fact, he was a very playful fellow. Pausing in his work, he wound his arms about the broom, as if it were a lover, and began to serenade her in his native tongue.
"Sul mare luccica, l'astro d'argento," he crooned, his beautiful blue eyes so expressive that Loria seemed about to cry. He sang to her of the sea, and the wind, and a silver star. By the time he got to the chorus, his heartfelt "Santa Lucia" did indeed bring tears to her eyes. She wiped at them unabashedly with the corner of her work apron. This was the nature of their relationship — nothing romantic, simple friendship. At times, Loria was like a second mother to Florian, having known him since he was just a boy.
The shop bell tinkled, but Florian continued to sing. He was used to an audience, and most of the customers were used to his singing, never interrupting his arias for something so crass as business. They invariably preferred that he finish before they proceeded. This customer was no exception.
Only when the last note was reverberating through the cozy shop, did he turn to find himself the object of admiration of a swarthy, elegantly dressed man. This man was flanked by two others in dark suits, obviously subordinates. Their professional glance never stopped moving about the shop, as if they were anticipating an ambush. The jagged scar, which cut diagonally across the first man's cheek, made his identity a surety.
For Love of Max
Blurb: Life is truly beautiful! Richard actually asked me to marry him, do you believe it? Of course there’s a small hurdle we have to cross – namely that gay marriage isn’t legal here in Missouri. But it’s a start, right?
Things are looking up for us, now that I know the truth about Richard. Our careers are doing well, we’re blissfully happy together, and Mother has given us her blessing! My sister Diana is going through boyfriends like some people change clothes, I wonder if she’ll ever find Mr. Right? Cat’s cousin has turned out to be a real interesting character, and the most interesting thing is – he’s a werewolf! And more disturbing than that, I think that maybe my father (that shadowy figure who’s never figured in my life) might just be someone named Jason. It’s a long story.
Just when I thought I had things figured out, they change, and I find out that what I thought I knew was just so much nonsense. In other words – lies. Who can I trust? Other than Richard, of course. And what should I believe? And why does it seem like the world is trying to shake me out of my lycanthropic closet?
What’s a gay werewolf to do?
Excerpt: "Max, quit wiggling and stand still!" Richard admonishes me, "or I'm going to get mascara in your eye, and that won't feel good at all. Not to mention it might get infected." Obediently, I still my movements. I don't relish having that wand shoved into my wide open orb. Or anywhere else, for that matter. And as squeamish as I am about germs, I've no desire to find myself fighting some sort of ocular infection either.
I'm not very sure about this, not sure at all. Yet I've allowed myself to be talked into it. Naturally. My silver-tongued boy of mine can talk me into just about anything. This can't be news to any one of you, whether you've been following this tale from the beginning, or arrived at any point in between. Max in Richard's hands is simply Silly Putty.
"There!" he exclaims with satisfaction, standing back to admire his handiwork. I can see by the gleam in his eyes he's very pleased with the result. Lust exudes from every pore as he scans my form. I pirouette prettily for his inspection and delectation as we stand together in our bedroom. I'm garbed in an ensemble consisting of a red silk corset, black garters, strategically torn black fishnets, and black platforms which if I'm lucky I won't fall from. I also have a face full of cosmetics—white foundation, blue shadow, kohl mascara, and eyeliner enough for several people. I draw the line at lipstick, though; I find the texture of it abhorrent on my lips. I don't even care for ChapStick. Richard accedes to my wishes. Says he prefers my natural shade anyway. It makes it that much easier to kiss me, which he proceeds to demonstrate. And if you haven't guessed from that description what we are about, it's Rocky Horror Picture Show night, and I'm dressed as Doctor Frank-N-Furter. Richard's been trying to get me to do this for some time now, and I've finally given in. Or given up. Surrendered. Cried uncle. However you want to say it, I've done it. Richard will play Rocky, of course, in a tight gold lamé Speedo which makes my blood pressure rise just looking at it, causing other things to rise as well.
"You're sure it's not too cold for that?" I ask, nodding at his skimpy costume.
"I have you to keep me warm, sweet thing." How can I argue with that? I can't, of course.
Not that I intend to let him walk out of the house like that; he's going to wear a long coat over the requisite white bandages, both of which only come off inside the theatre itself, and only to the gaze of the Rocky Horror aficionados. I myself have a black cloak, ala the mad doctor, and I won't take it off 'til then either. Unless I regain my sanity in the meantime, and refuse to take it off at all. Is that very likely? You tell me.
"You know something," he says, his eyes continuing to caress my costumed figure blatantly, "I think if you offered yourself up for the Virgin Auction, you'd probably fetch a good price. I'd certainly bid on you."
"Fat chance of that," I snort derisively, "I know better now. And besides, I no longer qualify as a virgin, as you very well know."
He smirks at me in return. "I've quite taken care of that, haven't I?"
"Very funny, that's not what I meant, and you know it. Besides, I wasn't a virgin when we met, if you'll recall. You didn't seem to object then, now did you? No, I was talking about the first time we went to see Rocky Horror, which would be the only time that we were actually virgins. In that respect, that is."
He moves closer, his arms sliding around me, his hands caressing my buttocks through the medium of the silken material between us. "You wouldn't even dress up," he remembers, a soft smile gracing his face.
"No, I wouldn't." No argument there.
"No, you wouldn't," he echoes, his lips running softly over mine, "and if you want to be technical, we didn't even get to see it, did we?"
No, we didn't. All my fault. That time.
Don't forget - less than fifty comments, two lucky winners. More than fifty - four winners! You have until midnight Sunday to enter!
Now, on to the Blog Hop!