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Welcome to Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine I wish you happy holidays, and may the New Year 2012 brings happiness and joy to you and your loved ones.

Suzannah Safi

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What’s inside of this issue Author Erin Kern Looking for Trouble—————————————-—Page 4 Author Julie Eberhart Painter Short Story Windy’s Way ———–—Page 6-19 Author Tarah Scott -Lord Keeper————–————–———–——–Page 20-23 Author Brenda Whiteside - Honey On White Bread —————–——Page 24-25 Author Suzannah Safi—Purity Dwells Within——————————-Page 28-29 Latest book trailers by BTD—————————————————-Page 30-35 Free—First Chapter of Six Stories by Suzannah Safi————–———-Page 36-37

Entertaining and fun magazine, Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine is for all readers to enjoy and learn about authors and their adventures. Interviews, gossip, travels, recipes, dreams, books and more please join us and learn about new authors, their life, and their hard work to bring you beautiful entertaining stories. Every issue will have different authors, stories, articles and gossip. Have fun and ask the authors anything on my blog www.suzannahsafi.blogspot.com Readers do you want to be a guest on Cocktails Magazine, email me at admin(at)suzannahsafi(dot) com and join the party with us and let authors and the world know what you like to read and learn about you as well. Authors do you want to gossip and talk about anything and let readers know you and your books in a fun way, contact me. Hope you all enjoy this issue and the ones to come every month. Love. Peace. And be safe.

The name of Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine Copyright © to Suzannah Safi, all rights reserved. The stories and graphics are the property of their creators. The contents of this publication may not be reproduced in whole or in part without consent of the copyright holder. The cover art of the magazine created by Book Trailer Design owned by Suzannah Safi and is not permitted to be used in any form without the permeation from the artist. This a free magazine to readers. All participants agreed on granting their articles/stories/pictures only to be published for free on Cocktails Fiction & Gossip Magazine .

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SHORT STORY

Windy’s Way by Author Julie Eberhart Painter

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Windy’s Way The gate over the front door was the first line of defense at Seth Blumberg’s home. He was the president of our Home Owner’s Association. This was the first time I’d been invited beyond the wrought iron gate. The gate, like the bars on the windows of the stucco, Spanish ranch, was more for show than to prevent vandalism. This was Florida, a place of gentle old folks who still respected the property of others. As the association’s secretary, I had to be there this particular evening for a special meeting Seth had called. The board usually met in our community center, but Seth felt he needed to plan strategy, a strategy for controlling the runaway behaviors of some of the contentious board members. Contentious equated to disagreeing with Seth. I stepped down from the tile entryway and sunk into plush blue wall to wall carpet. Despite an airy cathedral ceiling, the dark wood paneling bordering the long, high-ceilinged room sent shivers up my spine. Seth’s pet cockatiel, Windy, dipped in mid-flight. His gold and pink plumage streaked past my head, his screeching more of a warning than a welcome. Windy spent most of his time out of the cage, often perched on Seth’s shoulder. Seth had taught him to sing along with his clarinet when he played the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The haunting C minor key was a signal heard throughout the neighborhood when Windy went AWOL. Windy was named for his wife Myrna’s favorite song. Before Windy’s arrival, Myra thought the song, “Windy,” was exclusively their song. Preferring horses, she wasn’t happy to share the name with a beast of the winged persuasion. As the bird swooped, I ducked my head and my gaze fell upon an oval glass-top table. Marble claw feet grasped the rug in a death grip. A life-sized replica of a Labrador retriever sat on the marble base and supported the glass with its tail and head. The apparition stared up at me. I put my notebook and tape recorder just to the right of its toothy grin. “Oh, I see you’re admiring our table.” Myrna said. “It’s . . . unique.” I swallowed my thoughts. Seth walked out of the dining room and took my arm. “Tonight’s the night. After we push this through, things will run more smoothly, you’ll see.” He was red and looked overexcited. I worried about his health.

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SHORT STORY

Windy’s Way by Author Julie Eberhart Painter

“Are you all right? This could wait.” “No. It must be tonight. The doctor only gave me a little time. I can reopen the former meeting and it will count,” he assured me. Once the regular members had arrived, I pushed the lever on the tape player. President Seth Blumberg reopened the Home Owners’ Association meeting at 7:25 p.m. The previous meeting having not been officially adjourned . . . Myrna watched from the kitchen’s archway. She wrung her hands—as keyed up as the bird. Windy’s screeches echoed through the hollow rafters in the ceiling. I adjusted the volume. Directors present: Seth, president, Helga, vice president, Ralph . . . “Is this an official meeting, or just a committee meeting?” Ralph asked. “A special, legal meeting.” Seth said, holding up his worn copy of Robert’s Rules of Order. Windy circled the fifteen residents and board members. “Is there an agenda?” “I have an agenda,” Seth said. “I don’t see an agenda. Where is the agenda?” Although Seth didn’t hand it out, his vice president and I had met privately yesterday to set an agenda. “Our new resident, Henrietta,” Seth indicated with a sweep of his arm, “has graciously offered to replace the resigning treasurer.” I knew that if she were elected, only one seat remained vacant. He had plans for that one.

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Windy’s Way “I object to turning the association money over to someone we don’t know,” Bill, said. “What are her qualifications?” “She’s qualified. She works in a bank.” All eyes turned to Henrietta. Windy made a sweep of the room. Once her abilities were trotted out, Henrietta was elected and Seth’s high color settled into his more usual tan. Then Ralph proposed his own candidate. “I second the motion!” his board buddy said. The tension in the room grew thick as putty. I wasn’t surprised when Seth rapped the table. “Wait a minute.” He had to challenge the choice. The proposed was being sued for liable. He’d written something questionable in our association’s newsletter the year before. It was true, but it hadn’t been made public record and the individual involved was suing him and the board. He’d resigned and put his wife up instead, but she had quit. We then bought insurance. There wasn’t any reason to welcome him back into the fold and give him free insurance, although the new insurance didn’t cover his past misdeeds anyway, but we knew neither of them believed that it worked that way. “I’d like to make a comment,” Seth said, gathering his notes. “You can’t do that as president,” Ralph yelled. “Yes I can. I’ll yield the gavel to the vice president.” “Then you can’t take it back for the rest of the meeting,” another self-appointed expert on Robert’s Rules said. “I can . . . I can get it back.” “Your vice president will have the gavel until the meeting is adjourned.”

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SHORT STORY

Seth started to stand, leaned to the right, I thought to pick up his copy of the Rules. Then he keeled slowly to the floor. I put down my notebook and stared in disbelief. Tell me I’m not seeing this. The words, “Someday I’ll drop dead and I want everything in good shape so Myrna can sell the house,” rang in my head. Seth had later joked, “The doc said I had three months to live, so I asked him, if I don’t pay my bill, will you give me another three months?” “I was afraid you’d have a heart attack at the last meeting.” “I’d never give them the satisfaction,” he’d said. He exhaled a dramatized snore. Knowing how determined he was to do anything to get board members on his side, it occurred to me that our showbiz clarinet player wouldn’t be above faking a heart attack. Maybe he’d pop up any minute and say, “See how upset you guys make me. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” We waited. I stared at Seth, gray-faced and motionless on the floor. Myrna rushed into the room. “No!” she screamed, louder than the now silent Windy. “You did this! You killed him!” “Call 911!” “Get out of my home.” “Damn it, Myrna! Dial 911! Yell later.” I spun her toward the kitchen phone, then returned to the living room, leaned down to the table and snapped off the audiotape. I didn’t want to record this.

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Windy’s Way Myrna started to the phone, but turned, facing the stunned association members. “This is your fault!” I could have kicked her. Valuable time was being lost. Didn’t she understand that? Finally, Myrna made the call. “My husband has fainted or something.” “He told me he was a class four cardiac failure patient,” I yelled toward the phone, hoping the rescue squad’s dispatcher could hear me. Crazy thoughts spun through my mind such as: that’s one way to adjourn a meeting—way to go, Seth. Why couldn’t we turn back time, make everything normal again? I edged toward the door and actually considered leaving. I didn’t want to be here if there was nothing I could do. Seth had to be dead. He’d have never let a joke go this far. “Are his teeth out?” The question snapped me back to the moment. “He has a partial; I took it out,” Henrietta said. Bill’s wife had stretched Seth out flat on his back and begun CPR. “Stay with us, Seth. Rescue’s on its way.” Disembodied, I watched them working over Seth. Someone had bared his chest and removed his gold chains and Krugerrand. I’d often wondered at his showbiz mentality, wearing a sports shirt open to the waist with gold chains around his neck at his age. Sixty, next week. He had no scar. Open-heart surgery had never been performed. Too late now. Myrna paced the floor while she gave the dispatcher more complete information. The extra long cord dangled. Three people were ventilating and compressing Seth. This was no practice at the Y. This was real.

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SHORT STORY

But it didn’t feel real. An eerie silence fell over us as everyone in the room found their place and tried to help without getting in the way. The only sounds were the compressions and breaths jiggling Seth’s stomach. Woody Allen, one of Seth’s favorite clarinetists, had said, “I’m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Well Seth wasn’t—really. He hadn’t cried out. He hadn’t made a sound. Just here one moment, and slow motion to the floor the next. What would happen now? I wondered, projecting time forward. The board would feel guilty—name a street after him. “Seth’s Way.” Seth would like that—he liked his way. Needle-like talons squeezed my shoulder. Turning my head, I came face to face with Windy, who pecked at my gold and black earring and stomped his arched feet into my shoulder. What would the bird do now that the music had gone out of his life? Myrna captured Windy and put him back in his cage. Then she called Ruth, Seth’s eighty-two-year-old mother. “Mom, something’s wrong with Seth. We’re taking him to the hospital.” She didn’t sound hysterical at all. Both of us were remarkably calm. Why don’t I feel something? But all I could think of was what a poetic gesture this was. Seth, by his ultimate sacrifice, was saving the association from chaos. This act, so obviously final, was the only way that the opposing forces could be drawn together to work as one. I was kind of proud of our president. What an exit. The ambulance arrived with four rescue workers and a volunteer. They put their equipment on the floor and took up CPR. The previous team backed away. “We need to move the coffee table,” an emergency worker said. I helped balance the edge of the heavy glass top against the sofa seat. They lifted the base; then we slid the glass out of the way and removed the fake Labrador. Methodically the rescue squad worked. Board members touched hands and hug each other. The two most quarrelsome had their hands crossed double wedding style with the vice president. They were in the center of the room, praying earnestly.

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Windy’s Way I looked around for something to do. “Subject not responding,” said the tall man, ventilating Seth. Earlier, he had introduced himself as a neighbor from the farm nearby. “Does he have a wallet and keys in his pockets?” “We’ll get them later—he’s lying on them,” the volunteer said. Calmly, unhurried, they injected him, then they bound his hands together with gauze. I felt something turn over in my stomach. “Get the backboard.” The prayer makers rushed into the entrance hall, picked up a coppery silver dollar bush and pulled it out of the way. A clatter announced the backboard’s arrival. Two rescue workers rolled Seth’s inert body onto it. “Let’s go.” I compared their performance with ER and wondered if I’d be home in time to see it—with my husband. I looked down, ashamed. Smeared blood and two abandoned syringes marred Myrna’s blue carpet. “Hold the door!” We all raced out. I drove across the complex and parked in front of my peaceful townhouse. Unlocking the door, I breathed in the cool normalcy. My husband had fallen asleep on the sofa in front of a detective show. I watched his chest go up and down—so easily. Why couldn’t Seth do that? I woke him. “I’m going to the hospital. Seth keeled over at the meeting. I think he’s dead.” “Un-oh!”

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SHORT STORY

“It doesn’t look good was all anyone would say, but I think he’s gone.” As I drove through the darkened complex, I was the first car behind the ambulance. It seemed right, appropriate. Once again, Seth was leading. The ambulance traveled the speed limit, lights flashing, no siren. They didn’t hurry. My stomach pumped acid. Halfway to the hospital, I thought I might have to pull over. Walking through the familiar hubbub of crying babies, scared old women and drug addicts, I saw a huge Black man hanging off his gurney. He spouted some religious philosophy I didn’t recognize as mainstream. Hospital odors: ammonia, Pine Sol and alcohol—both varieties—met my nose. Where was Seth? If he were running this show, everyone would know their place. I asked several personnel until I found out that he’d been brought in through the back entrance. I heard an older woman ask after him. It had to be Seth’s mother. I rushed forward, taking her by the hand. “They want us in the Rainbow Room,” I said. The nurse nodded toward the door. “Where’s my daughter-in-law?” “What does she look like?” the nurse asked. “Short, pretty,” we answered in unison. No one had seen her. “What happened?” Ruth searched my face. “He keeled over during the meeting.” “Keeled over? Oh, God. I wish Myrna hadn’t insisted he get back onto that board. I told him he was too good for those people. Just the other day, I said, Seth, you’re an old man. Well he’s going to have to quit.” Yes, I thought, he’ll have to quit now.

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Windy’s Way Myrna came from the back of the building and embraced her mother-in-law. “It’s okay, Mom.” “What are they doing for him?” his mother asked. “I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know if he’s even alive.” Rhonda, Myrna’s friend who lived across the street, had seen the ambulances and come to the hospital. She joined Myrna in the Rainbow Room. I stepped outside into the hall and recognized someone from the rescue squad. I followed him to check on any progress. “You can’t go in there now,” the nurse warned, barring the door. “They’re working with him. Go back and wait. The doctor will speak with you soon.” I knew what that meant. Rhonda and I had moved out of the Rainbow Room. We stood in the hall while the doctor and a nurse from the rescue team spoke quietly with the family. I dreaded what was coming. Myrna handed the doctor a clear plastic bag filled with at least twelve different bottles of medication. “What brought this on?” the doctor asked while Seth’s mother wept. Rhonda began to sob on my shoulder. “Myrna will be lost.” “She’ll be all right,” I said, placing a protective arm around her. “She has us.” The nurse came from the room, a sad expression on her face. “The family will be waiting here while the arrangements are being made.” Rhonda and I left.

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SHORT STORY

Sunday, we arrived at the memorial park where Seth would be interred. Myrna held court with Ruth and Rhonda at the gate while the guests gathered to walk up the path to the place of burial. Myrna looked chic in her black sharkskin suit. Seth’s mother wore a designer ensemble of black wool, edged in magenta. It set off her short white hair. Seth would have loved the outfit. I wondered if he’d ever seen it. The grounds were brushed free of spring blossoms and the thirty or so friends and relatives stood between the tombstones scattered with prayer stones across their tops. The words that would release Seth’s soul to the God of his belief were in both Hebrew and English. No one cried. A soft breeze blew from the ocean, ruffling skirts and rearranging hair. Perhaps Seth was truly at peace now. *** Not so the Home Owner Association. Our first meeting was called for 7:30 in the evening of the next week by the vice president who wanted to reorganize the board. Helga asked each member to write out a mission statement of how each perceived his or her duties. She felt that job descriptions for the directors and the officers were a must. To aid in the task, she distributed photocopies of Robert’s Rules in which the duties of officers were described. A little bit of Seth remained. I was back in the house by nine o’clock. The television played low. I put my purse on the desk. My husband looked up from the sofa. “Back so soon? Did you quit?” “Everyone seems to be cooperating.” “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he said. The following morning the phone rang, interrupting me while I wrote up the minutes. “I...I wanted you to know that I’m resigning,” Helga said. “Resigning? I thought you’d be with us until the next election.”

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Windy’s Way “That was the plan until last night. It was an ambush. After you left, I was told they were not going to have any more dictators on the board and that I was not to impose my will on them any longer. I wanted you to know that my resignation has nothing to do with you.” “I appreciate that.” If this behavior continued, I’d not be far behind. The next day Myrna phoned. “Rhonda’s worried about me. She’s sees dark clouds over the house. I want to stay here until I can get the house fixed up to sell. Then I may move in with Ruth.” I said a few things more appropriate to grief counseling than to friendship, and we hung up. Three days before the next board meeting, I called Myrna to see how she was doing. “Oh, I’m much better. “That’s good. How is Windy doing?” “He’s up in the air, flighty,” She laughed at her own wit. “He’s lonely.” “I would expect so. Seth was his best friend.” “And Rhonda’s. You know, she’s very into the occult. Seth has appeared to her several times. He wants me to get a dog. ” “That might be a good idea. You’d be safer with your own alarm system.” “She knows of this darling little pit bull, Bummer, who’s looking for a new home. We’re going tomorrow. Why don’t you come along?” “Are you sure that a pit bull is what you need?” Both the breed and the name conjured up negative images.

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SHORT STORY “Oh, yes. Rhonda says he’s all trained, and the owners have to get rid of him. They’re selling their farm.” Rhonda, who felt guided by spirits closed off to her friends, had insisted, so I agreed to go with them. She would drive her truck, I would ride shotgun and the pit bull would sit with Myrna in the long bed on the return. When we arrived at the farm, I stepped down from the high running board and walked into the yard where the dog along with two golden retrievers and a horse stood watching us. Bummer growled, but when I began to talk to him, he came over and offered his paw. “I’m glad to meet you, too,” I said, looking at his broad brown shoulders and square jaws. Twenty-five minutes later we were back at Myrna’s. Myrna took the dog out of the truck and unhooked his leash. “Do you think you should do that, so soon?” I asked. “This is his new home. I told him all about it in the truck.” “I hope that dog understands English,” I said under my breath. Myrna opened the door and Bummer dashed toward the living room with us in hot pursuit. As we entered the room, terrible screeches rang out. On the floor lay Windy, motionless. Myrna collapsed on the carpet next to the bird and sobbed into her hands. “I’m so sorry! Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” Rhonda moved swiftly between the dead bird and Myrna. She took Windy in her hands and held him up as if offering him to the gods. “Seth wanted his bird,” she said. A hush fell over the room. I couldn’t help looking at the coffee table with its ridiculous smirking pedestal. Then the haunting tone of Seth’s clarinet cracked the air. It started in the key of the C minor, four familiar notes: “Da, da ta da, then changed to the more peppy, “Everyone knows . . . it’s Windy.” The End

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Windy’s Way

To learn more about the author, visit www. books-jepainter.com

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Lord Keeper Iain MacPherson swears he was nothing like his father, but his kidnapping of Victoria Hockley, Countess of Landsbury, is the first step toward the same obsessive jealousy that fueled his father’s life-long feud against the man Iain’s mother loved. A kiss, a midnight race for freedom, and a royal missive force Victoria into her captor’s arms. Hallowed ground can’t save her from the devil that followed her from England. Yet the Scottish lord who’s sworn to protect her is far more dangerous. My upcoming release with Etopia Press is a book that is especially close to my heart. Lord Keeper was the second book I penned, and is what publishers call the Big Book. The term means exactly what it sounds like; a big book. I adore the sweeping saga that is Scottish Historicals. The drama allows for an intricate story that demands plenty of space to be well-told. Lord Keeper is set during the Renaissance when James IV ruled Scotland. James believed in education, so made learning mandatory for Barons and rich land owners. As leader of his tribe, our hero Iain MacPherson fell under this edict and attended the university in Glasgow. Iain is an educated man. However, his education didn’t stop him from taking part in a bloody feud waged by his father against the man Iain’s mother loved, nor did it stop Iain from kidnapping the woman he wanted. Don’t you just love a man’s logic? Lord Keeper was inspired by Julie Garwood’s The Bride. From what I understand, The Bride inspired many books. Not surprising. The story is fantastic. In The Bride, the heroine Jamie has a younger sister who visited Jamie at the monastery to which she had fled. The Bride’s hero Alec Kincaid had a right hand man who caught sight of Jamie’s sister and waited—hoped—she would step off holy ground so he could kidnap her. The girl had the good sense not to oblige. I always wondered what the story would have been if she had taken one too many steps in the wrong direction. Hence, Lord Keeper was born. What better way, then, to begin our story but with Iain dragging our heroine across his horse—and hard thighs—after she got just far enough from the abbey for him to be certain he could catch her. Of course, that’s only the beginning. Victoria Hockley doses up medicine Iain isn’t quite prepared for. Isn’t that the way it always goes? What man is really prepared for a woman? Heh heh. Victoria has her own secrets, but Iain comes to a quick and easy conclusion as to why a woman of breeding would sequester herself in a remote Scottish monastery. After all, if he looks too closely, he might not like what he sees. Victoria, on the other hand, has nothing but questions. Who is this dangerous man, and what could he possibly want with her? These questions eventually lead to the heart of Iain’s motivation, a motivation even he’s not aware of. 21


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I’ve found that my stories oftentimes have an underlying theme: second chances. That isn’t so unusual, for finding love is often about getting things right a second, or third, time around. But a second chance goes deeper for me. My all-time favorite movie is It’s a Wonderful Life. No other movie illustrates second chances quite like this one. Though Jimmy Stewart’s second chance comes in returning to what he had. Whoever wrote that story was a genius! My second favorite movie is Groundhog Day. Some people just need a little more time to get things right! Believe it or not, my third favorite movie is Galaxy Quest, starring Tim Allen. I know, I know, corny. But there’s just something about a person trying to make things right that grabs me. In Lord Keeper Iain is given a second chance in an usual manner that might give even Jimmy Stewart pause. But like a good hero, Iain takes full advantage of this unexpected opportunity and does his best to make things right. Also, like any man, he’s not perfect. But isn’t that what Ever After is all about; a man’s opportunity to remind the woman he loves why he loves her? Here’s a sneak peek to what Iain’s thinking when he first sees Victoria. Iain might have been standing on the edge of a dream when the abbey door opened and she stepped out into the morning light. Though separated by a small earthly measure of holy ground, he sensed her mind to be as far from him as heaven was from hell. His heart stilled with the sudden blaze of auburn hair against the Highland sun, and he determined to learn what color eyes matched such fire. With a nod in response to Father Brennan’s statement that the Menzies clan was rumored to be raiding land to the north, Iain slid a hand along his horse’s neck. The beast nickered and shifted beneath him. Behind him, one of his men’s horses whinnied in answer. Careful not to give away his intention, Iain slid his gaze across the heather covered hills beyond the abbey and covertly monitored the woman’s progress as she strolled along the grounds, a book in hand. Another moment and she would be off Montrose Abbey. She slowed. Annoyance flared. Curse the archaic law that kept her safe on holy ground. What if he ignored the civilized directives instilled by his education and simply took her? He dropped his attention to the intricately carved leather wristband that covered his arm from wrist to elbow. A deep scratch spanned the leather, a reminder of the battle that almost took his arm, had taken the lives of many good men, a battle fought in the name of justice. Iain looked up in response to Father Brennan’s report that four Menzies clansmen had passed the abbey yesterday afternoon. He was in no mood to encounter marauding Menzies on his return home, particularly considering his change in plans. He breathed deep of the Scots pine scent carried on the keening

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Lord Keeper wind. The law forbade him taking the woman while on holy ground, but sanctioned the kidnapping once she entered the outside world. No law would be broken, no war begun when he claimed her. Ticking off the seconds in his mind, he gauged her progress away from the grassy expanse that marked the distance needed to intercept her race back to the monastery. Any resistance would be hampered by the heavy skirts of her expensive brocade dress. She took the last fateful step. Iain flashed Father Brennan a grin as he grasped the hook on his claymore’s scabbard and unhooked latch from hook. Sword and scabbard dropped to the ground. The priest’s eyes registered surprise, then understanding. He whirled as Iain dug his heels into the horse’s belly and broke ranks with his men. “Run!” the priest shouted.

Lord Keeper coming December 2 from Etopia Press Please stop by my website to learn more about my books. My most recent release is the erotic Scottish Medieval A Knight of Passion from Total E-Bound.

WWW.TARAHSCOTT.COM

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Buy Links Honey On White Bread ISBN: 978-1-61235-267-1 http://www.melange-books.com/authors/brendawhiteside/honey.html Warm Christmas Wishes ISBN: 978-1-61235-265-7 http://www.melangebooks.com/authors/anthologies/WarmChristmasWishes.html Tattoos, Leather and Studs ISBN: 978-1-61235-258-9 http://www.melange-books.com/authors/brendawhiteside/tattoos.html Honey On White Bread Amazon ASIN: B006LWJ6VU http://www.amazon.com/Honey-on-White-Breadebook/dp/B006LWJ6VU/ref=sr_1_1?s=digitaltext&ie=UTF8&qid=1323877492&sr=1-1

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Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers tap dance across the stage, her glittery dress flows around her ankles, and he bends her backwards in a graceful maneuver that nets him a kiss. I sigh at the black and white images. Saturday morning, I carry my cup of hot cocoa and my white bread toast dripping with butter to the blanket spread in front of the television to watch an old movie starring Shirley Temple. The actor with the funny nose makes cracks and the pretty redhead bats her eyelashes. I laugh at an old black and white Bob Hope and Lucille Ball movie on television while curled up with my little sister in a corner of the sofa. I watched a lot of old movies on television when I was a kid. They were reruns to my mom but delightful first runs for me. Between the old movies and my mom’s tales of growing up in the 1940’s, I fell totally in love with that decade. So romantic, so colorful – in spite of the black and white images. Honey On White Bread is the result of my infatuation with an era and is truly the book of my heart. When seventeen-year-old Claire Flanagan is wrenched from her father and deposited at the Good Shepherd’s Home for Wayward Girls, all dreams for Hollywood stardom are lost. But when twenty-year-old Benjamin Russell helps secure her release, she starts to believe in a happy future with him…until she discovers his ex-girlfriend is pregnant. In this post WWII coming of age novel, Claire discovers the silver screen can’t compare with the fight she takes on for the leading role in her own life. When girls were girls and men were men. The time period following World War II is the setting for Honey On White Bread. The two families, the Russells and the Flanagans are the people who move through the novel. Both families are poor but rich with love and family. I had so much fun writing this book, doing the research and using some of the stories my mom told me about her childhood. Like Claire Flanagan, my mother was raised by her Irish father and never knew her Native American mother who died when she was a toddler. My dad came from a large family whose father walked out when he was young. My hero Benjamin Russell resembles my father as the young man who had to quit school and help support the brood. But before you think Honey On White Bread is biographical, I can assure it isn’t. Everything I write comes from some little thread of real life. My parents just provided the thread; the abundant amount of information on the 1940’s and my imagination provided the story. And because as a child I watched so many movies from the time period, the silver screen had to be part of the story. I hope to return to the era in future books. There are other characters in Honey On White Bread that deserve their own novel. Brenda loves to hear from readers and can be reached at brenda@brendawhiteside.com. For information on her other December releases and her latest contest news, visit www.brendawhiteside.com. You’ll find her most days on Facebook at www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor 25


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Author Suzannah safi

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Purity dwells within

The old adage about trouble in threes is so true, and for me it’s only going to get worse. I never thought, in a million years, I would live someone else’s life. Live in my best friend’s body or…my worst enemy. Never imagined the worst yet to come.

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Author Karen Cote’ Publisher's website: http://www.claytonbye.com/modules.php?name=OnlineCo urses

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www.design.suzannahsafi.com Matilda is trying to figure out a way to lose weight that doesn't require giving up taste or CARBS! She also loves fashion and dreams of the day that she will finally be able to walk into a "regular store" and buy anything...especially skinny jeans! Matilda is a big kid with big hair and even bigger dreams. She introduces children to dieting in a fun way that keeps their interest and brings them along on a fabulous journey that includes a trip to LA, a red carpet event, a school dance and enough couture and pampering to satisfy the biggest of fashionistas. To buy visit - https://www.createspace.com/3625562

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Author Madonna Giordano

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Latest Book Trailers

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Author Frankie J.

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Latest Book Trailers

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With death threats from drug-free, laboring women, constant criticism from her BFF, Buckhead heiress and bride-to-be, Missy Martin, and a short temper on the rise from her attorney husband, Ben, how is Georgia native, Tate Sullivan supposed to kick her in-the-closet-nicotine habit with all of this pressure surrounding her? The ultimate balancing act, Tate copes with sleep deprived night shifts, her mother's interfering behavior, and her ongoing attempts to educate Missy about not making borderline racist remarks about anyone who doesn't have money or look like her. When a collision with a runaway Golden Retriever lands Tate in the arms of newcomer to Atlanta, Dr. Jackson Greenfield, Tate begins to think her mother has concocted an elaborate scheme. Wedding planning has never been so nerve-racking...or dangerous. Fin the author at http://www.sarahelleemm.com/

Author Sarah Elle Emm

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Free窶認irst Chapter of Six Stories by Suzannah Safi

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A taste before you buy Enjoy the 1st chapter of the below six stories—all gathered in one e-book Email me at admin@suzannahsafi.com and grab your free copy

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Book Trailer Design for all your promotional needs. Visit www.design.suzannahsafi.com Get your own design

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