I've put it on sale for 99p/$0.99 for the next week.
And the photo shows you exactly how I've been celebrating.
Those of you who know me well, will understand the significance of the Gray.
A couple of reviewers have kindly pointed out a few typos, so I've gone through it with a fine-tooth comb and corrected them. You can't please all of the people all of the time, and because it's a story set in England, my characters speak with British accents and use British idioms. That's not changing, I'm afraid, but I've made it a little clearer, so people who are offended by that have the choice before they buy!
Based on some comments about the implausibility of a young woman in an isolated country house opening the door to a bunch of strangers on a soggy winter's night, I've added some insight to the state of Ginny's mind when she did this.
Here's a sneak preview:
“What a day.” Ginny
sighed, easing herself under the peach-scented bubbles, letting the steamy heat
take some of the tension out of her weary limbs. Day? What a week!
Stress was much too small a word for the complete and utter physical exhaustion
she felt right now. Her mental state was no better. Taking a mouthful of wine,
she lay back, luxuriating in the mellow tang, closing her eyes for a moment as
she tried hard to believe in the power of relaxation. How did it go?
Something about emptying your mind of all the unsettling thoughts. Pretty much the whole of the last week, then.
The dratted voice from
her meditation CD filled her head. “Now, breathe deeply and force your mind to
think of your perfect peace place.” Bloody
stupid woman and her alliterations.
Another sip of
Chardonnay would help. No, what would really help was a big, brave hunk to
sweep her off her feet and restore her faith in men. Someone strong enough to
protect her from danger, but with a soft, squidgy centre: in touch with his
feminine side and willing to take on his share of the household chores. Which,
of course, would make him bat for the other side. Her dream shattered as she
remembered the sequence in Bedazzled
where Brendan Fraser’s character had tried to design the man he wanted to be, in
order to win his girl.
Sipping the wine, she
slipped back into the bubbles, letting the romance of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and
Juliet Fantasia relax her as she tried to build her ultimate mate. Good sense
of humour was at the top of the list, along with honesty and courage. He should
be kind, generous … oh bugger, the guy was veering off into Mary-Sue territory.
How about witty, smart enough to hold a decent conversation on most topics, and
completely comfortable in his own skin? Good
start. Self-reliance had a lot going for it; mummy’s boys need not apply.
But he needed more of an edge.
The music hit a
crashy-bangy bit, which made eight-year-old her and her cousin, Carrie, hide
behind the sofa, giggling in pretend terror.
That’s what he needed,
a hint of danger. Her catalogue continued: mysterious, brooding, and
occasionally wild. Considerate and adventurous in bed.
Dark themes in the
music conspired to delve deep into her memory, and she was once more assaulted
by the recent experience: hands pawing at her clothes, lips hissing revolting
words and licking … STOP!!!
Plunging under the
water, she immersed herself in the task of rinsing off the conditioner. It had
been drying out for a while, making it hard to shift. Her hair was silky smooth
as she gave it a final cool rinse, and piled it on top of her head, fixing it
in a clasp.
She needed a good
image to replace the nightmare. Like at the end of a horror movie – she always
watched a comedy show to soothe the residual adrenaline making her muscles
twitch. Pouring another inch of hot water into the bath, she toyed with the
idea of a number of men with different combinations of her preferred
attributes.
When she turned off
the taps, the music quieted enough for her to hear rain lashing the windows as the
storm raged outside. It brought to mind the old song, “It’s Raining Men.”
Of course.
What she needed was a houseful of men so she could determine her ideal type. Like that was ever gonna happen. Smiling
at Aunt Ellie’s recent remark about “being ripe for romance,” Ginny closed her
eyes and called on her imagination to help out.
A secluded beach, with
one of those straw-topped huts housing a bar. Her gaze flitted over a number of
barflies, all superb male specimens with muscular torsos and bulging biceps,
each one making eye-contact in his own unique way. She was excited to meet each
one and try out the adventure their smile promised. As she lay on a sunbed, a
stunning waiter approached with another glass of perfectly chilled Champagne,
accompanied by the melody of the wind chimes behind the bar. She smiled up at
the gorgeous blond, but as she reached out for the glass, the bell rang again,
shattering her illusion, despite its apologetic tone. You have to be
kidding, right? No way was that the front door, not this late on a soggy
Saturday night.
“Go away, there’s no
one in.” Did she actually say the thought aloud? If she kept quiet,
whoever it was might think the house was empty and leave her alone. Settling
back into the bath, she strove to recall the sound of waves lapping against the
shore and the healing warmth of the sun on her body, searching in vain for the
bronzed Adonis and her sextet of hunks. Tee
hee.
The urgent rapping of
the door knocker, accompanied by continuous chiming, drove her out of the bath.
Oh, for goodness sake, nobody could sleep through that amount of noise. Not
even with a heavy sedative. She grabbed her purple bathrobe and dried her feet
enough to shove them in fluffy slippers. The uninvited visitor would have to
live without the sleek black cocktail number and a trowel-full of foundation. Anyway,
she was gonna come straight back and resume her yummy dream as soon as she’d
sent the person packing. More to the point, she couldn’t risk the din going on
for a second longer than necessary.
She switched on the light
at the top of the stairs, and the racket stopped. Thank goodness. Descending with purpose, she coiled her
damp hair into a towelling turban. The
shadow peering through the coloured glass stood back as she approached. With
a final tug on the robe’s belt, she unlocked the door and pulled it as wide as
the chain would allow.
“Thank God. I saw the
light at the back and hoped someone might be in.” The intensely male voice had
the energy of recent effort.
Ginny flinched. What
little she could see of the man made her want to slam the door shut – fast. His
face and hand were spattered in blood. Zombie
apocalypse, anyone?
Observing her
horrified reaction, his gesture was a direct appeal to her sympathy. “Please,
you’ve got to help us; there’s no one else around. Bryn’s car skidded and
crashed into a tree.” He moved aside. “He’s got so many cuts from broken glass,
I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt. He may have a cracked skull.”
Her eyes narrowed as
she looked past him to where the security light picked out a man sitting on the
bottom step, holding his head in his hands and groaning.
The first guy carried
on talking. “This place is like the back of beyond; no network coverage at all.”
She had to make a snap
decision. No contest.
“I’m sorry. My uncle
won’t let strangers in the house. I’ll call an ambulance for your friend.”
“Thanks, you’re very
kind.”
She pushed the door to
close it.
“Wait!” Something in
his voice made her halt.
A beat. “Look, I know
what you must be thinking, but Bryn’s in shock, and I don’t know how much
longer he’s going to last out here in the cold.” He glanced down as the other
man swayed ominously. Something quickened his words. Concern?
“He’s lost a lot of
blood. If you could just let him come into the warmth … please. It could be
ages until anyone comes and he’s in no state to do you any harm. I can go back
and wait in the car.”
His sincerity was
persuasive, and she was influenced by recent events: If not for a similar act
of kindness, Uncle Reg might never have made it to hospital in time. She
shuddered. “Ok, wait a sec. I’ll have to take the chain off.”
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