...And We're Back

Hello, all, and Happy New Year!

I took two weeks off - one to prepare for hosting Christmas dinner, and one to recover from it. I'm back writing this week, and hoping to be able to blog more consistently this year...? No promises, though, given the Dog Situation is still very much controlling all aspects of my life. I figure when I have work time, I should be working on books, rather than posts.

I'm diving back into the next Dartmoor book, Toly and Raven's story, which, shockingly still doesn't have a title, even 90k words deep. Oh well. It'll come. Please accept a snippet of one of my favorite scenes, and be on the lookout for more soon.

“She’s a bit stressed,” she heard Ian say.

“Well, yeah.”

“And about to become more stressed, I hate to say.”

Raven choked back the last of her laughter, wiped her eyes, and reached for her wine. “Why?” she asked. Her hand froze halfway toward her glass when she caught sight of his expression. “Why?”

He took a big breath, his gaze fixed somewhere over the top of her head. “Well, don’t look now, but–” His eyes widened. “Damn,” he murmured. “Him, too?”

“What?” She twisted around in her chair.

Later – many months later – she would reflect back on this moment and laugh herself silly.

She noticed Toly, first. Wildly out of place in his all-black, hair mussed from his hood; with his sour face, and his hands jammed in his jacket pockets. He was drawing looks, some appreciative, some fearful.

She locked eyes with him. Felt good, a pleasant shiver, a yes, hi, hello, a welcome throb in all the places where she was sore from two nights in a row of his unforgiving attentions.

His head snapped sharply around toward the hostess station, while she was still trying to process the fact that he was here, and she followed his gaze to see the other out-of-place party.

A leggy young man in painted-on jeans, short shirt that flashed hipbones and treasure trail, and a heavy, white fur coat stood with one hand on his hip, the other holding the frames of his smoky sunglasses as he looked contemptuously over their rims at the hostess. He wore his dark hair gelled down to jagged, drawn-out points. Everything about him radiated model. Spoiled-brat, pain-in-the-arse, Eurotrash model. When he spoke – far too loudly – it was with a heavy Russian accent. “What do you mean ‘hysterical’? Do I look hysterical to you?” Sneering, he turned to the person standing behind him. A quiet, composed young man, his blond hair slicked back, blue eyes owlish behind a pair of chunky black glasses. He wore a dark green turtleneck and matching wool coat, hands clasped demurely in front of him. “Do I look hysterical to you, Sergei?”

Sergei shook his head no.

Raven blinked, and didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, crawl beneath the table, or some combination of all three.

She settled for murmuring “bollocks” instead.

Then she whirled on Ian, who’d already put on a faintly pained expression of apology. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

His smile was more of a wince.

“Oh my God, you sent the jet for them, didn’t you?” She smacked his bicep – hard.

“I take it you know them?” Prince drawled from across the table.

“They were going to come anyway,” Ian reasoned. “No sense making them ride. Or, worse yet, fly commercial.”

Raven turned back to the horror show unfolding across the restaurant, just in time to see Tenny throw back his head and fling out an arm in Toly’s direction.

“Ah, there he is!” he called in that fake, but flawless accent. “My brother!” Followed by something boisterous in Russian.

Toly looked as caught-out as he was probably capable, face locked-down, lips compressed, brows slanted sharply. He stood rooted, and that was enough to prove he was rattled. Though clearly not happy about it, he must have recognized Tenny, because he stood still and let him strut across the room toward him, Reese following sedately. When he was in range, Tenny hooked a fur-covered arm around Toly’s neck, reeled him in, and delivered a smacking kiss to his cheek, followed by more excited Russian.

Toly’s gaze slid her direction, sparking with leashed anger.

“Where is she?” Tenny demanded. “Where is my new manager?”

“Oh God,” she murmured, remembering. “Last night, at the tree lot. Toly showed up, and Greg saw him. I said he was my assistant.”

“Understandable, given he’s been playing that role,” Ian whispered.

Tenny was coming toward them, Reese following, Toly being dragged.

“No,” she went on, “but I made up this silly story about Toly having a brother who I was going to take on as a client.”

“Hm, yes.” Ian didn’t sound surprised. “Shepherd may have passed that along.”

“I’ll murder him,” she said, without heat, because it was difficult to breathe at the moment.

The trio reached them, Toly more or less in a headlock at this point. Tenny propped his free hand on his hip, as he’d done at the hostess station, and let his glasses slide dramatically down his nose so he could meet Raven’s gaze, Devin blue to Devin blue.

He said, “So you’re this manager Tomeslav” – here he jostled Toly – “wants me to work with, eh?” He made a show of cocking his head and studying her. Then, the little bugger winked.

Smile brittle, Raven said, “Yes, I’m Raven Blake. Perhaps we could discuss business somewhere more private.”