Excerpt from Snow White and Her Seven Lovers
Today was Saturday.
That meant sex with Doc tonight.
Not only was he a real doctor, but his favorite sexual fantasy was to “play doctor” with me. And frankly, my favorite activity was to spend the whole week thinking up ailments he could, um, treat me for.
Mostly they were gynecological.
Yes, if I was honest, I’d have to say that Saturday was my favorite day of the week. Not that I’d admit it to my six other lovers. I was very satisfied with—and by—each of them. But Doc was my clear favorite.
And it wasn’t only because of the sex.
Hmm. Maybe I should start this story from the beginning…
Doc was the first person I’d seen on that day three months ago when my entire life had changed. I’d opened my eyes to find myself in a hospital emergency room, with the most incredible pair of baby blues staring down at me in obvious concern. I’d been nauseous, my throat painfully sore, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what had happened. Or even who I was.
However, I could definitely appreciate the sight of my gorgeous black-haired, blue-eyed doctor. I’d probably fallen half in lust with him right then.
Doc had patiently explained that I’d been poisoned. And that a bunch of his friends had found me lying unconscious in a nearby orchard and brought me to the hospital. And sure enough, just minutes after I’d regained consciousness, there were six additional sets of eyes looking down at me with equal concern.
Wow. Seven hot men, one more gorgeous than the next.
Doc took personal charge of my case, and at least two of his six friends stopped by to check on me each evening. With no memory—and so no family I could contact—the friends’ visits became my favorite part of the day, especially as I got to know them better. The policeman. The librarian. The teacher. The computer whiz. The engineer. The sweet-faced baker, who brought me chocolate chip cookies to offset the bland hospital food. Together with Doc, they were an amazingly diverse bunch of guys, yet clearly the best of friends.
And these men shared more than just friendship. I discovered they all had a deep sense of responsibility—they obviously felt very protective after rescuing me in the orchard.
On the night before I was to be discharged, they’d all gathered in my hospital room, concern etched on each and every male face.
Doc frowned. “I don’t like it, but the hospital has to let you go tomorrow. You’re perfectly healthy now, and yet… you were poisoned.” He blew out a breath. “I’m convinced it wasn’t a suicide attempt, because your mental state seems far from suicidal. But that leaves us with this: it’s been seventy-two hours, and no one’s come to the hospital looking for you…”
“…or to the police station, either,” the cop, Tom, added. “There haven’t even been any leads I could follow. It’s odd—if someone was trying to kill you, my police instincts tell me they’d be snooping around, wanting to know if they’d succeeded. There should be some clue I could follow. This doesn’t make sense.”
“After all,” the engineer, Steve, pointed out, “you don’t exactly look like a runaway who doesn’t want to be found—”
“— or some vagrant street person,” the sloe-eyed librarian, Brad, agreed.
No, I didn’t feel like a runaway, a street person, or someone intent on suicide, but there were a host of other possibilities, like … was I married? Doc told me I hadn’t been wearing a ring when his friends discovered me in the orchard, but even so, several times over the last few days I’d stared at my finger, even feeling the skin for a possible indentation. But there was nothing. No tan line, no mark, just smooth skin. And if I was honest, in my gut I didn’t feel married.
But not knowing who I was made me sick to my stomach.
“When we found you, you had no purse with you,” the teacher, Bob, reminded me. “And no cell phone…”
“…which means you have no money,” the computer whiz Jacob finished. “No I.D. Can’t do much in the world without those.
It was true. On top of no memory, I had no way of supporting myself. How did an amnesiac go about starting a new life? What was I going to do?
There was a heavy silence in the room, until Doc said, “You know, you could move into our house.”
That suggestion was met by a chorus of male heads bobbing in eager agreement.
It was an incredibly generous offer, and their enthusiasm touched my heart. “You guys have been great, but…”
“Please, consider it,” Doc urged. “We all live together in a big place on the outskirts of town—an old bed and breakfast we converted back to a house. You’d have free room and board, and in return, maybe you can cook a few meals for us. With a place to stay, you wouldn’t feel such pressure to force your memory to return. Plus, if you move in with us, I can watch over your recovery.”
I blushed a little self-consciously. During these last three days, I’d found that I’d like to do much more than cook for these seven gorgeous guys, which was another reason I was convinced I wasn’t married. In getting to know them, I’d discovered that each one of these men had qualities that attracted me. How was it possible that such decent, good-hearted guys were all still single?
I fidgeted in my hospital bed. “I don’t know…”
“If you stay with us, I can keep my ears open at the police station for any news on your case,” Tom pointed out. “Or, if your memory returns—and it turns out someone really did try to kill you—you’ll have me right there when you remember the identity of the perp.” He paused. “And if your memory doesn’t return, you’d be safest with seven of us around to protect you if that scumbag should decide to try again.”
Goodness. There were so many logical reasons for me to move in with them, in addition to this attraction I felt.
“But you need a n-name,” the sweet-faced baker declared. “What’ll we call you?”
“How about Blanche?” Doc suggested. “Blanche is the French word for white. And you’re white, in a way. Clean, like a blank slate. You can create your own identity from here on out, or at least until you remember the one you had.”
Blanche. It didn’t strike any memories, so obviously it wasn’t my real name, but it would do as well as any other. At least for the time being.
“What do you say, Blanche?” Doc asked quietly. “Will you come live with us?”
I looked around at seven expectant faces. It was true that with no money I didn’t have many alternatives for living arrangements, but in the end it wasn’t really a hard decision to make. They obviously wanted me to stay with them as much as I was tempted to accept. This tight-knit band of best friends had saved my life, and even though I’d known them for only three short days, my gut told me I could trust them.
“Okay,” I agreed.
They took me home the next day.
During that first week, I’d fully expected Doc to come home from the hospital with news that frantic relatives were looking for me. Or Tom telling me that someone had finally filled out a missing persons report at the police station. But there was nothing. The days turned into weeks, until two months had gone by with no word from anyone. And no return of my memory, either.
So I made a decision: I resolved not to dwell on the depressing possibility of never knowing, but instead be grateful that I was safe in this house with these wonderful men.
And now, after three months, I honestly couldn’t imagine my life any other way. I was deeply happy here. These seven friends had welcomed me with open arms, treated me like a princess from Day One, and I’d decided somewhere along the way that I wanted to do something to repay their kindness and support. Slowly, I set about discovering what each man seemed to be lacking in his life, and then resolved to fill that need in whatever way I could.
Granted, it wasn’t too much of a surprise in a house bachelors to find that what was lacking was a meaningful relationship with a woman, but it was a surprise to find how much I wanted to be that wom
an. For all of them.
In whatever way they needed. Physically, intellectually or emotionally.
I’d come to love all seven of these men, each in different ways. And as we’d settled into a comfortable routine here, that routine came to include my spending some private time with each man on a different evening of the week.
Seven men. Seven days. To do whatever they wanted.
But I definitely loved my time with Doc the best. With a shiver of anticipation now, I knocked lightly on Doc’s bedroom door, then turned the handle and let myself in. He looked up from the thick medical journal he was studying at his desk.
“Excuse me, doctor. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have this pain…”
A slow smile spread across his handsome face. The game was on.
“I see.” His voice dropped to a low rumble, and his blue eyes darkened to the sexiest shade of sapphire. I loved it when he looked at me like that. It made me go all shivery inside. “Where exactly would this pain be?”
“Between my legs, doctor.”
“Hmm.” He pushed his chair back from his desk, looking at me thoughtfully. “Is it a sharp pain, or more of a dull ache?”
I feigned innocence, playing my part. “I’m not sure. It just feels… uncomfortable.”
“Ah. A medical mystery. Well then, I’ll definitely need to examine you to determine what might be causing it. Take off your clothes and hop up on the bed.”
“All my clothes?” I made my voice sound sweetly naïve. God, how I loved playing these games!
“Oh, yes. The discomfort might be between your legs, but it could originate in another area of your body. You never know.”
“Well… all right, doctor. If you say so.”
He rose from his chair and headed for the closet. I knew he was going for his medical bag, the one he always kept in the house for emergencies, the one which had been enhanced recently with a few special, er, instruments that he only used on me.
I shivered in delicious anticipation and slipped out of my clothes, letting them fall haphazardly to the floor. Then I laid on his bed.
The novella is available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and All Romance eBooks.
Angela Britnell
A Wren in Denmark
Almost thirty years ago as a young Wren, which is what girls in the Royal Navy were called then, I arrived at my NATO posting in Denmark. I was sure I’d be surrounded by blond handsome Danes but instead I ended up with my own tall, dark, handsome stranger and wouldn’t swap him for anything.
Richard was there with the US Navy and we immediately hit it off sharing the same dry sense of humor. We’d only known each other a month and things were going well when I almost messed things up. I was on duty one day and was one of two people responsible for locking up our particular section. The next morning I arrived at work to be confronted by the fact a safe was left open and three guesses what duty officer discovered this security breach? Luckily he decided I wasn’t a complete ditz and asked me out anyway! We were engaged in a few months and married less than a year later. Nearly 29 years of marriage and three wonderful sons later we still laugh about that day and yes—he still checks I’ve locked the door when we go away on holiday!
About Opposites Attract
Why can no one believe Holly and Brett are content with their single lives? Certainly their interfering parents don’t and they decide to take action. The ‘Opposites Attract’ dating agency has the theory if normal matchmaking hasn’t worked they’ll turn it upside down. The uptight British policewoman and the laid-back Southern writer are complete opposites and so will make the perfect mismatch. A weekend in Paris turns magical but secrets, lies and sheer stubbornness threaten this romance before it hardly gets off the ground. Holly and Brett will fight love all the way and it’s a question of who’ll give in first.
Excerpt From Opposites Attract
Holly sucked in a deep breath. This wasn’t on her agenda. The neat picture she’d formed of Brett Adair - short, thin, pale and chain-smoking - was just blown into next week. She preferred her men sharp, from their haircuts to their suits, to their minds. No way did she have any interest whatsoever in a lanky American with a cowboy hat and an accent straight from ‘The Dukes of Hazzard.’ He probably made moonshine in his spare time, when he wasn’t shooting squirrels or ... whatever they did. She would make her position crystal clear. “The only things I plan on enjoying are the sights of Paris. I don’t intend to let the fact I have to see them in the company of a stranger spoil my weekend. It’s unfortunate, but I’m sure we can make the best of things.”
“Hey, you don’t take any prisoners do you?” Brett threw up his arms in mock surrender.
“Actually I do, often, or have you forgotten what I do for a living?”
Brett laughed. The deep, warm sound of it sent a little shiver through her belly. That laugh made her almost give in and smile.
“Smart lady. You’re quick on the draw, anyone ever tell you that?”
“Not if they wanted to see me again.” Mortified heat instantly flamed in her cheeks. God, that sounded like flirting.
A lazy smile crept from his eyes—a deep Mediterranean blue she’d have preferred not to notice—all the way to his mouth, turning up the edges of lips way too tempting to a woman who hadn’t been kissed in over a year. Her belly clenched. She told herself she was just hungry.
Brett tipped his head toward her and stared straight into her eyes. One slight move, and his mouth would touch hers. Oh, God. Would he kiss her senseless if she wasn’t careful? Her heart raced. Would he dare? Did she want him to?
“Come on, y’all. Time to get on board. Paris, here we come.”
Brett took a step back and grinned at his father. “Sure thing, me and Holly here were just getting to know each other. Weren’t we, darlin’?”
Holly buttoned her jacket, grateful for the interruption. She could’ve done something really stupid, there. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not your darling and never will be. We’ve merely got to tolerate each other for two days like reasonable adults. End of story.”
For more information on Angela and her books, go to her website: www.angelabritnellromance.com.
Cris Anson
They Danced into My Heart
On a Friday the thirteenth at the dawn of the Age of Aquarius, I was at a singles club’s monthly dance in my mini-dress and heavy eyeliner and teased hair. And I loved to dance! I was always out on the floor. During the band’s intermission, I sat at a table of ten to meet ‘n’ mingle. When the music started up again, almost everyone stood up and partnered off to the dance floor. All except me and a long-haired, bearded, hippie hunk. “Well,” I said, “are you going to sit here or are we going to dance?” Turns out he was quite a dancer, and he danced his way into my heart. I knew after three dates that he was The One. We married six months from the day we met, on a Saturday the thirteenth (we didn’t want to wait for the next Friday the thirteenth). His name was Fred and my friends called him Fredbeard (channeling Redbeard the Pirate—his beard did have a red tinge to it).
Alas, Happy Ever After only lasted twelve and a half years, and he died of cancer.
Nevertheless, lightning did strike me twice!
I don’t even remember meeting Ed, he was just…there. My husband had given me a single-reflex camera for our fifth Christmas together, and I joined a local camera club to make sense of its bells and whistles. Eventually I became that club’s newsletter editor and I became aware of Ed as a fellow officer and board member. When Fred and I held parties, Ed joined the fun. When we hosted a photo outing at our farm, Ed was part of the group. When my husband was dying, Ed came to visit him in the hospital.
Afterward, Ed knew how much I was grieving, so several months later, to get me out of my I-want-to-be-alone mind-set, he offered to teach me how to use the new macro lens I had in my camera bag. He helped me with yard chores, he shoveled snow, drove me around searching for photo ops. He never pushed, never made a “move”
, he was just…there. He’d merely say, “I know you’re hurting.”
One evening he drove me to a nightclub an hour away where a 17-piece Big Band played Forties music a la Glenn Miller and we danced. And danced and danced. And I knew I had found another True Love.
This one lasted almost twenty-three years. Ed’s gone now, and I’ve grieved again. I miss them both, remember them both with a heart full of love, but I’m looking for more lightning. Because people die, but romance lives on.
Is it any wonder that I should WRITE romance? And that I put bits and pieces of each of my husbands into my fictional heroes?
About Punishment and Mercy
A wanton young widow in 1694 Massachusetts Bay Colony is flogged in public for sexual congress outside matrimony. Her irate father forces her marriage to a dominating blacksmith. But the blacksmith’s apprentice falls in love with her. Two men loving one woman. How will she find her heart’s desire?
Excerpt from Punishment and Mercy
Her father’s dire gaze pinned her to the pine-planked floor. “All you need understand is that as of the morrow, Master Burroughs has agreed to take you to wife in exchange for your dowry of Asa Walcott’s lands, which I have held in trust for you.”
“What! You cannot be—”
“Silence!” His thunderous voice rolled around the large stone-walled room and came to rest heavily on her pounding heart. “You have shamed yourself and me with your promiscuous and devious ways. No God-fearing man is safe from your wiles as long as you remain free to sway your hips through the streets of Dunwood without escort.”
How I Met My Husband: The Real-Life Love Stories of 25 Romance Authors Page 9