Chat tonight--and excerpt

I'm chatting tonight (Wednesday October 25) from 8-10 PM EST at Romance at Heart with my good friend author Shawna Moore.

Click here for access: http://romanceatheart.com/en/cgi-bin/chat.pl

Shawna will be discussing her blazingly hot Venus Press release Deep Undercover while I'll be discussing Visions before Midnight (Book Seven in the Oberon series) which is set during the Halloween/Samhain season.

Fitting, n'est pas?

And, just to get you in the mood, here's an excerpt...

In this scene, Erin recalls the somewhat drunken one-night-stand she had with Chay several months earlier...

Erin watched from the wings as Chay made his presentation to the parents. He spoke quietly, almost hesitantly, but she could tell just by looking at him that it was not from a lack of preparation or any kind of nervousness. There was no tension whatsoever in his body. He looked graceful, relaxed, completely at ease; as though he’d been born to speak before crowds of people. And, somehow, his diffident manner only compelled his audience to pay closer attention to his words.

Maybe it was him, or maybe it was his subject matter. She could tell it was a topic he cared about. He sounded passionate, knowledgeable, intelligent, authoritative and yet modest. Most surprisingly, for once, his attempts at humor did not seem at all out of place. His jokes were like subtle spices sprinkled throughout his speech. The laughter they elicited warmed and softened the crowd, and made them even more eager to be charmed.

Listening to him, Erin began to think he could talk anyone into anything. Or, out of anything. And with that thought came an unexpected spark of anger.

Maybe she’d been beating herself up too much, over their encounter last Spring. Maybe she hadn’t been so much weak as unwary. Maybe it was his fault they’d ended up in bed, only hours after they’d met.

She’d been so tired that night, and so completely demoralized over Melissa’s defection. When she awoke the next morning, she was face to face with a stranger, and with no clear recollection of the events that had led to his being there.

She had begged him to stay––she remembered that part pretty clearly––and she remembered most of what happened afterwards. But before that? Well, that’s where things got fuzzy. As far as she could recall, she’d invited him home, plied him with the promise of coffee, and then...

And then, she didn’t know. He’d been about to leave. She was pretty sure he’d been about to leave, almost positive they’d said their good-byes. Why hadn’t he gone?

She knew that at some point she’d thought about kissing him. Thought about straddling his lap, taking his face between her hands and...

Oh, hell. She’d jumped him. She’d brought him home and jumped him. That had to be the way it happened. It was the only conclusion she could draw. For four months it was the only conclusion she’d believed possible.

But, maybe there’d been something missing from that equation.

He glanced over, just then; saw her, and smiled. Her stomach did a funny little flip. Oh, God, he’s hot.

His long hair was loose tonight, except for two, narrow braids, one on either side of his face. He wore jeans and boots and a casual shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled just below his elbows. A wide strip of beaded leather encircled one wrist and a small, familiar looking fringed bag, also leather, hung from his neck.

But, good as he looked right now, she couldn’t help remembering how much better he’d looked last May, stark naked in her bed...

She’d been flushed and trembling, and was once again on the verge of begging, by the time they’d shed most of their clothes. It seemed her shyness had vanished right along with them. It was that look in his eyes when he gazed at her that had done it. True, it had dismayed her, at first, but not anymore. For how could she feel anything but beautiful, when he looked at her with such hot approval?

She groaned with impatience as he stood and stripped out of his jeans. He was taking so long to get ready––an interminable time––and she was aching for him. She needed him now!

He glanced at her and their eyes locked. The air between them seemed charged with some indefinable energy. For a long moment he stood motionless, smiling down at her, while she stared back at him and the room spun in dizzy circles around them both.

How on earth had he come to be here? She felt like the winning contestant on some bizarre reality show; one that hooked up random strangers, matching demi-gods with ordinary women to see what would happen.

What had happened was that she’d become instantly infatuated. She was quite certain she’d never seen, nor even imagined, anyone more beautiful. He was perfect. Absolutely and totally–

"Did you say something?" he asked at last.

She shook her head. God, I hope not. It would be too awful if she’d spoken any of those last thoughts out loud. He moved closer, leaning over her, imprisoning her with his arms, and she lost her breath.

His eyes were twinkling. "Are you sure?"

No, not really. She met his eyes, saw the mischief there, and almost groaned again. Oh, lord, he was going to make her beg, again, wasn’t he?

"I think you did, you know," he murmured, lowering his voice as he lowered himself on top of her. "I’m pretty sure I heard you."

He smelled incredible, smoky and male. The room spun faster. "Do you want to know what it was you said?"

Resigned, she nodded.

He moved his mouth to within inches of her ear and whispered, "I think what you said was: You’re beautiful. And, even though we’ve only just met, I have to have you." Then he pulled back a little and looked at her. "Was that it? Was that what you said?"

She sighed, swallowed hard and answered, "Yes."

His eyes widened in surprise. "It was, huh?" He straightened his arms, raising himself away from her. He cocked his head to the side and gazed down at her. "You know, you just messed up what might have been my best line yet."

She frowned in confusion, missing the warmth of him so much, she nearly cried. "How did I do that?

Smiling, he dipped his head to kiss her nose. "Well, what you were supposed to say was something like, ‘that wasn’t me, it must have been you.’ And then I’d say, ‘you’re right, it was me.’"

Erin blinked in confusion. Had she missed something? "But, you didn’t say that, either. Did you?"

Chay laughed. "No. It’s what I’ve been thinking, though. It’s pretty much all I’ve been thinking, ever since you first ran into me, back at the bar."

Well, that was interesting. "Why didn’t you say it, then?"

He shrugged. "It didn’t exactly seem like the best way to start a conversation with a beautiful lady. I figured you might throw that very strange, blue drink of yours in my face if I opened with a line like that."

"Hmm. Good point." She probably would’ve, at that. She ran her hands up his arms and across his shoulders, thrilling to the feel of him. She locked her hands at the back of his neck and smiled. "What if you tried it now?"

Once more, he bent his head and kissed her, first on the mouth, and then twice more, once on each breast, as he said, "You’re so very, very, very beautiful." When he raised his head again, he was smiling, too. "Can I please have you?"

His gold eyes glittered cat-like in the lamplight and she was suddenly too short of breath to speak.

© copyright 2005 PG Forte All rights reserved.

Summer Blowout Chat

Summer Blowout Chat at Venus Press

The Venus Press authors will be letting off steam for three full days this month (September 20, 21 & 22 from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. EST) as we celebrate the end of Summer. I’ll be chatting from on Thursday, September 21 from Noon to One p.m. Join me as I discuss my recent VP release, Waiting for the Big One. Since Gabby, my heroine, knows a lot about Astrology, she’s decided that one lucky winner should be chosen to receive a full-color jpg file of their Natal Chart (courtesy of my wonderful husband).

The chart will look something like this one, which is actually Grace Kelly's natal chart:

(click on the chart to read an excerpt from Waiting for the Big One)

The Summer Blowout Chat Party will take place at VP Chatters Yahoo Group

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/VenusPressChatters/

For more chances to win a chart, or other prizes, subscribe to my newsletter or join my newsgroup by clicking on the links below...

Click to Subscribe to My Newsletter


Click to join my newsgroup

Pretty in Pink

Don't you just love it when you get a new toy?

Okay, so maybe toy isn't quite the right word to use. The h/h of my current WIP just got back from a trip to Babeland, where they did get some toys, but me...I got something just as good. A pretty new banner, courtesy of Holly and crew at TRS

Check it out...

And now, because I love a good taste...er, I mean tease, here's an sneak peek at Love, from A to Z which is the second book in my LA series and the sequel to last month's release, Waiting for the Big One.

In this scene, in an effort to settle the question of who gets to tie who up first, April and Zach go bowling...

The noise inside the Lucky Strike Lanes bowling alley was deafening. Balls clattered and whirred along the alleys, pins crashed and tumbled as they were swept away. I ran my tongue nervously over lips that were suddenly dry, aware of every jittering, jarring vibration as it echoed deep inside me.

I arched an eyebrow at Zach. "This is your idea for how to settle the bondage issue? We’re going bowling?"

He smiled. "Why not? It’s simple, uncomplicated, it begins with a B. It’ll be fun."

"Fun, huh?" There was that word again. "How do I know this isn’t a trick? How do I know that you’re not an expert bowler?"

Zach gazed at me sadly. "You have a very suspicious mind, don’t you? I’m not an expert bowler. You’ll just have to take my word for it. I’m guessing you’re not one either. But I figure, since just about everyone’s bowled at least a few times, we’re probably even. Neither of us has an obvious advantage. If you can think of something more fair than that, go for it."

"I suppose you have a point." But, just then, another ball hit the boards. Fluttering waves of sensation washed through me and I realized Zach’s point, if he had one, was moot. Either he was mistaken or he was lying, because, thanks to the little gift he’d presented me with after one of our earlier stops, one of us had a very big advantage right now––and it wasn’t me.

We’d gone clothes shopping first, at Beverly Center, where I’d picked out several outfits to tide me over for the next few days—just in case. Then we took Melrose east to La Brea, to a place called Babeland, where, while I checked out a cherry red mini-whip and matching cuffs, Zach purchased a variety of goodies, including a pair of Ben Wa balls…

"I’m supposed to put these where?" I asked, staring at the surprisingly heavy gold balls nestled on their red velvet bed.

"You put them inside you," he repeated, flashing that rogue dimple once again. "See, these gold balls are hollow. There are smaller, solid balls inside of them. If you shake them, you can feel them rolling around in there. They do that when you’re wearing them and it feels really good. Or so I’ve been told. I thought you might like to give them a try."

If I were even half as suspicious-minded as Zach claimed I was, I would probably have guessed, right then, that something was up. But I didn’t. Not even on the ride over here, though the throbbing of the motorcycle’s engine seemed hugely, and pleasantly, magnified, thanks to the movement of the spherical weights.

They felt nice, if distracting, and I hadn’t thought anything of the way he’d urged me to immediately try them out, until we arrived here. Now, I’d bet anything that Zach had counted on his gift making me too distracted to win this little contest. Talk about sore losers! If this didn’t count as cheating…well, it certainly should have.

There had to be a way for me to even the odds. But how?

I pondered the question while we waited for shoes and then for a lane; as Zach helped me choose a ball, and as he explained the basics of scoring. But it wasn’t until he was showing me proper form––instructing me on arm-swing and all the finer points of good delivery––that the solution appeared.

It felt nice to have him stand so close behind me, one hand grasping my wrist, the other snugged securely around my waist. I already would have had a hard time concentrating on anything else under those circumstances, but it was at that point that the player on the next lane over made his approach and when his ball made contact with the maple I gasped, rocking back on my heels.

"Are you okay?" Zach asked as he steadied me.

"Yeah, I’m fine. I just, um…" And that’s when it hit me. I could tell by the way my cheeks were flaming that a flush had spread up my chest to my face. When I noticed how Zach’s gaze kept sliding south, , I knew just what I had to do.

It might not have been entirely fair, and it was certainly not completely honest, but it’s nothing I’m ever going to apologize for, either. I really needed to win that contest!

"Wow," I murmured softly, allowing my lashes to fan my cheeks as I let out a slow, shaky breath. "I’m fine," I repeated, smiling just a little as I extricated myself from his arms.

"It’s like this, right?" I asked, mentally reciting the instructions in my mind; step, step, slide…

The ball left my hand and rolled slowly down the lane to connect with the head pin. Several pins clattered to the floor and I allowed myself a dramatic little shudder. Smiling, I turned to look at Zach. "Not bad, huh?"

"Not bad at all," he agreed. "But are you planning on doing that little shimmy thing every time?"

"Maybe. I just can’t help myself," Walking over to where he stood, I pressed my body close to his, loving the way his hands automatically clutched my hips. "These balls you got me are driving me crazy," I whispered in his ear.

His fingers bit into my flesh. "Are they?"

"Mm-hm. It’s incredible. I can feel–" I broke off when our neighbor in the next lane released a cranker. "Oh, God…" I licked my lips in anticipation and moaned softly when the pins went flying. "I can feel everything. It’s like wearing an internal vibrator."

"Damn." Zach sounded stunned.

"I know." I brushed a chaste, little kiss on his cheek. "I’m so turned on right now I can’t stand it." To be honest, I’d been much more turned on by his guitar playing the other night. And, even right now, the touch of his hands, the smell of his skin, the heat that flared in his eyes when I smiled at him––they were all doing so much more for me than any toy ever could.

But he didn’t have to know that, did he?

"Come on, let’s play," I said, stepping away from him again and heading for the ball return; hiding my smile when I heard him mutter, "I don’t believe this."

Believe it, I thought, laughing quietly to myself. He might have been the one to start this game, but I was gonna take him down.

©Copyright 2006 PG Forte All Rights Reserved

News and Current Events

For those of you who read more than one of my blogs, I apologize for the duplicate posts, but I wanted to get the word out on my latest news, and this seemed like the most expedient method. A lot of excitement this week. I'll be chatting for THREE DAYS (August 7, 8 and 9) at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/RomanceJunkiesReaders/, where I'm proud and excited to be this month's Staff Pick.

Please stop by if you have the time. I'll be answering questions, posting excerpts...well, OF COURSE, I will!!! And giving out prizes including an autographed copy of A Sight to Dream Of which has just been released as a Trade Paperback!

I'd also like to remind everyone who hasn't yet signed up for either my newsletter or my new author's group to please do so! I'm holding monthly contests for members of these two groups only. This month I'm celebrating the Trade Paperback release of A Sight to Dream Of by giving away a beautiful 'Celtic Circle' pewter and steel bookmark from Oberon Design.

This contest ends on August 31. Winner will be announced in September's Newsletter.

The Waiting is Over...

Okay, now that title's a tease, if I've ever heard one. Or maybe just a really bad pun.

But it's also true. My newest story--and first erotic short--Waiting for the Big One is finally out!!! Here's the blurb:

Like everyone else in LA, Pisces actress Gabby Brown is waiting for The Big One. Or, in her case, the Big O—the elusive, G-spot, ultra orgasm. She thinks she's found the guy who'll give it to her when she meets Zach, the super hot musician who's just moved into her building. But Gabby's quest to find true love and ultimate pleasure with the rock guitarist of her dreams are complicated by her friendship with Derek, the Scorpio martial arts instructor with whom she's co-writing a screenplay.

Gabby refuses to cast Derek in the role of soul mate because she fears sex will ruin their friendship. But Derek has a few ideas of his own about soul mates--and they don't include sharing her with Zach!

I'll be chatting about the book today at the Coffee Time Romance Exotic Group (AKA the karendevinkaren group), and I hope some of you will join me.

I tell ya, it can get downright lonely if no one shows up...even if it is only an hour.

And now, because I can never resist an excerpt, here's a tiny peek.

When Derek crashes Gabby's romantic dinner with Zach, it leads to unexpected results!

What's Derek up to? That was the question that plagued me throughout dinner. He and Zach seemed to be hitting it off. I didn't know why that surprised me so much, but it did. And I really didn't understand why I felt left out. I should be happy about this. But I was back to feeling moody again. I guess it's just hard to get too happy when you know you’re being lied to.

That was the bottom line. I knew Derek hadn't forgotten about my dinner with Zach. And I'd bet anything that it hadn't slipped his mind that I was hoping to have the most incredible sex of my life right after dinner, either.

Sex never slips a Scorpio's mind.

"Are you here to play chaperone?" I'd demanded when I got him alone for a minute in the kitchen just before we all sat down. Last night on the phone, he'd cautioned me to stop rushing, to take things slow. Now, I expected to get the full lecture.

Instead, he gave me one of his enigmatic, pitying looks. "Hardly. More like the reverse."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it," he advised as he picked up the extra dishes I'd just taken from the cabinet for him, and headed for the table.

I'd been thinking about it all through dinner and was still at a loss. Was he here to watch? Did he want to join us?

My fork slipped from my fingers to clatter on my plate as the thought hit. Did he? I glanced up. The guys had stopped talking. They were both staring at me. I was pretty sure I must be wearing that swim-for-the-shallows look in my eyes now, too.

"Everything okay?" Zach's smile was gentle, inquisitive. His gaze took in the drops of lemon sauce that spattered the table before returning to lock with mine.

"What's the matter, Gabe?" Derek asked. "You finally figured some things out?"

My gaze shifted to his face. "What do you mean?"

His dark eyes gave nothing away. "Well, you looked like you were thinking pretty hard. I thought that maybe you'd had a revelation. Like you’d suddenly discovered what forty-two means."

"No," I replied. "Nothing like that."

"You sure? Maybe you've figured out what you really want then? Is that it?"

I picked up my fork and resumed eating. "It's nothing. I was just being clumsy."

"As you wish," Derek said softly.

I nodded, but kept my eyes on my food. Yeah, I love you, too—but not like that!

I know fish usually go with the flow, but I really wasn't sure about this flow. I mean, sure I've had fantasies about being shared by two men, who hasn't? That didn't mean I wanted to try it in real life or with real people.

Which didn’t mean I wasn't going to think about it...

©Copyright 2006 PG Forte.  All Rights Reserved.

I want a new drug...

Okay, let's talk about that title...

What I probably should have called this post is I have a new drug because, as I just realized today, I've developed a serious addiction problem.

How serious is it? Well, even though I got my last 'fix' only a couple of days ago, I'm jonesing again. The substance in question has even edged out coffee as my drug of choice--and, believe me, that's bad!

So what's this monkey-on-my-back called? Phenomenal Book Reviews. And it's given me some of the best highs ever!

Now, I realize that doesn't seem like it would be much of a difficulty, but lately I've noticed that when I'm having trouble writing I spend a lot of time checking my email and searching through Google, hoping to distract myself with new reviews. It's a problem that just won't go away. In fact, I do believe it's getting worse all the time.

I've gotten so many brilliant reviews in the past couple of years that anyone would be excused for thinking I should be satisfied, but it seems I'm insatiable. I want more. More. MORE! And I know it will never be enough.

With that attitude, however, anyone would also be excused for thinking me ungrateful--not so! As a matter of fact, nothing could be farther from the truth. I'm immensely grateful for all the reviews I've received.

Readers are what make this whole writing gig worthwhile, after all. And those who offer feedback--who write letters and emails, who leave blog comments, who chat about books online, even those who rate books at places like Fictionwise--are performing a valuable service. It's nice to be appreciated. It's nice to know you've made a difference or had an impact or accomplished a little of what you set out to do.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity to extend a great big, public, THANK YOU to all the reviewers who've taken the time to read one (or more!) of my books and report back on it. YOU ROCK!

Now here's a quote from the latest review I received. This review of Scent of the Roses, was written by Michelle Ellis for Wild Child Publishing (where you can read the review in its entirety).

"When Scout was hypnotised, I was gripped! These scenes moved along swiftly, and I found I couldn't stop reading once I started. I was fascinated by the intricate way P.G Forte weaved the regression and journey through the subconscious. I found my heart hammering once things from the past started to become clearer, and I wished my eyes could have gone from side to side just a little more quickly!"

Michelle also had this to say--and this really warmed my writer's heart:

"Okay, so I didn't expect to be crying when I finished this book! I just don't do crying when reading books anymore! Well, I like to think that a book won't make me cry with regards to romance. I get a little tearful at other things in books these days, so to get choked up regarding love and the mushy stuff just isn't me. That all changed when I reached the end of this story."

Thank you, Michelle! That scene between Scout and Nick remains one of my favorites to this day, so it's nice to know you were moved by it.

©Copyright 2006 PG Forte  All Rights Reserved.

Now, why didn't I think of this?

In a previous post, I mentioned my upcoming series, Devil Tree Inn featuring the dysfunctional Sinclair-McKinney famliy and their attempts to run a tropical vacation resort. Well, I just came across this gem of an idea on one of my (manymanymany) Yahoo! groups. How's this for an idea:

"the 50-minute Miami Mojito massage, which was $140 and now is $112. It's a doozy: A technician first exfoliates with Florida limes and sugar, then follows up with a rubdown using oil infused with mint, lime and rum. ''You really get the overall sensation that you're drinking a mojito,'' says James Keane, spa director. ''It transports you to vacation [mode] instantly.'' (Sports Club/LA is inside the Four Seasons Hotel,
1441 Brickell Ave., Miami. 800-419-5109.)"

Wow. A full-body mojito. That's...really something to think about, isn't it? LMAO--Of course, it'll probably strip away every bit of UV protection your skin has, but ya gotta love the concept! It sounds so exactly like something one of my characters would dream up. Just to be on the safe side, however, I think I'll stick to drinking mine. Here's a quick recipe, if you feel inclined to join me.

Mojito

3 sprigs of fresh mint
1 tbsp. simple syrup
(or 2 tsp. sugar, if you just can’t wait!)
2 oz. light rum
1 1/2 limes
ice
club soda

Crush the mint in a tall glass. Add syrup or sugar, rum and the juice of one lime. Stir. Drop the remaining lime wedges into the glass, fill with ice and top off with club soda.

And if you're in the mood for a little Summer Reading to go along with that drink, check out my publisher's new Ezine:

Join SynergEbooks Monthly eZine! Email:

Contests!

I'm starting something new this month:

Sign up to receive PG Forte’s Newsletter, The Oberon Chronicle, and be entered in a chance to win monthly prizes. This month, I’m celebrating the July 19th release of my new novella, Waiting for the Big One, from Venus Press. In honor of my Piscean heroine and her foot fetish I’ll be giving away this sweet little 2-step Healthy Feet Kit from Gilden Tree.

Enter here:

Subscribe to The_Oberon_Chronicle
Powered by groups.yahoo.com

Or send a blank email to:
The_Oberon_Chronicle-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

Contest deadline July 31. Winner to be announced in August’s newsletter. Good luck to all!

And, now, here's a short excerpt from Waiting for the Big One. It's one of very few excerpts that I plan on posting anywhere, seeing as the book itself is so very short!

In this scene, set in Los Angeles, our h/h are enjoying a healthy, al Fresco lunch...

We walked down to the corner. There's a sidewalk cafe there that's always being mentioned in the Trades, but it’s never crowded on Sundays. I ordered a veggie wrap and a tapioca tea. Derek had a soy burger, a side of yam sticks and some insanely healthy organic juice drink, Kombucha and carrot juice, I think.

We started out talking about our movie, then the conversation wandered off track, like it always seemed to do. Next thing I knew we were back to discussing friendship and sex.

"Come on, Derek, everybody knows it," I found myself saying once more. Frankly, it was a position I was getting tired of having to defend. "As soon as you add sex, friendship goes right out the window."

Derek shook his head. "Everybody? Who’s that?"

"It’s like in When Harry met Sally," I told him, but of course he disagreed.

"Gabe, I keep telling you. You’re missing the whole point of that film. Billy Crystal was wrong. She was right, he was wrong. You’re a feminist, you should love that."

I pushed aside my plate and picked up my tea. "What about you? How many women friends do you have that you haven’t slept with?"

"Besides you? None."

Which was just what I thought he’d say. "There you go. And if you and I had sex we would no longer be friends, either." It sucked, but that’s the way it was. Derek sighed. "There’s something wrong with that logic. One of these days I’m going to figure out a way to prove it to you."

"Go right ahead," I told him, feeling somewhat pouty. There was only one way for either of us to prove our position, and that was to try it and see. That was so not gonna happen. Scorpios make great friends and horrible enemies. They hold everyone they know to the same impossible standards they hold for themselves. Derek and Bobby used to be real close, but as soon as Derek found out he’d been cheating on me, he cut Bobby loose.

I did not want to be cut loose too.

They’ll tell you Pisces are chameleons, wishy-washy, overly amenable. But you have to have a pretty sturdy backbone to live your whole life like...well, like a fish out of water. I can be as determined as a Taurus when I have to be.

"What now?" I snapped, suddenly aware of the way Derek was watching me. It was...weird.

He shook his head. "That drink of yours. I’m surprised they haven’t had to shut this place down yet."

I popped the straw out of my mouth. "What are you talking about? What’s wrong with my drink?"

That sexy half-smile was back as he said, "Wrong? Not a thing. It’s the way you’re toying with it. It’s obscene."

Toying? "Oh."

Now, for a Scorpio, obscene is always a good thing. Of course, for a Scorpio, butterflies can be obscene. They taste with their feet, you know. Butterflies, that is. But don’t let me get started on feet...

© Copyright PG Forte 2006  All Rights Reserved

Small pond, BIG fish...

Yep, that's me up there, hanging out at the top of the Highest Rated Romance list at Fictionwise with none other than Dorien Kelly and Nora Roberts-- the darlings of Simon Schuster and Putnam/Jove.

'Course the view's even sweeter over at EPIC's Bookstore.

Too bad fame is such a fleeting thing. Better look quick, or you might miss it. But, in the meantime, damn, I'm having a good Monday.

Welcome to my Tiki Lounge...

I have a bad habit when I write.

Well, actually I have several bad habits. But I think the worst of them is my need to surround myself with visual aids, with things that speak to me of the story I’m writing...or, in this week’s case, trying to write.

In fact, the term visual aid is a tad misleading. I need something evocative to look at, sure. But I also need the right sounds, smells, tastes…sometimes even textures…to get the job done.

So I might spritz some vanilla-cedar perfume in the air, pour myself a glass of cabernet, slip, a tango CD into the stereo and light a wine-scented votive candle in an art-glass globe.

Or perhaps I’ll sit down to write with a mug of blackberry-sage tea at my elbow, pinon incense burning in an earthenware dish, Melissa Etheridge blaring from my earphones, and a Canada goose mobile twirling in the air above my head.

(and if anyone cares to hazard a guess as to which books those would be…there could be a prize in it!)

The props change from book to book, or scene to scene…sometimes I vary them with every POV. And, yes, in case you’re wondering, things do tend to get a little crowded around my desk—especially if I happen to be in the middle of a long book!

Right now, however, I’m not in the middle of a long anything—but I’m trying. Although my immediate goal is to complete some of the novellas I have planned, I’m also trying to plot at least one of the full-length series that have been ricocheting around in my brain for some time.

Hence the Tiki Lounge, which, while marketed as a decorative bird house, seems highly impractical for such a purpose. But it's tailor made for mine…which is, of course, to give me something to write about. It’s been sitting atop my desk for the last ten days (where it's already become home to my Zuni chicken fetish); a cheerful reminder of the series I have yet to write. I gaze at it now and then, as I ponder the stories which are set on Gran Paradiso, a fictional tropical island, I’ve already used in a score of short stories.

Collectively titled the Devil Tree Inn, the books will feature a rather dysfunctional family who inherit an odd, obscure, somewhat run-down sugar plantation turned hotel. Here’s the blurb:

"There are worse things in life than inheriting a couples-only vacation resort on a beautiful tropical island. Too bad Patience Sinclair can’t think of any."

Patience is the main character. A writer of romances, a wife, a mother, a step mother, she’s somewhat harried and distracted when the series opens. Patience longs for a simpler life, not a whole new set of problems!

Jaden McKinney is her husband. A former fashion photographer who’s become addicted to prescription drugs, Jaden is going through a bit of a mid-life crisis. He thinks moving to Gran Paradiso could be the family’s salvation.

Alyssa McKinney is Jaden’s teenage daughter. Rebellious, dyslexic and sullen she did not inherit her super-model mother’s looks, but she sure has her attitude!

Cole Sinclair is Patience’s son. Cole is an artist, a charming, itinerant reproduction of his father, Patience’s first husband. A gentle-hearted dreamer, or so his mother believes, Cole is quite content to be supported, possibly forever, while he pursues his art.

Shalimar is Cole’s girlfriend. If she ever had a last name, she doesn't want us to know it! She’s a little bit kooky, but she’s so damn hot, Cole doesn’t seem to mind. She’s also a bit of a grifter. He doesn’t mind that, either.

Lucius St. Germain, the lawyer handling Patience’s dead aunt’s estate, is another hottie. Something Patience must try hard to ignore. Little does she know, he’s also her competition. If she fails to abide by the terms of her aunt’s will, the property reverts to him.

Rosalita. Again, a woman with no last name. She’s a psychic. She’s a psycho. She’s a housekeeper. And, if nothing else does it, she’s sure to make Patience insane.

It’s The Osbornes inherit The Money Pit. It’s Fantasy Island with a few Chuck Berry modifications. And it is, of course, entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to me or my family…or to any other person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. I swear!

©PG Forte 2006 All Rights Reserved

New Cover!!

What a wonderful Mother's Day present. My newest cover is here and it's awesome. Check it out:

And to further whet your appetite, here's a brief excerpt.

Since this is the last book in the series, I'd sworn I wasn't going to introduce any new characters. Sadly, or maybe not, I couldn't keep my word about that. I've got not one but TWO new characters in this book––both of them bad guys! Here's a look at one of them:

The coppery taste of fear filled Jack Connelly’s mouth as he thought about what he had done, what he had nearly done, and what he was going to do. It was a feeling and a flavor he hadn’t sampled in over twenty years.

As he left the town of Abraxas behind and headed toward home his heart was racing. His glance returned repeatedly to his rear view mirror as he waited for the wail of sirens behind him, the rotating flash of police lights that would spell disaster.

“I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, still appalled at the risk he’d taken, even as, faint but unmistakable, a sensation, half-forgotten, and not entirely unpleasant, began to unfold within him. “Christ, I must be outta my mind.”

For most of his adult life Jack had been a model citizen, a pillar of the community. He was a successful businessman, a respected lawyer, a senior partner in the firm his late father had helped found. Every deal he’d made, or touched, or had taken part in had been above board. Or at least that’s how he’d made damn sure they appeared. His life and his practice were secure, successful, seemingly above suspicion, beyond scrutiny or reproach. Caesar’s wife should look so good, he’d often thought.

Which was not to say he never took risks. Of course he did. One had to, he’d found, if only to keep the juices flowing. Otherwise one got sloppy. And lazy. And careless.

And that was the biggest risk of all.

But, in all those years, the risks he’d taken were small and carefully hedged. The kind that weighed big profits against negligible consequences and always included a scapegoat; someone else to catch the flack if the deal went bad.

There were some lessons you learned fast and never forgot. Cover Your Ass was one of those. Whatever else he did, Jack had always, always made sure he had his own back.

Or so he believed.

Those twenty years of safety had come to an abrupt halt a little over six months earlier when he’d received a surprising summons from a former friend...

Gregg Gilchrist had been the leader of the gang to which Jack had belonged when he was still a wild and impressionable young man. With his head shaved, his hands and neck and the back of his skull vividly decorated with grotesque tattoos, the man now known as Rev. Gregg Stevens looked very little like the Gregg that Jack remembered. In fact, if it weren’t for those strange, pale eyes, that indefinable something in Gregg’s manner, and the twisting in Jack’s innards when the other man looked at him––a feeling akin to having swallowed a live snake––Jack would never have recognized his old master at all.

*   *   *

©PG Forte 2006  All Rights Reserved.

New Website and Updates

There are times when I think I should be known as the Queen of Excess, rather than Angst.

I can't have one blog, I have to have three. And I can't have one website, either. But, hey, at least I only have one pen name...I do have some limits, after all!

But let's get back to the websites, for a minute. My original website www.oberoncalifornia.us is geared to a particular series of books. And, at the time I came up with the idea for it, I wasn't looking any further ahead than that. It's a really nice website, if I do say so myself. And the reason I can say that is because I can take almost no credit for it. *grin* Most of what you'll see there is the fruit of my webmistress' labor--not mine.

When the website first went online I had grandiose plans of updating the links on my Activities page on a monthly basis. That hasn't happened. Until now. I finally figured out enough HTML code to do a basic cut and paste, so now I can change links to my heart's content without adding any extra work for my webmistress...until I mess up, that is, and accidentally erase the entire page. LOL! Let's hope not, anyway.

So, if you have a mind to, please check out my newly updated Activities Page . And check back often, because I plan on changing the links every six weeks or so.

Or, if you'd like to be kept informed of any updates, you could join my newsletter group.

Click to join The_Oberon_Chronicle

But I believe I mentioned a second website, didn't I?

Website number two--brainchild of the same awesome webmistress--is the result of my having branched out into a new writing direction.

New direction, new website, same old name. Go figure.

What can I say? Growing up with a name like Patricia, with all its many variations, the whole multiple name thing gets old fast. Unless you're a Gemini, I suppose. Or maybe a Scorpio.

Neither of which I am. Hell, I only have one planet in Scorpio and none at all in Gemini.

Distractable tonight, aren't I?

Anyway...check out the new website, too, if you'd like. It can be found at www.pgforte.com. I've got excerpts posted for two of my new books and short blurbs posted for three others. Okay, okay, so four out of five are Works In Progress, but take a look and tell me what you think of my new direction.

Why I love e-books

I got fan mail this morning.

Fan mail, in case you don't already know this, is one of the best things about being an author. Praise from people you know is always nice and a good review always puts a big smile on my face, but for someone to take the time to write you––right out of the blue––for no other reason than to tell you that she loves your books and when will the next one be out...well, wow. Does it get any better than that?

But, I digress...

There's a reason why this post is titled 'why I love e-books' rather than 'why I love fan mail' after all. The letter this morning (okay, it was an email post) came from a woman in Norway (where, as my daughter very helpfully pointed out, they speak another language––lol!). If it weren't for ebooks, this woman would never have found my books.

In fact, if it weren't for e-publishing and the internet I wouldn't have readers in Australia or Singapore either, not to mention my favorite reviewer in London!

I really don't understand why more people aren't enthusiastic about ebooks. You can buy them almost instantaneously, from the comfort of your home--or anwhere else you happen to be. They take up no space at all AND if you happen to lose them all due to a computer crash, many publishers will replace them for you––try that with a print publisher! You can load who-knows-how-many of them onto an ebook reader (ebookwise has a nice one) and carry around ONE paperback-sized reader instead of a small library. And a lot of e-book stores and sites routinely offer GREAT deals, like Fictionwise's 15% off for all newly released books or ebooklove's buy-two-get-one-free special.

Even without the deals, new ebooks are cheaper to buy than new print books (especially big ol' books like mine) which means you can afford to buy even MORE books. And the technology is getting better and more readily accessible all the time. Last week, the New York Times even published an article about the possibility of e-paper subscriptions becoming available later this year! Yes, daily newspapers that you can read on a flexible, foldable, re-usable reader.

Where's the bad, unless you're looking for something to line a birdcage? Besides, think of all the trees we'll save (just printing book eight alone would be enough to deforest a small state)

Sure, ebooks have taken a lot longer to hit the mainstream than many of us thought (or hoped) would be the case. I know a lot of people who are still waiting for my books to make it into print before they read them. Certainly I would have sold more books by now if they were readily available in brick-and-mortar bookstores and I would have made more money if I had a NY publisher handing out big advances, too. But could you buy them in Norway or Singapore? I doubt it. Which means I would never have received the lovely note this morning that totally made my day.

So, now, in honor of my new friend, here's a brief excerpt from And Shadows have Their Ending (aka Oberon: Book 9) which will be available soon.

This is the second scene in the book. To read what comes before check out the excerpt on my website: oberoncalifornia.us

Deirdre pushed blindly through the crowd with no clear idea where she was headed, just wanting to put as much distance between Seth and herself as she could. She knew they’d run into each other sometime. With so much unfinished business between them, how could they not? But she hadn’t been expecting it today, and she definitely hadn’t been expecting something like this.

What had happened to him? The Seth she remembered would never have acted like that. But, they’d known each other for so short a time, maybe she was stupid for having any expectations, for trusting in her memory or her heart. For thinking she knew him.

Her stomach roiled. She felt sick. Hurt. Angry. Confused. Betrayed. And vaguely disgusted by the detached, journalistic part of her mind that continued to observe her reactions, to catalogue her feelings, and which now, apparently, had decided that lonely was a good addition to the list of words by which she might be described.

A sob nearly broke from her throat then, and the tears she would not shed threatened to overwhelm her; tears born of anger and outrage, much more than sadness. So what if she was lonely? She had known when she’d left for Oberon three weeks ago, right after her high school graduation, that she’d be on her own for a while. It had been her choice.

Her friends had declared the gap between high school and college a ten-week-long party, but Deirdre hadn’t been interested in partying. Some inner voice had been whispering to her for some time, warning that she was running out of time; that she needed to start living now. Right now. Today.

Her parents may have been dismayed, initially, by her decision, but they’d recovered quick enough. And then, perhaps feeling that someone in the family should be taking the summer after graduation off, perhaps intent on re-living one of the pivotal events of their own youth, they’d gone to Europe in her stead.

In general, Deirdre didn’t mind being on her own. A lot of the time she actually preferred it. But there were other times, times like now, when she really wouldn’t mind seeing a friendly face.

"Whoops. Careful, now," a voice boomed out, right in front of her, just as she barreled into someone she would have sworn had not been there a moment before. "It doesn’t always hurt to look where you’re going, you know."

Startled, Deirdre looked up into a familiar face––a familiar, friendly face. "Rafe?"

Two years ago, when she’d run away to Oberon, she’d been befriended by a group of surfers who were camping out near the beach––Rafe among them. They took her in, fed her, gave her a place to stay. She never got the chance to thank them, or even say good-bye. As the memories crowded back, Deirdre surprised herself by throwing her arms around Rafe’s neck and hugging him fiercely. The loneliness, the sadness and much of the confusion she’d been feeling receded.

Rafe chuckled softly. "Hey, there, Dee. It’s good to see you, too."

She pulled back to look at him. "What are you doing here?" From his sandaled feet to the gold-and-copper curls on his head, he looked just as she remembered. Even his outfit, surfer shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, was reassuringly familiar. "Where are the others?" She glanced around, half-expecting that Ana and Gabby and the rest of the crew would materialize from out of the crowd.

"Oh, they’re all busy elsewhere." Rafe lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I’m flying solo this mission."

Mission? Deirdre eyed him curiously. "So, you don’t live here now?"

"Heavens, no." He appeared vaguely scandalized by the thought. "No fixed abode for me. I’m just visiting." He cocked his head to the side, eyes twinkling as he added, "Same as you, hmm?"

Deirdre shook her head. "No, actually, I moved down here a couple of weeks ago. I’m over in Abraxas."

Rafe’s smile held a hint of challenge. "Yeah? Think that’ll last?"

"I hope so." Deirdre stared at him in dismay as doubts assailed her. "I-I think so." All her life had been leading her here. For as far back as she could remember, she’d dreamed of moving to Oberon, of following in her birth mother’s footsteps.

But had that been her dream, or Paige’s dream for her? She was no longer certain.

She’d been learning a lot about her mother lately, and there were a few steps along Paige’s path she’d just as soon skip. Giving birth to a child she couldn’t raise was one such step. Being murdered was another.

But they weren’t the only ones.

She now knew that a big part of the reason Paige had stayed in Oberon was because she was in love with a man who didn’t love her back, who’d broken her heart. Seth’s father, in fact. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered Seth’s sneer, the coldness in his eyes. Could two years really make that much of a difference? Wasn’t it more likely she’d been wrong about him from the start? Just as Paige had been wrong about Dan.

It wasn’t too late to learn from her mother’s mistakes; to avoid repeating Paige’s pattern of wasting her life and her love on some man who couldn’t care less. Seth Cavanaugh could go to hell.

"Careful what you wish for," Rafe murmured. He smiled at her sadly. "Don’t be so quick to judge, Dee. Remember, things aren’t always what they seem at first glance. Most people aren’t bad, you know. They’re just lost."

Deirdre shrugged. "Maybe." Not that it mattered. If Seth was lost, he could damn well stay that way. And all the dreams she’d had for the two of them, her visions of the future they might someday share, could damn well die. How many times in the past had she cried over Seth, or wished for the power to magically transport herself back here, just so she could be with him? So many, she’d lost count. Even once was too much.

Rafe sighed. "Don’t look so sad. Keep the faith. Eventually, you know, things do work out according to plan."

Not for me they don’t. Deirdre shook her head. Never the way I want them to. "I don’t have a plan." Not anymore.

Rafe smiled. "Well, that’s the beauty of it all, isn’t it? You don’t need one. The plan has you."

©PG Forte 2006, All Rights Reserved.

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Slide show!

I just discovered Slide.com I love this site. Almost as much as I love the wonderful artist who created the fantastic covers for the Oberon series.

Check it out:

Sigh. Only one more book to go...I wonder what she'll come up with for the last cover?

Anticipation

Don’t ya hate it when life imitates art?

I’ve got a new novella coming out soon with Venus Press…perhaps I’ve mentioned it before? It’s called Waiting For The Big One. It’s first person, the heroine is a Pisces. She hates to wait.

A character trait I happen to share.

And yet, it seems like waiting is all I’ve been doing lately, especially when it comes to this book. I’m waiting for a release date (‘sometime this summer’ is NOT a date, IMO), I’m waiting to hear from my editor about revisions, I’m waiting for an update from the cover artist…you name it, I’m waiting on it.

I’m also waiting for the unveiling of my new website ( pgforte.com ) just a little something with which my wonderful webmistress is teasing me (yes, I know it will be worth the wait, but I want it NOW!!! *grin*). I’m waiting on a critique of the first three chapters of my current WIP––a book that’s sure to drive me completely crazy before I’m done...if i ever get to that point. I’m waiting on reviews for books five, six, seven and especially EIGHT in the Oberon series (see website for details: Oberoncalifornia.us ). And, yes, I’m even waiting on the cover of book nine in the series And Shadows Have Their Ending.

I suppose this could be payback…I’ve been making my characters wait for their HEA’s, after all (and wait, and wait, and wait…). So, I’ve gotten pretty good at dishing it out. But taking it? Not so much.

So, while I’m on the subject, here’s an excerpt (and one of my favorite scenes) from a book YOU don’t have to wait for. Scent of the Roses, my first book, is available now as a download.

It’s even in print, for you die-hard paper fans, but for that you might have to wait a few days (snail mail…how do we stand it?).

In this scene, our hero is trying hard not to think about the girl he loved and lost…

It wasn’t working. Nick slammed his coffee mug down on the table. His usual Sunday morning routine of newspapers and coffee on the deck outside his apartment, was doing nothing to alleviate the angry confusion of emotions that had been building inside him since yesterday afternoon.

She was back. After all this time, she’d finally come back.

He couldn’t believe the way he felt. He couldn’t even put a name to what he felt – angry, bitter, nostalgic, more than a little crazy. Plus some other, inexpressible combination of hopeful sensations, part daydream, part memory, that he thought he’d buried long ago. Back when he’d finally made himself accept the painful truth: she was never coming back to him.

It had been so long since he’d seen her. Hell, it had been a long time since he’d even thought about her. Really thought about her, anyway. Thought about her in the kinds of ways that made sleep impossible and sent him speeding angrily up and down the coast for hours at a time. Thought about her in ways that made him drink too much or smoke too much. Not that he wouldn’t mind a cigarette right now, he thought, in the instant before he remembered that his daughter had made him quit. Again. Six months ago. Shit.

What was she doing here, anyway? And why now? Not that it mattered, of course. Now. Next week. Next year. He didn’t have the faintest clue, anymore, what he’d say to her if he saw her.

What was he thinking? He wouldn’t say anything if he saw her.

Why the hell should he? She was the one who’d left him, after all. So what if she’d been a minor at the time, with no say in the matter? She had gone away and, apparently, forgotten all about him. And he’d be damned if he’d give her the time of day, now.

He probably wouldn’t even recognize her, anyway, come to think of it. Although she seemingly hadn’t changed so much that Lucy hadn’t known her.

Oh, hell. Lucy. Had she known about this? Is this what had her on edge the other night?

Well, shit. Of course it was.. And wasn’t it just like his cousin to try and hide something like this from him? How typical of her to jump to the conclusion that he’d even care.

So, she was back. Big deal. What the hell kind of idiot did Lucy take him for?

Okay, so it had taken him a little while to get over her. Years in fact. But he had done it, hadn’t he? Nobody could say that he hadn’t. He had moved on with his life. Hell, he’d even gotten married! Not like that had been an incredible improvement, relationship-wise.

You sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?

Yeah, Lucy’d got that right. That pretty much summed up his whole love life, didn’t it? But no more. No way. Seeing her now was the last thing on his mind. The absolute. Very last. Thing.

She’s probably not even up there anymore, he thought, a few minutes later, as he stared out at the mountains.

Well, hell. No wonder he couldn’t stop thinking about her; sitting here with a perfect view of Mt. Totawka, and the foothills where the festival would still be going on. He just needed to get off this deck, that was all. He just needed to find something else to do. Something else to focus on.

That shouldn’t be a problem. There were always plenty of things he could be doing on a day like this. He could always go to work, for one thing. Just because it was his day off, that didn’t mean he had to stay away. Or maybe he could go fishing. He hadn’t been fishing in months. Or else…he could go for a hike. Or out to a movie. Or he could just stay here and wash his car.

His car really needed a wash. Hell, he could wax it, too, while he was at it. Maybe change the oil, clean the sparkplugs. And when was the last time he’d taken the time to really detail it?

But thinking of cars was not such a terrific idea, he realized a little too late, because so many of his memories of her included cars. That was how they met. She’d been hitching a ride one foggy April night. And he had stopped for her.

He picked up his paper and tried once more to read it, but put it down a moment later, when he realized that his mind was working up a ridiculous fantasy about seeing her again. Of coming across her trying to hitch a ride back from the festival. Maybe, if he drove up there right now—

Jeez. What was he thinking? She wasn’t a teenager, anymore. Why would she be hitching a ride back from the fair?

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. He ground his teeth, as his eyes strayed back to the mountain. It didn’t matter because he was not going up there again. He hardly ever went to any of the festivals, and he’d just been to this one, yesterday.

There was no way he was going back up there again. No way in hell.

Actually, he was glad he had found out that she was back in town, but only so he could make damn certain he did not run into her by accident.

Which did not exactly explain the impulse that had caused him to back out of the camping trip, a small voice in his head reminded him. But really, that had nothing to do with her. He did have a lot of work to catch up on. And it made perfect sense to save a few of his vacation days for later in the summer, so he could take Kate somewhere.

I wonder what she looks like now?

The thought came out of nowhere, and for a moment he was overcome with the longing to find out. Jesus, but this was getting ridiculous. What could she look like, after all? She was thirty-six years old, for pity’s sake. She was probably settled and dull. Probably nothing at all like the wild, unpredictable girl he remembered.

Thirty-six year old women do not look or behave like teenagers. Which was, on the whole, he thought, a very good thing. There was a whole range of really objectionable, immature behaviors that he associated with those years, and he, for one, was just as happy to have seen the end of them.

Thirty-six year old women did not hitch rides, for instance – a dangerous and illegal activity the whole world would be better off without. And they don’t go around creating the kind of havoc Scout had positively excelled at when she was sixteen.

They had jobs and they had families and they had mortgages and commitments. And most of them wouldn’t be caught dead dancing around a balefire in the middle of the night, not even with their clothes on. Most of them--the sensible ones--wouldn’t even have bothered going to any damn pagan festival in the first place!

Except she had been there.

And she had not forgotten all about him, damn it.

She said I have your eyes...

Her own eyes had been a smoky, warm, greenish gold; like the moss that grew in damp, secret hollows all along Domingo Creek.

And her hair had been a streaky mass of yellow and brown. The same color as the grass along the cliffs there, late in summer, after it had been bleached and debauched and blown about by the sun and the wind.

And when she smiled – but, no, he wouldn’t even think about that. He’d spent years forgetting her smile.

And anyway, none of it mattered. Not any more. He was over her now, he reminded himself again, more firmly. Definitely over her. And he was not going to go there again.

No possible way.

©PG Forte 2006, All Rights Reserved.

Judging Books by Their Covers

The artist who has designed all my Oberon covers thinks I’m easy.

Ha! If only she knew! Sure, I’m ecstatic with everything she’s done, but, then again, I’m sure she’s reading my mind.

Well, reading my mind and then making it look tons better than I ever could––that’s a certainty!

But, covers are not always so trouble-free. I’m currently awaiting the cover of a new novella, Waiting for The Big One, due out this summer from Venus Press.

Considering the amount of harassment I've already given the unfortunate artists assigned to me, I’ll be lucky if it even gets a cover. I’m afraid my rather lengthy list of…ahem…corrections…may have quite frightened the poor man away.

But, what’s an author to do? Covers are sooo important, n’est pas? According to common wisdom, they’re one of the top two things readers look at when deciding whether or not to buy a book by a new-to-them author.

The other, of course, being the back-cover blurb. Followed by favorable reviews––depending on the source, of course––word of mouth, and whatever buzz an author can stir up via promos, chats, giveaways, website contests, etc, etc, etc.

The latest cover I’ve received, for the not-yet-released eighth book in the Oberon series, Dream under the Hill

Lovely, isn’t it? It is, IMO, the prettiest cover in the series. Odd, considering this is the absolutely darkest book I’ve ever written.

How dark is it? Well, opinion varies. I’ve heard everything from, "It’s not as dark as you think," to "If I hadn’t been reading it for a critique, I would have stopped reading after the first couple of chapters."

Now, contrast that to the cover of book seven, Visions Before Midnight:

Now, don’t get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE this cover, as well. In fact, it might be my favorite…although the cover of book 3 Sound of a Voice That Is Still, which was exactly as I’d pictured it, certainly gives it a run for its money.

See what I mean? And if you think it’s gorgeous here, you ought to buy the book and see it in its real color.

But, as I started to say, before I got sidetracked by all this beauty, was this: Anyone who judges Dream under the Hill by its cover, is probably in for a surprise. It’s a dark, violent and complex story. Not to mention really, really long. But, it’s a good story, I think, with a fabulous ending that ties things up, not just for this book, but for a lot of the series, as well.

Which gave the last book in the series, And Shadows Have Their Ending the chance to be light and uncomplicated, And short, since I sent most of the Oberon’s residents out of town for the course of it!

All the covers, as well as excerpts, reviews and other goodies can be found on my website: www.oberoncalifornia.us

But, while we’re here, here’s an excerpt from Dream under the Hill, just to whet your appetite…

This is one of my favorite scenes. Taking place at a wedding reception, it features an upset Marsha being waylaid by her husband, Sam. I thought it very romantic when I wrote it, and I still do.

"What’s wrong, angel?" Sam asked, intercepting Marsha just as she’d been about to make good her escape into the ladies room.

Oh, crap, what’s he doing in here, she wondered staring at her husband in dismay. He’d been out on the terrace only a moment earlier. Why couldn’t he have stayed where he was? "Nothing," she said, trying to blink the tears from her lashes. Damn it, she hadn’t wanted him to see her this way. She’d spent entirely too much time in tears lately, and that had to be the most boring thing on earth to deal with; someone else’s useless self pity.

"Nothing? Are we starting that again?" Sam took a handkerchief from his pocket and lifted her chin. "Here, let me see. You’re going to smear your makeup."

"Serves me right," Marsha murmured. "I don’t know why I even bothered putting it on."

Sam dabbed carefully at her eyes. "I don’t either. I can barely see your freckles under all this stuff.

Marsha sighed. "Oh, like that’s a loss." She was usually an extremely pragmatic person, and she’d long ago come to terms with her looks. Or, so she’d thought. But vanity was a funny thing and very hard to kill. It kept coming back, like crab grass or shingles or fleas or any other pernicious ill. Migraines. The IRS. And, at the moment, she hated her freckles.

"It is a loss," Sam insisted. "I love your freckles."

"Sam!" She stared at him open mouthed, surprised by the baldness of the lie. "You do not!" She knew damn well the type of woman her husband admired. Or, at least, she used to know. Not one of them had freckles.

Sam stopped wiping and looked at her sternly. "Yes, I do. I even have favorites."

"Favorites?" Marsha smiled in disbelief, daring him to continue. This should be good. It was hard to hide your tastes from someone who could read your thoughts, and it had always amazed her that Sam had managed to fall in love with her in the first place, especially considering how far she fell from his usual type. Tall, slim blondes with porcelain skin and classic features, those were the kind of women he favored. No one who looked remotely like her.

"You have one right here," Sam said, as he placed the tip of his finger on her cheekbone, just below the outside corner of her eye, "that’s shaped like the map of Australia. But, sometimes, if you smile in just the right way, your face crinkles up and it turns into Cuba."

"Cuba?" she repeated on a gurgle of laughter.

Sam smiled. "Mm-hm. Just like that. And then, over here on this cheek," he continued, as he turned her head and gently traced a meandering cross along the side of her face, "there’s a whole bunch that resemble the constellation Cygnus. The Swan."

"Then there’s your back," he said, taking hold of her shoulder and starting to turn her around–

"Okay." Marsha stopped him. "I got it. I believe you." She didn’t care if it was true, or if he’d just now made it up, she was touched by his tenderness. Although, tonight, when she removed her makeup and scrubbed her face clean, she would check it out and see––just to know.

©PG Forte 2006, All Rights Reserved.

What's in a name?

I know. You're wondering about the blog title, aren't you? But, like so much in life, the reality is not nearly as exciting as the fantasy...which is the whole reason I write fiction in the first place.

Growing up with an eleven letter, four syllable, Sicilian last name, I envied my classmates with shorter names. All except for my best friend, whose last name was actually Zitt.

But, except for her, I thought people with short names had it made. Imagine. Making a phone reservation without having to spell. No more cringing at egregious mispronunciations.

I tell ya, Love Story had it all wrong. Love might mean never-having-to-say-you're-sorry, but True Love means never having to correct your husband's spelling. Or, better yet, hearing him rattle it off without a hitch. *Sigh* I still get goose-bumps remembering the first time...

Or, in my SIL's case, exchanging her six letter, almost impossible to mispronounce, household-word of a last name for my brother's. See now, that's True Love!

True love, or complete insanity...I'm not really sure which.

But, like I said at the top. Reality. Does it ever live up to imagination? Not in this case. Forte. It looks soooo simple doesn't it? But, ahhh, the variations I've been treated to over the years! One syllable. Two syllables. Stressed syllables. Short e's. Long e's. Silent e's. Accented e's. You name it.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, I have a cousin whose last name is Bach (yes, like the composer). You wouldn't think that would be hard, either, would you? Think again.

Hence, this blog. And a chance to Finally! set the record straight on the name thing.

So, once again...Forte. Five letters, two syllables. No accent. No stress. And, you know the rest, right?

If not, scroll back up to the top of the page and check out the title. Ah, yes. Now you've got it!