Mar 132014

03-11-14 Blog Post

A few weeks ago, I typed a figurative THE END on my latest WIP (work in progress) In writer jargon, that transformed the WIP to a CM (completed manuscript).

Thanks to some input from my colleagues at Mid-Michigan Romance Writers of America, I have a tag line:

A parolee hides her past from a bounty hunter set on revenge

Thanks to some input from my talented critique partner Jannine Gallant, I have a blurb:

All Jenny Reynolds wants is to forget her tarnished past and focus on what she hopes will be a brighter future. Returning to the small town where she grew up to restore the once proud bed and breakfast inherited from her grandparents is the only thing on her mind. What she doesn’t need to complicate her already problematic life is a man.

Enter handsome handyman Brad Collins. A man who makes Jenny feel safe and cared for. A man who threatens to steal her heart. A man with more than a few secrets of his own. The real Brad Collins will use anything and anyone to fulfill a personal vendetta.

Will two wounded souls let go of the past and learn to trust again?

Now all I need is to find STOLEN TRUST a permanent home. Until then, here’s a peek at the first page:

“Police! Stop right there! Put your hands where we can see them!”

Jenny Reynolds froze. A blinding white light flashed in her eyes. Blinking in the glare, she did exactly as she was told. Her purse dropped to the ground with a thud.

She raised her hands above her head, fingers splayed open. “What’s going on?” Heart thundering, breathing rapid, her body snapped into survival mode. “What do you want with me?”

“We’ll ask the questions. Is this your storage locker?”

“Yes. Well, not mine that I own.” She struggled to grasp what was happening. “This is the storage locker I rented yesterday.”

Maybe they aren’t from the police after all.

If this was a robbery attempt, they could take whatever she had and leave her alone.

“There’s nothing stored in here yet, but I have some money in my purse.”  Extending her right leg, she started to toe the bag over to whoever held the freaking bright light on her.

“Don’t move!”

“Okay.” Trying to stay immobile, her right arm dipped slightly to regain her balance. She retracted her leg. “Doing my best to not move here.”

The door on the ten foot by twelve foot cubicle creaked as it was trundled shut. The latch mechanism clunked into place. Jenny’s thoughts took off. She’d lived in Detroit for most of her life and was well aware crime could happen anywhere. Even so close to her own backyard. Plus, if these units were advertised as specially insulated and climate controlled, were they sound proof too? If she screamed, would anyone hear her?

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