Wicked Witch of the West Village-out now

"Wicked Witch of the West Village"
By Anna J. Evans
Ellora's Cave-Exotica
Super Plus novel-paranormal, erotic

http://www.ellorascave.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=9781419914768

BLURB:

Life's a bitch and so is Gail Teril, evil romance editor by day, failed heroine of her own life by night. She's the wicked witch of the West Village and she likes it that way…or at least likes it enough to avoid the scary process of trying to change her wicked rep.

But when a violent nut allergy at a writers' conference sends Gail into a coma and she wakes up in an alternate dimension, she has no choice but to take a hard look at her new life and herself. In a very adult somewhere over the rainbow peopled by sexy barbarian lovers, an evil zombie-making fiend and a green skinned man she knows she could come to love, Gail learns that sex can sometimes lead to power, but only her heart will lead her home.

EXCERPT:

I followed Kathy into the small conference room, feeling like the lowest form of dog shit as I thought back on our conversation and its probable implications. If Kathy said it, it had to be true. Kathy was nice, Kathy was a fantastic friend and Kathy never told a lie. If she said Richard was beyond retrieval she had to be right.

The realization made my stomach twist in an angry knot around my black coffee and two cinnamon rolls.

I'd lost him. I'd really lost him and only now did I understand I probably loved Richard, no matter how many times I'd dismissed him when he pressed me to make some grand declaration. Now he was gone and a part of me wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and never come out again.

It was horribly melodramatic and self-loathing inducing, which made me struggle to find someone else to blame. Luckily, a target soon presented itself.

As I sat behind the table and gazed out at the over-eager faces of at least a hundred romance writers, I had to resist the urge to start throwing rotten tomatoes. It was their fault, those damn women who wrote those damn books that I read in spite of myself.

I was an editor of romantic fiction, it was my job to read romance novels, but I didn't have to enjoy them as much as I did. I didn't have to purchase all the newest titles from my favorite authors to take home and savor over the weekend in the name of market research or reread my keeper-shelf novels until the front covers were tattered.

The prolonged exposure had obviously rotted my brain. I should have stuck to my guns in my early twenties until I was transferred to the literary fiction division. But I had stayed in romance, snuggled in like a pig in shit until I was the head editor honcho at the tender age of thirty-two, the top dog on the steaming pink pile of lovey-dovey nonsense that was the romantic fiction department.

So young to be so successful…and so increasingly bitter.

"Welcome and thank you so much for coming to learn more about Handler and Handler." Kathy's bright blue eyes shone warmly out at the audience as if she actually gave a shit that anyone had shown up. She probably did, she was nice. "I'm associate editor Kathy Hewitt, and this is Gail Teril, executive editor."

I waved my hand in brief acknowledgement of my name, then pretended great interest in the folder in front of me as Kathy proceeded to outline the new directions Handler and Handler were hoping to take our Visions of Love line.

I, for one, wanted to start by outlawing anything having to do with vampires--what the fuck is romantic about a man who wants to feed off you like a leech while he moans about his tortured immortality? I also wanted to do away with heroines who weren't at least twenty-three or who hadn't slept with a minimum of four men before Mister Right.

What woman these days hasn't had at least four lovers before she settles down for the happily ever after? Now I'm sure there are some exceptions, but even my brother's new wife--originally from Georgia, sweet as a peach, inside the Baptist Church every time they open the doors--confessed to me that she had three guys before Rick. I had to get her pretty tipsy on wine coolers before she shared the info, but I proved my point, at least to myself.

I was also more than a little tired of the "sweet as pie" crap. Why could the hero be a big jerk who needed "love's tender caress" to "set him free", but the heroine was always a near virgin who saved whales for a living, ran a soup kitchen in her spare time and took in homeless animals and domestic abuse victims? All while teaching the hero how her generous and perfect soul could help even a rake like him learn to love, of course?

Not to mention she's also stunningly gorgeous with perfect tits, no cellulite, skin that's smooth and pore-less sans makeup and no body hair in undesirable places in addition to being the next Mother Mary. I have issues with the omission of body hair maintenance in my novels. You never read about a romance heroine having to wax her moustache. As a half-Cuban woman who inherited more from my mom than thick, shiny, luxurious dark brown locks on my head, I would appreciate my heroine having to work a little to be so goddamned perfect.

But everyone else seems to want the heroine to be beyond reproach, other editors and readers included. I was the only one with a problem. I couldn't identify with most heroines because I was a cranky slut jerk who should have been born an alpha male. If I had, then maybe I would have found a sweet Georgia peach like my younger brother or a sassy, incredibly loyal scriptwriter like my older one. If I'd been a boy, maybe I would have already been tamed by love and become contented with venting my crankiness at work like the rest of the penis-owning half of the population.

Too bad I'd been born a gal and a straight gal on top if it. Double too bad most men weren't into putting forth the effort to break through my gruff exterior to find the diamond in the rough underneath. Triple too bad most men didn't find my take-no-prisoners-get-up-in-your-face-and-call-you-a-cock-sucker attitude particularly sexy.

A shame, that. Girls just love an aloof, bossy, unattainable "bad boy". But what about "bad girls"? Was I a bad girl?

You're the Wicked Witch of the West Village.

I hated my subconscious sometimes. Especially when it was right, even more especially when I'd just screwed up a relationship with a guy who thought my potty mouth was "cute" and had the guts to tell me to shut up from time to time and really make me listen.

Especially when his dick was so unbelievably wondrous and you're never going to get to roll around in bed with him EVER AGAIN.

"I'll take that question," I said with a forced smile, deciding that sharing my opinions on the future trends in romantic fiction was better than sitting there stewing in my own horrible thoughts.

Of course, that's where I made my next stupid mistake. Never open your big mouth unless you're prepared to put your short, fat foot in it.

Fan the Flames...
http://annajevans.com
Ms. Evans is an author who could quickly become habit-forming!
-The Romance Studio

Jewels of the Nile 2 out today!

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BLURB:

Sexy men, magic, and mayhem…oh my!

Gelsey is grateful to land a gig as costume mistress for a theatre. She simply wants to hide from the dark forces that pursue her. She never plans on falling for the sexy, surly Tin Man, the character every Wizard of Oz fan knows has no heart.

Stephen has finally found the woman destined to be his. Now only one night of danger, a little sex magic and Gelsey's stubborn refusal to admit she's his stand in his way. But Stephen won't give up. He'll have Gelsey, giving her such pleasure she'll have no choice but to surrender.

EXCERPT:

There was music playing, faint fiddle music that reminded Gelsey of home. Ireland, the only home she’d ever known. She could practically smell the soda bread her mother was cooking, feel the cool stone floor beneath her bare feet. She’d only been six years old when her parents had died and the executor of their estate put her on a plane to America. Sometimes she had a hard time remembering their faces, but she could remember the smell of the herb lotion her mother made in her huge vat on the stove, and the way her dad’s eyes wrinkled around the edges when he grinned.

“Gelsey. Wake, little witch, the sun sets and the Rite must begin.”

As soon as the male voice spoke, the music in her head fled with dizzying swiftness, only to fade back in, softly, when a warm summer breeze swept over her bare skin. It felt so delicious to experience the wind this way, without any clothes between her and the—

“Where are my clothes?” She sat up fast, eyes flying open as her arms crossed over her breasts. Her first instinct was to jump to her feet and make a naked run for it, back to the theatre, when she saw him. All of him. “Better question, where are your clothes?” She meant for the words to be harsh, accusatory, but they came out breathy, an unmistakable invitation.

“Can you really call that thing ‘clothes’? It itches something fierce.” He sat cross-legged on the simple brown blanket, as naked as the day he was born, a huge mixing bowl cradled between his legs. “Felt like I was wearing wool pantyhose clear up to my neck.”

“How do you know what pantyhose feel like?”

“Good question. But if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He smiled, a wicked grin that lit up his face and transformed the usually handsome Mackenzie Fellows into something extraordinary. He was gorgeous, he was naked, he was showing signs of a sense of humor and he’d kidnapped her for some sort of kink-fest out in the woods. On the surface, it was exactly what she’d wanted from this man.

So why was her every instinct still screaming that she should get up and run—fast—and not stop until she was leaving the state of Indiana?
Maybe because he did actually kidnap you! And strip your clothes off while you were unconscious and take his own clothes off too and now—

“Mac, this is very…flattering, but—”

“Stephen. My real name is Stephen. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but you didn’t seem able to keep a secret to save your life.” He smiled as he said the words, but they still stung. What did he know about her? Or her ability to keep secrets?

“Excuse me, but what the hell do you know about—”

“You talked non-stop about the entire casts’ business while you were fitting me. I assumed you did the same with everyone else. I couldn’t risk telling you too much.” He dipped a finger into the bowl between his legs and began casually tracing a red symbol on his bare chest—which she couldn’t help but notice had the perfect amount of chest hair, not too much, not too little. Not to mention that he was muscled like a warrior, not a musical theatre performer. Mac—Stephen looked like he could handle himself in the ring, or on the battlefield if the faint scars marking his skin were any indication.

Gelsey felt another whisper of unease raise the hairs at the back of her neck. There was something wrong here, something more than a man reluctant to reveal he had a stage name.

“In fact, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you speechless.” He grinned again and anger quickly banished her fear.

“I talked non-stop because you stood there glaring at me and—”

“I never glared,” he said, glaring.

“You did! You always—”

“I wouldn’t glare at a woman, especially not one so terribly important to me. Or so beautiful.” A trace of an Irish accent, a trace she’d heard before, found its way into his voice, making her shiver. Then she met his eyes, eyes filled with passion and, more surprisingly, sincerity, and shivered again.

“Are you ever going to let me finish a sentence?” Gelsey swallowed hard and fought the desire beginning to unfurl low in her belly. She was glad she’d kept her hands in front of her breasts. At least he couldn’t see how her nipples tightened, aching for him to touch them, for him to trace crazy red symbols over her body and then follow the path with his tongue.

“I just did.” He finished the final mark with his finger, closing off the last in a series of four triangles, each pointing in a different direction. “Now it’s your turn. Will you become the bone of my bones, the flesh of my flesh, making us one flesh bound by—”

“I’m sorry, I have to go.” Gelsey leapt to her feet, no longer caring if Stephen caught a glimpse of her thigh dimples as she turned and fled. The man was insane, probably a serial killer from the sound of it. She’d been a fool to sit there as long as she had. “Flesh of my flesh” didn’t sound like any foreplay she’d ever heard of. No matter how much she wanted this man, she needed to haul tail back to civilization, reality, any place where she had more sense than to let her hormones lead her straight into an unmarked grave.

c. 2008 Anna J. Evans

Sierra's first author outing!

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