We need a COVER MODEL!

Fancy A Little Bit of Fun?

Come to Safkhet Publishing’s booth on November 17 at the Festival of Romance in Bedford and become the cover model for my new book A Little Bit of Madness.

 

This cover is waiting for YOUR face!

The vote will be public on Facebook – all you need to do is get your picture taken and then convince the voters! Your face can be on the next cover – what an awesome present for your family and friends that would make!

 A Little Bit of Madness – coming soon!!

No rest for the wicked

Saving Charlton hall will burrow into your heart.

Celia Summers loves her job as an art therapist at The Harbour Rest Home, even if her partner, Martin, is disparaging of her efforts.

Martin, a solicitor, made speculative investments and needs to get his hands on his mother's assets, her home, Charlton Hall, to bail himself out of debt. In order to sell the house, he has to get Rosemary re-housed at The Harbour and tries to convince Celia with lies.

Meanwhile, Celia fights for gallery space for her charges' artwork, and to keep The Harbour from being closed.

Police Constable Alex Burrows, son of Colonel Burrows, comes to her rescue when she crashes her car. Alex turns out to be considerate, caring and with a witty, wicked sense of humour, which makes Celia laugh. She ignores his reputation as a womaniser but cannot ignore his trying to influence his father's will which makes Alex appear a liar like Martin.

Despite all efforts, The Harbour is doomed to closure. Celia decides to take Rosemary home and forestall Martin's plan to sell Charlton Hall. Celia is soon joined by the rest of her elderly independents, who rally together to stop Martin evicting them. Colonel Burrows is ready to thrash the enemy to death with his walking stick when his son arrives in his uniform. Alex explains that Colonel Burrows is the buyer of Charlton Hall and finally does what he's been trying to do for ages: ask Celia to marry him.

A Little Taster:

  “I think I might be able to assist.  Excuse me, dears.”  May squeezed between them, potty in hand.  “There,” she said, opening the window and chucking the contents out.  “That should cool their ardour.”

“Ohmigod.”  Celia gawked.  “May, I can’t believe what you just did!”

Eleanor laughed.  “Relax, Celia.  He hasn’t been assaulted quite as rudely as you think.  It’s tea, not pee.”

“I’ve been practising.”  May nodded importantly.  “It’s not as easy as it looks, you know, making huge potfulls and getting it right, especially when it’s orgasmic.”

“Organic, May.”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Celia shouted through the window, as Martin gave an outraged screech and clutched his shirt from his chest.  “It was tea, not pee.” 

“It was bloody hot!”  Martin looked up, po-faced.  Appropriately, Celia thought.  “She could have seriously injured me, the silly cow.  Come on, Celia, see sense and come out before something awful happens.”

“It already did, Martin.  You happened.”

“Fine.  Have it your own way.”  Martin snapped.  “Let’s see if the police can persuade you, shall we?”  With great fanfare, he flicked open his new mobile, and whoosh, in an instant it was gone – swept away on a cloud of fire extinguisher foam.

“Yessss!”  Celia did a little twirl on the landing.  “Well done, Eleanor!”

“That is it!” Martin shouted through a face-full of suds.  “I’m going to find a public telephone.  The police will be here in minutes, Celia.  You’d better get out under your own steam, while you still can!”

“Do what you like, Martin,” she called, as the two men in suits climbed from their vehicle, now parked behind Martin’s Jaguar.  They’d had the good sense to stay out of the line of fire until now.  “We’re not budging.  We’re not even prepared to talk until we get assurances no contracts have been exchanged!” 

Let him chew on that for a while, Celia thought as she turned away.   Damn!  The bailiffs!  She realised they could split up at any moment and bolted downstairs, missing the last step from the bottom to land in a heap. 

“Ooh, bloody, bloody Martin.”  Celia crawled up the banister and limped on, sure at least one of the bailiffs would be trying to gain entry at the back by now.  “Batten down the hatches,” she shouted, stumbling into the kitchen. 

“All battened m’dear.  Blighters won’t get in here,” the colonel assured her, walking stick ready to thrash any hand that might nudge through the cat-flap.

“Mum,” Luke yelled from the front hall, “it’s Alex.”

Oh, no.  Celia’s heart plummeted.  Why, why, why, if he cared about any of them, couldn’t he have turned a blind eye, bunked off work, done anything but be involved in their eviction? 

“Where?” She raced back toward the front hall, ready to dish out the same treatment to him as they had Martin, except, um, it seemed someone already had.

“Here,” said Alex, meeting her in the hall looking disarmingly Colin Firth-ish.  Shirt plastered to his chest, his new shoes sloshing water as he walked, his expression one of total exasperation. 

“Who let you in!?”  Celia stared at him flabbergasted.

“Luke,” Alex supplied.  “On condition I told the bailiffs to back off and in the hope I wouldn’t drown, I imagine.”

“Good, God!”  The colonel blinked his monocle-free eye. “Not raining is it, lad?”

Alex sighed.  “Torrentially.  You might want to point out to May that hosing down policemen isn’t the best way to proceed if she wants to avoid a visit to the station.”

 

See you there!