When Caleb wakes up in a glamorous LA clinic, he is a changed man. His once-scrawny body is toned, his now-white teeth gleam, and everyone looks at him in adoration. Caleb shouldn’t even be in the US–he’s English, and has never traveled farther than London.
Somehow Caleb transformed from an eighteen-year old, sexually questioning, reclusive high school student who spent his free time composing and practicing music in his parents’ shabby council flat to become a world famous rock star with adoring fans and his own mansion overlooking the Pacific.
Caleb bravely tries to fit into his new life as he recovers from his amnesia. But who is the handsome assistant publicity manager who visits him in the hospital? Why does everyone think Caleb is straight? What has Caleb forgotten? And will he ever remember?
"Caleb." A deep baritone voice pulls me into the world, conjuring images of smoky bars, suited men, and luscious sounds. I'm reminded of the men I gaze at with the sound turned low on the classic movie channel, when even my parents would complain about me strumming my guitar. Cary Grant, Clark Gable, Errol Flynn.
These men speak with authority and are glamorous in a way no real people are, in a way no people in Wolverhampton, England, population tiny, can be. But it's easy to be glamorous when prancing about on the small screen.
I open my eyes.
And he's gorgeous. Espresso-brown hair sweeps over his olive-skinned face in short, curly waves, and stubble shadows his face, covering broad cheekbones and a square chin. He's wearing khakis and a deep green sweater that matches his eyes. His eyes flicker back and forth, but relief soon flutters across his face. I want to run my fingers through his hair and pull him closer to me.
"You're okay," he breathes, and I nod.
He leans closer to me, and I smell something tropical and woodsy all mixed together. He has an accent as well, though it's not an American one I'm hearing, but something more Spanish. His words are melodious, and he speaks slowly, gently to me.
I don't want to ponder that a man I've never met before is so concerned to see me. I'm going to enjoy the moment.
"They told me you had awakened, but you were so quiet, and . . ." His eyes mist over, and I want to fall into them, count the flecks of gold that dance among shards of emerald. His brow wrinkles, and he tilts his head.
"I'm fine," I say.
He smiles, and he appears boyish, though I imagine he is in his early twenties. He smooths his sweater, and I want to tell him it isn't necessary. He's already perfect. "I came to get you."
My breath quickens, and trickles of sweat bead my palms. His confidence sweeps me away, and I ponder a world where his meaning could be that of my dreams. I swallow hard. “Where do you want to take me?”
I curse that my voice croaks, all moisture vanishing in his presence, but in the next moment, I am rejoicing that it has. I want to praise the heavens and don a gospel robe, clapping my hands in a way that isn't the least bit elegant but is every bit musical. He presses an ice chip against my lips, his gaze tender, his fingers warm as they touch my cheeks, and the ice gloriously cold as it melts into my mouth.
These men speak with authority and are glamorous in a way no real people are, in a way no people in Wolverhampton, England, population tiny, can be. But it's easy to be glamorous when prancing about on the small screen.
I open my eyes.
And he's gorgeous. Espresso-brown hair sweeps over his olive-skinned face in short, curly waves, and stubble shadows his face, covering broad cheekbones and a square chin. He's wearing khakis and a deep green sweater that matches his eyes. His eyes flicker back and forth, but relief soon flutters across his face. I want to run my fingers through his hair and pull him closer to me.
"You're okay," he breathes, and I nod.
He leans closer to me, and I smell something tropical and woodsy all mixed together. He has an accent as well, though it's not an American one I'm hearing, but something more Spanish. His words are melodious, and he speaks slowly, gently to me.
I don't want to ponder that a man I've never met before is so concerned to see me. I'm going to enjoy the moment.
"They told me you had awakened, but you were so quiet, and . . ." His eyes mist over, and I want to fall into them, count the flecks of gold that dance among shards of emerald. His brow wrinkles, and he tilts his head.
"I'm fine," I say.
He smiles, and he appears boyish, though I imagine he is in his early twenties. He smooths his sweater, and I want to tell him it isn't necessary. He's already perfect. "I came to get you."
My breath quickens, and trickles of sweat bead my palms. His confidence sweeps me away, and I ponder a world where his meaning could be that of my dreams. I swallow hard. “Where do you want to take me?”
I curse that my voice croaks, all moisture vanishing in his presence, but in the next moment, I am rejoicing that it has. I want to praise the heavens and don a gospel robe, clapping my hands in a way that isn't the least bit elegant but is every bit musical. He presses an ice chip against my lips, his gaze tender, his fingers warm as they touch my cheeks, and the ice gloriously cold as it melts into my mouth.
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She wrote her first historical romance at age eight and gave it to her grandmother for her birthday. It had illustrations and involved a lot of fainting and a main character named Loretta. She's glad that her readers now are not subjected to her artwork.
She sometimes wonders if the naked men in her books might be an inadvertent consequence of attending a women's college for four years.
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