We're just going to call this Release Week. So many of my friends have uber-good books releasing this week!!!

Fellow RCRW member and 2007 GH finalist Delilah Marvelle's DEBUT historical, Mistress of Pleasure, released just yesterday. This is another don't-miss book, and one I'm proud to promo here.

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Available NOW from Kensington:

Mistress of Pleasure

Book One in the School of Gallantry Series

Granddaughter of a renowned courtesan, Maybelle de Maitenon has no interest in her grandmother's school in London where gentlemen receive instruction -- in the art of love and seduction. Her only desire in life is to remain indepedent, free from men and the shackles of marriage. But when Maybelle's grandmother falls ill, forcing Maybelle to take over the operation of the school, she discovers that men are in fact creatures of habit and simply need to be re-educated. Then Edmund Worthington, the Duke of Rutherford dares to enroll, looking to alter not only her lesson plans, but her very heart....

"Since this was book one in Ms. Marvelle’s School of Gallantry series, the wait for the next book will be sheer agony." --Rosie Bindra, Dark Angels Reviews - Recommended Read!

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Excerpted from Mistress of Pleasure:

LESSON ONE

What defines a woman?

Why, she does, of course.

-The School of Gallantry

London, England - May 1830

When Maybelle first discovered at the tender age of twelve that her beautiful, silver-haired grandmother was in fact a French courtesan, it had been most...awkward. Yet equally fascinating to say the least.

Being left in the care of such a sexually liberated woman certainly made for an unusual upbringing. For instance, French was taught, not out of cultural or educational necessity, but because her grandmother believed that the rolling off of French from one's tongue was erotic. As such, French words always had to be sprinkled here and there like powdered sugar over the not-so-orgasmic English language. At fourteen, Maybelle refused to adhere to the woman's ridiculous French/English rule. Mostly because she felt like a want-wit who couldn't decide between two languages.

At about fifteen, Maybelle was further shocked to discover that naughty little books were not only permitted. They were required. So unlike other girls who took to sneaking pornographic books and keeping them under their pillows, Maybelle was forced to sneak volumes of Voltaire. For there was only so much copulation a girl could ingest day in and day out. Needless to say, after spending nine years under the perpetual rule of her grandmother, there really wasn't much in this world that could actually astound her.

Or at least that's what she thought.

Maybelle eyed the glass of cognac, which had been set onto the polished walnut table before her and heaved out an exasperated sigh as she eased into one of the parlor chairs. She had expected the last morning spent with her grandmother to be difficult. But cognac? Honestly. She met her grandmother's attentive gaze from across the French crimson parlor and drawled, “I take it there is no tea in the cupboards?”

"Och. Tea. The English are overly obsessed with it.” Her grandmother rose from the settee, rustling not only her full verdant skirts but also all three sets of stringed pearls dangling over her more than generous bosom. “We have every right to toast to all of our upcoming adventures. After all, you will finally get to visit your beloved Nubia, while I, I will finally have my School of Gallantry.”

Maybelle paused. Then blinked. “School of Gallantry? And what, might I ask, is that?”

“Ah.” Her grandmother bustled over toward the writing bureau set in the corner of the parlor, paused and snatched up a piece of parchment. Turning, she bustled back again and halted before Maybelle. Smiling ever so sweetly, she held out the sizable cream-colored parchment by the tips of her manicured fingers.

Maybelle stared at the parchment dangling before her.

Madame Thérése's School of Gallantry

All gentlemen welcome.

Learn from the most celebrated demimondaine of France

Everything there is to know about seduction and love.

Only a limited amount of Applications are being accepted At 11 Berwick Street.

Discretion is guaranteed and advised.

Well. That certainly explained why her grandmother had kept to herself these past few months. She'd been busy creating a school. For men. Heaven help her. This was going to follow her straight to the pyramids. At least the woman had used a nom de plume. Although it was only a matter of time before the gossip papers found out who was really behind it...

To purchase a lesson, visit: http://www.amazon.com/Mistress-Pleasure-Delilah-Marvelle/dp/1420104489/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1204612566&sr=8-3

Release Day!

Today is release day for a very dear friend and critique partner. Linda Winfree's newest book is releasing, and it's one I've been waiting for for quite some time. Mark "Cookie" Cook, the hero in Hearts Awakened, stole my heart from the first time I read him, way back when he was a secondary character in Hold On To me (my first Winfree read). It's very cool that Cookie finally has his own book.

Run out and buy this one. You won't be sorry you did.

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Available TODAY from Samhain Publishing:

It’s not the past that wounds us…it’s the ghosts we hold onto.

Hearts Awakened by Linda Winfree

Book Six of the Hearts of the South series

A lifetime ago Mark Cook’s pregnant wife vanished, taking everything and leaving an empty, aching hole in his life. Since then, as penance for his failure as a husband and father, he’s refused to allow himself to live. Refused to lay his sleeping heart on the line for any woman.

Enter Tori Calvert, his best friend’s baby sister. Suddenly, against his will—and against his better judgment—that same damaged heart seems determined to reawaken. And Mark’s not sure he can withstand the pain.

When she was a teenager, a vicious attack ripped away Tori’s very essence as a woman. Finally she feels ready to focus her existence on something other than her job as a rape crisis counselor. And to step outside the shelter of her loving, protective family. She trusts Mark more than any man, yet fear holds her back.

Fear that even the healing light of love may not be enough to banish the shadows of the past.

A Fallen Angels Review Recommended Read

"Ms. Winfree’s skill at putting emotion into words is nothing short of genius, she had me laughing, crying, cheering and just a little hot...Anyone that reads Hearts Awakened will not walk away unaffected..." -- Rachel C., FAR Reviews

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Excerpted from Hearts Awakened:

With the bathroom light offering slight illumination, Tori lay awake and stared at the ceiling. Outside her window, car doors slammed and disembodied voices moved along the sidewalk. Another car cruised through the parking lot, a spotlight flashing briefly against the heavy drapes. In the room on her east side, the television droned.

She hadn’t heard Mark’s door or his moving around in his room. Restless, she flopped over in the bed. The blanket pulled at her belly button ring and she winced, rubbing the spot. Above her, a deep voice rumbled, followed by a roll of male laughter.

The red numerals on the clock radio glowed. After one in the morning. Where was he?

Like she had to ask. The idea caused a painful clench in her chest and she rubbed at her gritty eyes. Pushing the covers aside, she padded to the window and perched on the ledge to peek between the drapes. Nothing moved in the parking lot. No vehicles traveled on the street.

A figure stood silhouetted on the sidewalk facing the bay. A familiar male build, arms at his sides, head slightly bent. The ache in her chest increased and she clutched the edge of the drape. Everything in the line of his body spoke of intense pain and misery.

Go to him.

“I can’t,” she whispered. He didn’t want her comfort or help. What he wanted was easy, anonymous sex. He was right—he wanted the one thing she couldn’t offer him.

As she watched, he lifted his head and turned toward the motel. She froze, not wanting him to see her watching. Soft footsteps shuffled on the walkway. His door opened and closed, and she breathed a slow sigh of relief. At least he’d come back alone. He hadn’t brought the other woman, whoever she was, with him.

The other woman. Tori shook her head. For there to be another woman, a relationship had to exist, and it definitely didn’t.

His television clicked on and the volume dropped quickly. She leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He was on the other side of that partition, getting ready for bed.

“Stop thinking about that. He’s back, and he’s alone. You can go to bed now. He obviously is.”

She slid from her perch on the window ledge. She’d grab a glass of water and go back to bed, try to get some sleep.

As she passed the second bed, her right foot caught the corner of the platform, under the bedspread. Pain exploded in her toes. She yelped, bent over with the force of the agony moving up her leg in waves.

Clutching her injured toes, she hopped on one foot and bit back a moan. Lord, that hurt.

“Tori?” Mark knocked on the connecting door, his voice sharp with concern. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t speak, tears blurring her vision, her energy focused on breathing and fighting off the burning pain.

Blood leaked between her fingers. Biting her lip, she dropped on the end of the bed, rocking back and forth.

“Tori?” If anything, his voice was sharper, a note of alarm creeping in around the edges. “Tori, I’m coming in.”

Whatever. He could walk to Timbuktu if he wanted. All she wanted was for the throbbing in her entire foot to stop.

“What’s wrong?” He knelt in front of her, his hands running over her. Checking for injuries. She recognized that much. “Tori, what happened?”

His voice wavered. She shook her head, still clutching her foot. “My toes.”

The sharp gray gaze dropped to her foot and he swore. He cradled her heel in his palm. “Let me see.”

“Hit them on the bed.” She forced her fingers to let go. Blood dripped on the carpet.

He lifted her foot. “Oh, honey.”

One strong finger probed at the side of her toe and she sucked in a breath. “Ouch!”

“I’m going to get a towel and some ice. Hang on a sec.”

Gently, he set her foot down and rose to return to his room. In seconds, he was back, carrying two towels and his ice bucket.

“Here.” He lifted her foot again, wrapped one towel underneath and placed the second, filled with ice, along the top of her toes. She flinched. “I know,” he said, his voice soothing. His fingers moved over her ankle in a comforting caress. “It’ll feel better in a sec.”

Under the numbing cold, the pain receded slightly and she stared at him. Barefoot and resting on his haunches, he still wore his khakis, but he’d shed his polo shirt. A fine layer of dark hair covered his chest and formed an arrow down the line of his stomach. A small tattoo lurked between his pecs, an infinity swirl angled to the left, over his heart. He rested her foot against his thigh, muscles rippling beneath her heel. Her breath stopped, but this time it had nothing to do with pain. Her fingers tingled. What would it feel like if she traced the tattoo, ran her hands over his chest? Were those muscles as hard as the ones in his arms?

“Wiggle your toes for me.” She did, her gaze on his hands touching her. Deft and gentle, his fingers moved over her foot and shivers trickled through her, almost making her forget the burning pulsing. “I don’t think anything’s broken. You have a cut, but it’s not very deep. We can clean it up and put a bandage on it.”

“Thanks.” Warmth traveled out from his touch, an odd contrast to the numbing cold at her toes. He glanced up at her and all the warmth died. Deep pink lipstick smudged the corner of his mouth. Leaning forward, she swiped it away with her thumb. “Did she make you forget?”

He froze, staring at her. Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I mean, I didn’t…” A hard swallow moved his throat. “I couldn’t.”

A trickle of icy water dripped down the side of her foot. Tori moistened dry lips. “Why not?”

“Because it didn’t feel right. Because it’s not working anymore. She probably could have made me forget Jenny for a little while…” Another swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But she couldn’t make me forget you.”

http://www.samhainpublishing.com/authors/linda-winfree