As many of you may know, our beloved sister hostess SHARON DONOVAN, tragically passed away on 11th April 2012. We who knew her, loved her, and were inspired by her courage and determination to face head on whatever life threw at her. When she could no longer see to paint she turned to writing and showed her amazing talent in the Inspirational Romance and Romantic Suspense genres, and her story 'Charade Of Hearts' was awarded the coveted Predators and Editors Award in January 2011.

This Blog was a source of great delight to her, she was one of the founder hostesses and she contributed to the fun and silliness in her own original way, and was kind enough to let her unique creation, the hunky butler 'Oliver' join us for our Friday romp and prepare 'virtual breakfast' for the guests on the following morning. It's beyond hard to have to go on without her, but we know that she would have been the first to insist that 'the show must go on.' She is, and will always be with us in spirit.
Sharon, dear friend, we will never forget you.
The Author Roast and Toast is part of the legacy you left us. Let's raise a Toast to you as well as all our guests.

Friday, November 30, 2012

A Roast at an olde English pub with Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo

“You were right, Lyn. A trip to England wouldn’t be complete without a tour on one of London’s famous, red, double-decker buses.”

Enjoying her role as a cheesy tourist, Mary snaps pictures while the other hostesses toss out questions to the perky young tour guide speaking into the intercom system. They’d seen many of the local points of interest and learned some fascinating history on the ride from London to the small English village where Mitzi Szereto’s roast and release party would be held.

“Oh, will you look at that!” Patsy presses her nose to the window by her top deck seat as the bus bumps along the worn cobblestones on the narrow road.

Lyn, Mary and Mac shift in their seats to admire the crowded stretch of storefronts lining the village’s main thoroughfare like a charming, old English postcard. A steeply pitched common roof connects the local businesses with fall flowers blooming in the boxes below the rows of second story windows.

The bus comes to a stop in front of a pair of matching, rough hewn benches bracketing each side of a sturdy, mullion windowed door below a sign announcing the village’s one and only pub.

“Here we are, Ladies.” 

Mary sighs. “It’s so English. You don’t see that in the states.”

Mac nods. “I feel like we’ve stepped into a scene out of that old movie, The Quiet Man. I love that movie!”

“That was in Ireland, Mac,” Lyn points out.

Mac’s brows jump together momentarily in a confused frown before her shoulders slump. “Geez, that’s right. Well, Pffttt. I’m an American. What do I know?”

Patsy chuckles and bumps Mac’s shoulder. “Cheer up, Mac. A pint is a pint, and Mitzi said the whole town will be at the pub for the release party for her Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles. There are bound to be a few hunks in the bunch.”

“Hunks I can handle. It’s a local murder mystery I’m afraid of. Are you sure Mitzi hasn’t planned one of those murder mystery dinners to go along with her story? Because I suck at finding clues.”

Mary’s eyes widen with excitement. “I LOVE those, but I think Mitzi’s party is a simple English pub celebration. You know, hunky locals sharing pints of beer and delicious English fare.

“As long as I don’t have to eat Spotted Dick.”

Lyn laughs. “Have you ever tried it? It’s delicious.”

Mac shudders. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Speaking of hunks.”

They all turn to see a group of strapping young men in casual country attire round the corner, laughing amongst themselves as they file inside the pub. Lyn jumps from her seat and smoothes her sweater over the waist of her jeans. “What are we waiting for? Come on.” The other hostesses scramble to follow her, filing down the stairs and off the bus.

Soft music and laughter meet them when they step inside the pub.

“Wow! This is so cool!” Mary snaps more pictures.

Dim lighting illuminates the dozen round tables and the long, dark wood bar. A brick fireplace takes up all of one wall and thick, rough cut wooden beams run the length of the low ceiling. A large crowd is already gathered, several of whom wait at the bar as a burly bartender works the taps. Patsy spots a dart board in the corner. She flexes her biceps and grins.

“Oh, yeah. I’m going to challenge of few of these gorgeous guys to a game.”

Mac returns her grin. “Just don’t beat them too badly. You don’t want to make them mad and spoil things for the rest of us.”

Across the room, Oliver appears with a tray of glasses full of dark golden brew balanced on one hand. He nods his head in a silent greeting, looking dapper as usual.

“I hope that’s mead!” Lyn heads straight for him.

A waitress smiles at the rest of the hostesses as she passes by. Mary eyes the plates of fish and chips, shepherd’s pie, and roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and gravy on the woman’s tray and her stomach growls.

“Oh, my. What’s that she’s eating?” Patsy points to the closest table and the woman dipping her fork into a scrumptious looking confection covered in what looks like caramel.

Mary licks her lips. “I think it’s Sticky Toffee Pudding with custard.

Teddy Bear picnic cake for Teddy Tedaloo

“Yumm! We’re going to have a blast, girls.”

Mac scans the large crowd and spots Mitzi hugging Lyn. “Come on. There’s Mitzi. I can’t wait to talk to her. I just know I’m going to love her accent.”

Let's all welcome Mitzi Szerato and Teddy Tedaloo with 'Normal For Norfolk' (what a great title!

The Thelonious T. Bear Chronicles) 
by Mitzi Szereto and Teddy Tedaloo


Little Acre was all abuzz with news about the murder of one of their native sons. Derrick Pickles, long-time proprietor of The Black Stag public house in the adjacent village of Kelton Market, had been found bludgeoned to death. Pickles had lived in the village since the day he was born, the pub having been in his family for generations. He’d taken it over from his father, who’d taken it over from his father, and so on and so on. The Pickles were a Norfolk institution, and Derrick was well-liked and respected in the community. Not even the taint of his only son going off to work in The City rather than positioning himself to one day take over the reins of the family business could dampen the locals’ affection for the family, though forgiveness wasn’t always as easy to come by. Feelings and memories ran deep in this part of the world, despite young Pickles defection to London taking place nearly two decades before, which, at least to the locals, might as well have been yesterday. Not even the death of his mother many years later could bring young Pickles back in line. But old Derrick stubbornly clung on, running the pub long after most publicans would have sold up and retired to Spain or Portugal—especially a widower with no one to stay behind for.

Being the only pub in the village, The Black Stag was a magnet for the locals, not to mention tourists in search of some local colour. Kelton Market was conveniently situated in the county, what with the ruins of an old castle located just outside the village and a bustling crafts and antiques market taking place on weekends, so it was a rare day, indeed, when the pub wasn’t busy. The fact that a murder had been committed was not something the residents of this part of Norfolk were accustomed to. The most crime they ever got was of the sort involving the theft of a cockerel from a farm or some youths out joyriding on a tractor. But murder? No. Murders happened in London and Birmingham and Glasgow. They did not happen in Kelton Market.

Therefore when Thelonious heaved open the heavy glass door of Little Acre’s one and only newsagents in his quest to buy a copy of the local newspaper (or as local as he could get), he discovered quite a crowd gathered inside the cramped little shop. A trio of men representing three generations and an elderly woman who had to have been pushing the century mark were gathered in front of the till, talking animatedly and all at the same time, the garrulous din being added to by a frumpy sixty-something woman behind the counter. She appeared to be refereeing the conversation, her heavy arms flapping and waving about as if she were attempting to direct a newly landed plane to an airport gate.

The youngest of the men was dressed in a white beekeeper’s suit, the hood of which had been pushed back behind his head. Hair the shade and texture of the round bales of hay Thelonious had seen in the fields of the surrounding landscape kept falling down over his eyes, causing him to reach up to swipe it away, whereupon the same thing happened all over again. He had the open and guileless mien of someone who’d grown up in the country and had little to no experience with big city life. The oldest of the trio had a pickled and world-weary look about him that could only have been achieved from a lifetime of heavy drinking. His deeply creased face was the colour of cured tobacco leaves, his overall appearance untidy and unwashed. He clutched an unlighted cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, the skin and nails stained a sickly yellow-orange from nicotine. Had it not been for his expensive-looking leather jacket, Thelonious might have mistaken him for a homeless man. The third fellow was aged somewhere between the two and, judging by his collar, appeared to be a vicar. He kept trying to get the group to quiet down, his pale palms making circles in the air as if he were washing invisible windows. Instead of having the desired effect, the group became even more animated, as if seeking to exorcise the vicar’s fruitless attempts at calm.

The elderly woman to whom no one paid any mind bashed the rubber-tipped feet of her Zimmer frame against the worn linoleum floor until she was in danger of toppling over. Nevertheless, the accompanying staccato of protestations coming from her shrivelled maw continued to fall on deaf ears. Her hunched form looked as if it might crumple into a heap of ancient bones as she slammed the rattling frame of steel to the lino again and again, her grey head bobbing up and down on her withered neck like a nodding dashboard dog. But no matter how much she crashed and banged and spluttered, she could not be heard above her village compatriots, who were determined to get their points across despite the fact no one was listening to anyone.

It didn’t take long for Thelonious to determine that something was definitely up—and the headline shouting at him from the front page of the Walsham Courier pretty much confirmed it. He pulled a copy out from the news rack and waddled over to the side of the counter, stretching upward on his short legs to hold out some coins to the sour-faced shopkeeper, who abruptly ceased her refereeing to gawp at him. Not that this was unusual—Thelonious got gawped at a lot, especially by people who’d never encountered his sort before. You would think she’d be a bit more discreet when it came to paying customers, he grumbled inwardly, biting back the urge to tell her to get a new front door fitted. The one she had weighed as much as a London bus. His right shoulder was beginning to ache something awful from the impact of it against the glass when he’d pushed it open. He hoped the B&B his publisher’s UK office had booked him into had a bathtub and decent hot water system so he could have a long soak later, because he didn’t fancy looking elsewhere for accommodation, especially at the beginning of the summer tourist season. For him to be able to work, he needed a home base, a sense of order. Chaos was not Thelonious’ style.

With newspaper in hand, he made his way out of the newsagent’s, only to pause outside to examine the cards and notices that had been placed in the shop window (which apparently cost each poster the princely sum of five pounds a week to display). He was curious as to what kinds of items and services people put on offer in these Norfolk villages and expected to see advertisements of either an agrarian nature or for church jumble sales. Not surprisingly, they were positioned too high up for him to read properly, but he did manage to make out a card for an electrician slash handyman as well as a flyer for a beekeeping school before his neck threatened to join his shoulder in protest.

Thelonious trundled back to where he’d left the Mini, climbed up onto the driver’s seat with the usual fanfare and aggro, then set off down the little high street with its requisite tea shop/cafĂ©, gift shop, post office (closed due to government cutbacks), and pub, which went by the rather portentous name The Drowned Duck. Within moments he’d reached the Norman church that marked the end of the village high street. It was also the turnoff for Baxter House Bed and Breakfast. Home at last!

Mitzi Szereto is an author and anthology editor of multi-genre fiction and non-fiction, has her own blog “Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog” and is creator/presenter of the Web TV channel “Mitzi TV”, which covers the “quirky” side of London.

Main website: http://mitziszereto.com 
"Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto's Weblog" http://mitziszereto.com/blog
Mitzi TV: http://mitziszereto.com/tv
Twitter: @mitziszereto
Also @ Facebook, MySpace, Flickr

To win a  PRINT copy of Mitzi's book (US only) all you have to do is just leave a comment and your e-mail address.
Contest ends on Sunday

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Mary and Macs winners

Thank you SO much to everyone who joined us and left comments

***D R U M R O L L ***

Mac's winners (on her blog) were
AJ Nuest, Sandra Dailey, Beth Trissel and Denise Moncrief.

and Mary's was Howard

Please join us  again
on 30th November for more fun and Frolics at

 when we'll be roasting Mitzi Szereto

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Our own hostesses Mary Ricksen's 'Burned into time' and Mac Crowne's 'The Billionnaire's Con'

We're doing things a little differently this week.
  Our hostesses Mary and Mac, both have new releases, so Mary decided to take us all for a trip to New York to celebrate, and so, because it's Thanksgiving this weekend, we're partying on Wednesday this week instead of our usual Friday Roast - but we'll be open for comments for the rest of the week. Happy Thanksgiving everyone, and we hope you enjoy our Release Party for Mary and Mac

 “Come on ladies, you are so slow, I want to get to the top so you can see. Hurray up Mac, thank goodness Patsy reminded you to come. No, I am not insinuating you’re addlepated, just a bit, well, forgetful. You did remember to wear clothes?” 

Mary chuckles and ducks at Mac’s swing. “ I know there are a lot of steps, but it’s amazing up there.” Mary urges the hostesses to climb the many stairs of the Statue of Liberty, in New York harbor. “Luckily it’s clear today. We should be able to see for miles. “I still don’t have a clue why we’re here. 

“What has this statue got to do with your book?” Lyn points out. Huffing and puffing, the girls make their way up to the head of the huge gift from France. 

“Well, my story involves immigrants and their families. They are the ones who made our country what it is today. Besides, it’s cool up here.” Mary leads her buddies up to the crown on the top of the huge figurine. “Now just look at that.” 

 “It’s downright fantastic.” Patsy flexes her Popeye, biceps and grins. “It’s… it’s, unbelievable.” Lyn exclaims. “This thing is huge.”  The girls lock arms as they view the water and the tons of boats coming and going. 

“Yup, all but one of my grandparents came over and this was the first sight they saw. My Polish grandmother told me she felt awe and a thrill came over her. After the long, trying, voyage on a ship where she felt so scared and lost. The sight of the golden torch thrilled her. She knew that her life would change, and hoped they would have more food then they’d had for a long time. She hoped she wouldn’t have to wait on any more lines for two day old bread. Her parents promised her a better life and they’d taken the ultimate step. They left Poland because things were awful them, to find opportunity, and the hope and excitement she felt gave her a thrill.” Mary sighs “Gosh, I miss her. She loved me unconditionally. And she was the one person who always did.” 

“Anyhow, think about all the people who came here. They read the welcome, they felt the patriotism, and they were finally home.” Mary points to the Empire State Building. “People came here to find what they didn’t have elsewhere.”  

 Lyn scans the view all around her. “Can we go to the park? I hear there are horses and we can take a carriage to see parts of the city.” 

“Sure, and then we can try the cool stuff they sell at those cart things. From hot dogs, gyros, and roasted chestnuts, to sweet Italian Ices, they got it all,” Patsy smiles.
“I want to see the museums and the art galleries, and oh, oh…pizza! Nobody makes it better than New Yorkers.” Mac smiles, and starts to drool. 

“Mmmmmm. I’d like a garbage pie!”

“Not me,” Lyn grimaces. “I’m not eatin’ no garbage pie.” 

“It’s not made of garbage Lyn, “Mary chuckles. “It just has everything on it. I’ll tell them no anchovies for you.” Lyn twirls a lock of red curls between her fingers. “I still don’t get why we’re here.” 

“I think I know.” Patsy grins and points to her head. “Just use your noddle. It’s because the Hero is from Scotland.” 

“AAHHHHH,” they all get it now.

Then Mac spots the cake Oliver's baked for them with her cover on it, along with Mary. "Oh look,I'd almost forgotten my book came out this week as well!"

The hostesses shake their heads and grin. “I’m just glad that I had relatives who took a chance and came here.” Mary goes on, and gathers her friends in a group hug. 

“Makes me homesick for Wales,” Lyn sighs. “I’m gonna take you all there so you can get the feel of the place. But, I won’t soon forget this experience. We live in a wonderful world. Now if we can get the men to stop with the war stuff, we’d have a perfect place for all of us to live in.” 

So, we dedicate this post to the whole world. To freedom!  And a little bit of romance, no matter when or where it happens. You just never know! 

Congratulations on your new releases, Mary and Mac


A horrific car accident, a Celtic ring and destiny, send a young woman on a journey to the past. In a desperate search for her lost sister, she follows the instructions left her in a bank vault from a hundred years ago.

Little did she know the ring would save her life and change it in ways she could never imagine. Does she have the strength to live through her nightmare and find her destiny?
Can she face her sister now that things have changed so drastically? Only time will tell…


Meggy Calhoun has too much on her plate to explore the shocking revelations in her birth mother’s letter. The success of Boston’s hottest new restaurant rests squarely on her shoulders, and her fascination with her hunky new tenant promises to take up all of her free time.
Trevor Bryce Christos would do anything to protect the woman who raised him; including seducing a beautiful con artist disguised as a chef, and bent on cashing in on his family’s wealth.
Under the microscope of small town interest, Meggy’s and Trevor’s opposing agendas soon have the townsfolk choosing sides, and betting on who will be the first to surrender the field, and their heart

 Available at:http://www.stillmomentspublishing.com/p/ebook-store.html

and Amazon

To win a copy of Mary's book, all you have to do is just leave a comment and your e-mail address.
Contest ends on Sunday and everyone who comments is eligible.
Mac is also holding a contest with a copy of her book and a Gift Cert as prizes - visit her blog BEFORE 5 PM, 21ST NOVEMBER to enter:

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Paula's winner is...

Thank you SO much to everyone who joined us and left comments, and to Paula for being such a wonderful, fun Guest of Honour. The winner is:

***D R U M R O L L ***
Congratulations Janice

We're taking a break this weekend, but join us  again
on 20th November for more fun and Frolics at

 when we'll be roasting our own MARY RICKSEN in Honour of her latest release'Burned Into Time'
So make a date next Wednesday when the party will start early in the run-up to Thanksgiving.

Friday, November 9, 2012

Paula Martin cruises in for an Egyptian Roast

The sun lights the water creating crystal splashes as the ship travels from Luxor to Aswan. The Nile is an amazing sight.

The Sun Goddess earned its name; we have a Jacuzzi tub, right in our room. It’s awesome.” Patsy smiles.

Lyn straightens the bottom of her costume. “These things have tendency to slide up and I keep tripping over the veils that hit the floor.” Mary shakes her bosom and Patsy gets knocked down. “Sorry, hey where’s Mac?” “I’ll bet she got lost on this ship. You know, or she mighta even forgot we were supposed to join the entertainment. I never thought I’d be floating on the Nile in a cruise ship.”

Patsy who really can belly dance!
Lyn stares the tables laden with food like she’s never seen before. “I hear this kinda food is good for you. Where’s the mead.”

Patsy picks herself off the floor and groans. “Will you watch it with those things. I am the one who knows what she’s doing ya know. I took lessons and well, I’mmmm good if I do say so myself.”

“Somebody had to.” Lyn snickers.

“I’ll have you know…” Patsy shakes her hips and clicks her hands.

“Just imitate her over to the food table. Let’s see what Oliver has served up.” Mary urges. “Look here’s a menu. At least it tells what’s in each dish.”

Ful medames - fava beans with olive oil, onion, garlic and lemon, Koshari - rice, lentils, chickpeas and macaroni, topped with tomato sauce and fried onion
Molokheyyah  - chopped jute leaves with garlic and coriander) served with chicken, lamb or rabbit
Falafel - patty made from chickpeas or fava beans, served in pita bread with tahini sauce, Shish kebab, Kofta – lamb meat balls mixed with spices and onion, served with spicy sauce,  Kessiah – milk pudding, with flour, onions and chicken broth
Shawerma beef, lamb or chicken in pita bread with tahini sauce
Shakshouka – eggs with tomato sauce and vegetables

Dand look at these deserts -
Basbousa – semolina soaked in sugar syrup and topped with almonds
Baklava – layers of filo pastry with nuts and soaked with syrup
Fatir – filo pancakes stuffed with fruit
Kahk – shortbread biscuit covered with icing sugar, with dates and walnuts
Kunafah – batter fingers filled with pistachios and whipped cream
Umm Ali – raisin cake soaked in milk and served hot.

“We’re lucky we’re on this ship or we wouldn’t be able to have that mead Lyn.” So be grateful for that. Oh, and hand me that stuff Patsy is drinking. What is it?”

Mary smiles and elbows Patsy. “Save some for me.” “It’s called Karakadey, and it’s made with Hibiscus flowers. Or you can have some of the beer. They say the Egyptians make the best beer. Try the Meister Max, or one of their wines.”

Patsy grins. “Or you could just add a little vodka to the strawberry juice they always have, or watermelon juice. Just sayin’ .” Patsy raises her arms and steps out on the dance floor shaking her booty. Oh, there’s Mac! Where were you?” Patsy yells to Mac.

 “Getting ready.” Mac walks over to the other hostess’. “How do I look.” The other three look at each other and chuckle. “That doesn’t go on your head Mac, you hold those in your hands and click them.” Lyn chuckles. “But, you do look cute in that outfit.”

Mac shakes her head and laughs. “My hands will be too busy eating all this food. And hugging, I mean, finding the hot guys.”

“There’s our guest.” Mac booms, using her outdoor voice. “Let’s welcome the author of 'Her Only Option', Paula Martin. “Pick up your drinks be it milk or whatever, let’s give a welcome to our wonderful author! To your Ka!”

Her Only Option


Neve Dalton loves her job as a tour guide on a River Nile cruise ship as much as she values her independence. She isn’t ready to settle down with her Egyptian boyfriend, despite his repeated proposals and his father’s desire to see him married.

Nor is she ready to meet Ross McAllister, a compelling and fascinating archaeologist. She struggles against her growing attraction to him until she can no longer ignore what her heart is telling her. This is the man who sets her soul on fire.

When she starts receiving cryptic messages, and Ross’s work in the famous Valley of the Kings is threatened, Neve has to make a heart-breaking and life-changing decision which she feels is her only option.

Can they discover whose enmity is forcing them apart before it’s too late?


She leant back on the sunbed, relaxed and closed her eyes.

About half an hour later, conscious of something she couldn’t quite define, she half-opened one eye. A broad chest partly hidden by an unbuttoned blue shirt filled her line of vision.

Squinting against the brightness, she saw strong arms and well-formed hands. His slim fingers curled over the top rail of the neighbouring sundeck and she let her gaze travel down the horizontal bars. Her glance took in his strong abdominal muscles, the curve of his slim hips, clad in tight-fitting red swimming trunks, and his long, muscular legs.

Mmm, rather nice, was her immediate reaction.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

Embarrassed that her eyes had surveyed the length of his body, she looked up at his face. Even though he wore sunglasses, she knew he was staring at her.

“Oh—hello.” She sat upright and wished she could pull her large beach towel around her as a shield against his scrutiny.

He slid his glasses to the top of his head, flattening his thick dark hair. She couldn’t help but notice his amazing blue eyes. They reminded her of the shimmering ultramarine water of the ship’s swimming pool. His tanned features were as impressive as his male physique—broad forehead, high cheekbones, the slight indent of dimples in his cheeks, a wide mouth, and a finely chiselled jaw.

Some primeval response stirred inside her.

“I was admiring your beautiful figure.” His deep voice held the faint lilt of a Scottish accent. “I hope you don’t object?”

A shaft of disappointment quenched her initial spark of interest. For some reason, she’d expected him to be different from the smooth-talking posers who sometimes tried to chat her up. Instead, it seemed he was simply another cruise ship Casanova who thought flattering words in a deep honey-rich voice would make women fall at his feet.

Politeness to guests was rule number one, however, especially as he was on one of the Rahman cruise ships. Her professional persona surfaced. “Not at all.” She kept her voice casual while giving what she hoped was her best ‘I know your type and you don’t impress me one bit’ smile.

“You look lonely,” he said.

Realising her coolness hadn’t put him off, she reached for the bottle of sunscreen from the small table next to her lounger. “I’m enjoying the solitude. It doesn’t happen very often.” Maybe he’d take the hint from that.

He didn’t. “So where’s everyone else?”

“If you mean the guests, they’ve gone to the airport. The next group is due to arrive about five o’clock.”

“Ah, you’re staff then. What do you do? No, don’t tell me—” His glance slid down her body again. “With a figure like yours, you have to be with the Health and Fitness Club.”

“I’m a tour guide,” she replied, with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Oh, one of those.”

She bristled with indignation. Not just a cruise ship Casanova, but a rude one too. “One of those? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “You hear them everywhere you go. Churning out half-baked facts from poorly written and often inaccurate guide books.”

Her indignation flared into annoyance. “And that’s what you think tour guides do?”

“Most of them, yes.”

The man was insufferable. If she hadn’t been so annoyed by his condescending dismissal, she’d have informed him that she held a degree in Egyptology. But he wasn’t worth the effort. Anyway, he’d probably make another derogatory comment in response.

“So what do you do?” she asked with sugar-coated politeness.

“I’m an archaeologist.”

“Oh, one of those.” She couldn’t stop herself from repeating his earlier words but wished she hadn’t when she saw the lift of his eyebrows followed by an amused glint in his eyes.

“I asked for that, didn’t I?” His grin, showing even white teeth, was disarming and infuriating at the same time.


Paula Martin had some early publishing success in her twenties with short stories and four contemporary romance novels, but then had a break from writing while she brought up a young family and also pursued her career as a history teacher for twenty-five years. She has recently returned to writing fiction, after retiring from teaching. and has had three romance novels published, ‘His Leading Lady’ in June 2011, ‘Fragrance of Violets in February 2012’ and ‘Changing the Future’ in May 2012. Another novel will be published in November 2012 and she is currently working on two more romances.

She lives near Manchester in North-West England, and has two daughters and two grandsons. Apart from writing, she enjoys visiting new places and has travelled extensively in Britain, mainland Europe, the Middle East, America and Canada. Her favourite places are the English Lake District and Ireland. She’s also interested in musical theatre and tracing her family history.

To win a copy of Paula's book, all you have to do is just leave a comment and your e-mail address.
Contest ends on Sunday and everyone who comments is eligible.