Shira Anthony's Blog - Posts Tagged "dreamspinner-press"

August 26, 2011 – One month to release day of my long novella, “The Dream of a Thousand Nights” on Dreamspinner Press! As a countdown to release day, I thought I’d share with you the first chapter of the story, which takes place ten years before the rest of the action. This is a pre-publication excerpt, so the final version may differ. Enjoy! -Shira

WARNING: CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT, 18+ ONLY!

Chapter One: Forgotten

Neriah ran down the narrow passageway between the hedgerows, stumbling over roots and rocks. His bare feet were now bloody, but he knew that he could not stop. The guards who pursued him had but one goal in mind: his death. His eyes burned with unshed tears at the memory of what he had seen as he fled his room in the palace. He swore under his breath that he hadn’t had the presence of mind to grab his sword. He was unarmed. Vulnerable.

Why are they trying to kill me? What have I done to warrant this? Why would Father—?

“Over here!” shouted one of the men.

He could hear footsteps close behind—the guards would soon overtake him. He brushed his long dark hair from his eyes and threw off the silk jacket he wore, tossing it under one of the large bushes. He followed this by removing his shirt and the silk scarf around his head—the bright fabrics were too visible. He pulled the gold earring from his ear and struggled to remove the rings from his fingers, shoving them into his pockets as he continued to run, panting, toward the high wall that surrounded the palace.

I have to get over the wall, he thought as his lungs began to ache from the strain of running for so long. At least on the outside, I have a chance.

The wall loomed above him now with its smooth, white stone, and he looked around in desperation, trying to spot something upon which to gain a foothold. And then he saw it—a climbing rose, ancient and knotty, unyielding. It stretched up against the wall, attaching itself tenaciously to the grooves between the stones. Beneath it on the ground were yellowing rose petals, the remnants of early summer now left to decay. He ran toward the vine just as the palace guards had spotted him.

“There he is!” one called to the others, pointing toward the garden wall.

Neriah grabbed the gnarled stem of the ancient rose, ignoring the pain of its thorns as they dug into his soft hands. He clambered up, clutching one of the smaller branches that climbed high above the garden. The branch bent with his weight, and he began to fall backward, managing at the last moment to get hold of another branch and steady himself. He felt his knees burn against the smooth stone as he struggled upward, reaching the top of the wall. Winded, bloodied, his face covered in dirt, he stood at the top and looked back at the palace, its deep blue and gold turrets silhouetted against the sky.

Mother, he thought as he fought back tears, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I promise I’ll avenge your death.

One of the pursuing guards began to climb the rose after him, causing the old vine to shudder and shake beneath the man’s weight. Neriah looked down at the street below. Several vendors had set up their stalls beneath where he stood, their booths covered with bright fabrics attached to simple wooden poles. There were more shouts from behind him in the garden as he teetered on the edge, trying to find a spot to land.

They’ll kill you if you stay, he reminded himself as he looked at the tops of the stalls and wished that they weren’t so far down.

He saw his mother’s face in his mind’s eye, recalling her battered body on the marble floor and the lifeless glaze of her eyes. They had been looking for him—he was sure of it—and she had refused to tell them where he was. Her sacrifice had saved his life. She wanted you to live, he told himself. He frowned and, gathering his courage, jumped.

“Is he dead?” came a voice at the periphery of his consciousness.

“No. I fixed his body. He’s just asleep, Kuri,” replied a second voice, deeper than the first. “Bring me the blanket.”

“You’ll be banished for saving him, you know,” said the first voice. “We can’t help humans. Not unless we’re commanded.”

“I won’t let him die here,” answered the second voice. “Just bring me the blanket. Now.”

He heard the sound of footsteps, then felt strong hands tucking something warm around his aching body. He struggled back to consciousness and looked up into a pair of amber eyes that sparkled like sunlight and reminded him of the finest jewels his mother wore. The thought of his mother made his heart ache, but something in the compassionate gaze of those almond-shaped eyes put him at ease, and he felt the pain begin to recede.

“Don’t try to speak,” said the young man who leaned over him. “You must rest for now. Don’t worry. You’ll be safe here.”

He awoke again to absolute darkness. He struggled to sit up, panicked that the guards had found him. He imagined himself in the dungeons below the palace, his arms bound to his sides. But as the haze of sleep and exhaustion began to clear, he realized that his arms were held at his sides by the blanket that was wrapped around him.

“Please,” he whispered into the blackness. His voice was hoarse, his mouth parched. He felt himself pulled upward, and gentle fingers brushed his matted hair from his face.

“It’s all right,” came the reply. It was the same warm, high baritone he had heard before—the voice, Neriah guessed, of a young man. “Your body has been mended. But you haven’t had anything to eat or drink since I found you two days ago.” He felt the coldness of metal pressed to his mouth, the cool liquid soothing to his dry lips. “Don’t drink it too fast. Your body won’t tolerate it.” He slowed his gulps and relaxed, allowing his weak body to be supported.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice sounding less rough.

“Can you sit on your own?” the young man asked.

“I think so,” he answered as he found the wall behind him and rested his weight against it.

He heard footsteps, then the sound of a small oil lamp being lit. He blinked to focus on his companion, who looked to be about sixteen or seventeen—his own age. “I am Tamir,” replied the young man, whose hair was a deep red in the lamplight. He wore simple cotton clothing—the shalvar kameez of a peasant—and his long hair was tied in a high ponytail with a piece of green fabric. Neriah found himself captivated by the exotic beauty of the boy.

“Tamir,” Neriah repeated, “you’ve been very kind to me.”

The edges of Tamir’s mouth turned upward in a tender smile. “When I found you at the edge of the market, I feared you were dead,” he said.

“I am called…,” Neriah hesitated, afraid to reveal his true name, “Sheva.” He hated to lie to his savior, but his fear was great, both for his own safety as well as Tamir’s.

“I’m pleased to have met you, Sheva,” Tamir replied, sitting cross-legged in front of Neriah. “Do you think you can eat?”

Neriah nodded, feeling his belly complain. Tamir handed him a small flatbread. Neriah tore a piece of the bread and began to eat it with relish. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you more,” Tamir said, pleased to see his companion’s fine appetite. “Perhaps tomorrow—”

“You needn’t apologize,” Neriah interrupted, gazing at his rescuer. “I can’t thank you enough for all that you’ve done for me.”

“Were you being chased?” Tamir asked as Neriah continued to eat the bread. “I heard that you were atop the palace wall—that you fell.”

“I…,” Neriah began, unsure of what to say. He wanted to tell the other boy the truth—that he was a prince, that he had done nothing wrong, and that his mother had died to save his life—but he found himself oddly tongue-tied. Despite his unease, he felt a strange sense of peacefulness radiate from his companion.

“It’s all right,” Tamir said, “you needn’t tell me anything. I’ve been in a fair number of fights myself. Kuri said the Royal Guards were searching the marketplace.”

Neriah coughed on the bread, having inhaled a bit of it in his alarm at the news. Tamir put his hand on Neriah’s back and, with a deft flick of his wrist, hit Neriah between the shoulder blades. The piece of bread on which Neriah had choked flew out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Sheva,” said Tamir, looking wretched, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m fine, Tamir,” Neriah replied as he tried to calm his racing heart. “I guess I just ate a bit too fast for my own good.” Their eyes met, and Neriah took in the strong lines of Tamir’s jaw, noting the soft indentation of his cheek and the dimples at the edges of his mouth. He is beautiful, he thought, admiring the ethereal quality of Tamir’s eyes. His next thought was one of grief and self-reproach. How could you even think such a thing at a time like this? He felt tears threaten and clenched his jaw. He would not show weakness to anyone, let alone a stranger. He was, he reminded himself, still a prince.

“Something is wrong,” Tamir ventured, noticing Neriah’s hard expression. “Those men. Why were they after you, Sheva?”

Neriah wiped his eyes and frowned. “I… I stole something from them,” he lied as he forced the image of his dead mother from the forefront of his mind. “They chased after me. I thought they would kill me.” He looked at his hands and said nothing more. A lie and the truth. He hoped it would suffice as an explanation of how he had come to be injured.

Neriah needn’t have worried, for Tamir replied, “You don’t have to tell me more. You should rest. Tomorrow, when you are stronger, you can make your way out of the city, if you wish.”

Neriah studied the other boy’s face for a moment. If he’d wanted to turn me in, he would have done so by now, he thought. Still, he hesitated. Why would this boy—this commoner—wish to help him?

“I promise no harm will come to you while you sleep,” Tamir added, as if he had read Neriah’s mind. The effect of these words upon Neriah was almost magical. Neriah knew, in that instant, that Tamir spoke the truth. Too tired to argue with himself over the wisdom of this blind trust, Neriah just said, “Thank you,” and lay down upon the makeshift pillow once more.

Neriah awoke sometime later, Tamir’s body pressed against his own, warm and comforting. Without thinking, he wrapped his hands around the young man’s chest, burying his head against Tamir’s back, desperate to think of something other than the dangerous future that awaited him outside these walls. He heard Tamir sigh, and he released Tamir from the embrace, afraid that he had overstepped the boundaries of their newfound friendship.

It was then that Tamir rolled over and reached for Neriah. Neriah could smell the other boy’s sweet fragrance, which called to mind jasmine and spices. They lay that way for the longest time, neither of them speaking. “I haven’t been truthful with you,” Neriah admitted, “I—”

“Shhh,” Tamir replied, pressing his fingertips to Neriah’s soft lips. “I do not need to know. I just wish I could ease your pain.”

The lamp, which had been burning since Tamir had lit it hours before, now guttered and died. Neriah reached for Tamir and ran lithe fingers through his crimson hair. It felt like silk in Neriah’s hands. “I am sorry to have put you through this,” he said. “I don’t deserve such—” But his words were cut short this time, not by Tamir’s fingers but by his lips, pressed against Neriah’s.

Neriah felt his pulse quicken. The kiss broke and Neriah began, “Tamir, I…”

“I’m sorry,” Tamir replied. “I should not have touched you. I beg your forgiveness.”

Neriah opened his mouth to speak, to tell Tamir that he had done nothing wrong, that he wanted this too. Instead, he kissed the redhead. He had never lain with another man before, but his need to possess those full lips was so great that he found he could not help himself.

Their kiss deepened, and Neriah’s desire for the young man beside him grew. His hands sought the smooth skin of Tamir’s chest of their own accord. He felt the hard muscle beneath the warm skin and, in the darkness, he kissed Tamir’s shoulder. He heard Tamir gasp in pleasure as Neriah’s hands probed beneath the boy’s cotton shalvar, and he felt Tamir’s hardness grow beneath his fingers.

“Sheva,” whispered Tamir, pulling Neriah’s hands away, “Please… let me pleasure you.”

Neriah tried to protest, but Tamir’s gentle lips met his own, and Neriah found that he had no will to resist him. Tamir pulled Neriah’s pantaloons away, tracing Neriah’s body with his fingers. Neriah felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the other boy’s touch. None of the women he had lain with had ever touched him in this way, nor had he responded to them so powerfully, despite their beauty. “Please,” he moaned, as Tamir began to cover his body with feathery kisses. He could not think—he didn’t want to think—he just wanted to forget the ache in his heart.

“Let me take away your pain, Sheva,” Tamir said, finding Neriah’s hard length and kissing it. Neriah inhaled sharply and closed his eyes. It was at once the sweetest and most stunning revelation of Neriah’s young life—not the fact that it was a man pleasuring him thus, but that he could feel anything so overwhelming, so wonderful, even as his heart grieved.

How does he know? Neriah wondered. And yet the truth was plain—Tamir understood the depth of his pain and his need.

When he thought he could stand it no longer, that his release would come at Tamir’s warm lips, Tamir freed him from his mouth and clasped his arms around him. Neriah, overcome, claimed Tamir’s lips once more and they held each other. And in that brief moment, Neriah knew he would never know anything as warm and reassuring as Tamir’s arms.

“Let me guide you,” Tamir whispered, licking his hand and taking Neriah’s erection in it. Neriah, understanding what was to come, did not protest, but moved to press against the tight place between Tamir’s buttocks. What followed was pure bliss, and Neriah’s sorrow evaporated as he lost himself in the warmth of his companion. Tamir’s soft skin was more beautiful than any woman’s, the way his body molded to Neriah’s like the most sensual of kisses. Neriah knew that Tamir, too, shared the same joy as he, for Tamir’s cries of pleasure mingled with Neriah’s own in the dark stillness of the night.

“Why would you do this for me?” Neriah heard himself say afterward, his breath ragged with release.

“Because I could,” came the answer, along with the arms that encircled him in blissful warmth.

“But you know nothing about me; you owe me nothing,” Neriah persisted, uncomprehending.

“But I do know you, beloved,” Tamir replied, his voice like the sigh of the wind through an orange grove in Neriah’s ear. “You are kind and brave and strong. It is the least I could do for you.”

Still entwined, the two boys fell asleep, Neriah’s head against Tamir’s chest.

Tamir awoke at daybreak and, for the longest time, just watched Neriah sleep. His eyes traveled along the prince’s well-defined jaw to his high cheekbones, following the hollow of his cheeks to the slender nose and dark eyebrows. Unable to contain himself, Tamir traced his fingers over Neriah’s graceful lips for a moment, then reached to pull a narrow gold chain from around his own neck. Dangling from the chain was a jade pendant, etched with a depiction of the moon and two stars. He fingered the pendant for a moment, and his eyes filled with tears.

“I cannot come with you, my Prince,” he said with great tenderness as he kneeled over the sleeping Neriah and placed the chain around his neck. “But perhaps, when you sleep, you will dream of me.”

He touched his hand to Neriah’s forehead and whispered, “Now, forget me.”

Thanks to everyone who stopped by for the Hop Against Homophobia! I will be contacting the winner of the giveaway today. It was really a joy to share my rants and know that there are people out there listening! What a great way to raise awareness and encourage those of us in “the choir” to go out into the world and spread the word that homophobia is hatred, pure and simple. If each of us just reaches one person and makes him/her think about it, then it was worth it! -Shira

Enter until 7/15 to win a paperback copy of my new release, "The Trust," from Dreamspinner Press! Here's the link to the giveaway: http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sho...

Theme/Genre: Gay romance, contemporary, mystery/suspense, sci fi

Contains: Graphic depictions of homosexual sex, James Bond type violence (think secret agents with guns) and, of course, a happy ending!

Blurb: Eight years ago, Jake Anders was a college kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Then Trace Michelson recruited him into The Trust, a CIA-backed agency whose “executives” eliminate rogue biotechnology operations. Trace was everything Jake ever wanted in a man: powerful, brilliant, and gorgeous. But Jake never admitted his attraction to his mentor, and Trace always kept Jake at arm’s length.

Now Trace is dead and Jake is one of The Trust’s best operatives, highly skilled and loyal to the organization. But the secret agent has his own secret: six years ago, before he was assassinated, Trace designed a Sim chip containing his memories and experiences—and now that chip is part of Jake. It’s just data, designed to augment Jake’s knowledge, but when Sim becomes reality, Jake wonders if Trace is still alive or if Jake really is going crazy like everyone claims. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself, let alone anyone else.

To learn the truth about Trace and the chip, Jake embarks on a dangerous mission—except he’s not the only one looking for the information. Some of the answers are locked in his head, and unless he finds the key, he’ll be killed for the technology that’s become a part of him.

Now, more than ever, Jake wishes Trace were here to guide him. Too bad he’s dead... right?

Happy Friday everyone!  I hope you've all recovered from the holiday insanity.  I still feel as though I'm walking around in a fog, and I've got this nagging feeling at the back of my brain that I'd better hurry up and push the fog away, or I'm going to get trampled with work.  For me at least, I'm pretty sure January and February are going to kick me in the ass.  But it's all good, really.   I have a lot going on with writing projects.

First up, and probably the most exciting of the bunch:  I just got the first round of edits for "Lighting the Way Home," the contemporary novel I co-authored with Dreamspinner author E.M. Lynley.  It's a sweet and sexy story about coming home to realize that everything you've always wanted was there all along.  It's part of E.M.'s "Delectable" series, and features a chef who runs away from a broken heart and lands in Paris, France.  But when his mother needs surgery, he flies home to New York City to help his parents run their family restaurant while she recovers.  Release date is March, 2013.

Just behind that one is the fourth book in the Blue Notes Series, "Prelude," which was co-authored with Venona Keyes.  The third book in the series, "Aria," was just released on December 24th.  One of the secondary characters in "Aria," David Somers (conductor of the Chicago Symphony), is the main character in "Prelude."  "Prelude" takes place several years before the prior Blue Notes books.  The series is meant to be read in any order, though, and each novel is standalone.

Lastly, I'm finishing up work on a manuscript for tentative publication in the summer of 2013.  This one is a bit of a departure from my angsty musicians.  "Stealing the Wind" is a pirate/shifter novel which will likely have a sequel.  These shifters are a bit different from the usual weres:  they are merfolk.  The story is sexy (it has a little M/M/M, although the romance is strictly M/M) and romantic, with a bit of adventure on the high seas.  If you click on the link, you can read an excerpt.

A few more updates for me.  I'll be chatting this Saturday, January 5th, from 7-9 p.m. EST, on Dawn Roberto's Love Romances Cafe Yahoo Group.  You need to be a member, but it's easy to sign up!  Just click on the link.  I'll be doing some giveaways on the chat, so be sure to stop by and comment to be entered to win.  I'll also be making a few more blog stops to talk about "Aria" and the rest of my writing over the next few weeks.

A few readers have asked for more of a preview of "Prelude," so I thought I'd leave you all with an excerpt from the novel.  This is an unedited, prepublication excerpt, so I am totally to blame for any typos/mistakes (not my wonderful Dreamspinner editors!).  Have a wonderful weekend!  Hope to see you all at Dawn's tomorrow night. -Shira

******************

Blurb:  David Somers, music director of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, is one of the best-known conductors in the classical music world. He helps young performers like Cary Redding (The Melody Thief) and Aiden Lind (Aria) with their careers. He’s sophisticated, richer than God, handsome, and outrageously successful. But there’s something about David that his public personality doesn’t come close to hinting at: underneath it all, he’s insecure.

When crossover violinist Alex Bishop fills in at the last minute on a CSO concert, David isn’t expecting much. After all, Alex has long hair, tattoos, and plays rock ‘n roll when he’s not playing Beethoven. But when David hears Alex perform, he begins to wonder if he hasn’t underestimated the man.

It takes some time, but the two men fall hard for each other. But each has his own measure of pain to shoulder, and when David’s insecurities threaten to tear them apart, it’s up to Alex to show David that not all love is conditional.

********

Chapter Two

Chicago, Present Day

David Somers had a headache.  He’d hoped it would pass, but it had only gotten worse in the past fifteen minutes.  He waited stage left as the orchestra finished tuning.

Deep breath.  Focus.

The concertmaster sat back down again—the signal for David to walk onto the stage of Orchestra Hall.  His hall.  His orchestra, he reminded himself.  He breathed in slowly before walking onto the stage, his expression schooled, utterly focused.  The Armani tux he wore was perfectly pressed, his posture perfect, and his stride confident.  The orchestra stood as he entered.  The hall, filled to capacity, rang with polite applause.

But David’s disinterested poise was merely a sham—he was irritated to the extreme.  It was only his strong sense of duty that had brought him back to the stage tonight for the second half of the program.  That, and the potential sponsors of his modern music series whom he knew sat in the center box seats—the box that had been owned by Somers Industries for more than sixty years.

He glanced stage-left to where the soloist waited to make his entrance.  David had seen him for the first time only moments before, and he'd been left with the distinct impression of a street thug.  Tattoos, indeed, he thought with disdain.  There was no place for such a thing in the refined world of classical music.  True, the soloist had worn the traditional tails of an artist making a solo appearance with the Chicago Symphony, one of the finest symphony orchestras in the world.  But that was de rigueur, expected of him, regardless of his personal tastes.  No, it had been the telltale ink visible at the other man’s throat as he buttoned up his shirt that had taken David by surprise.

"Lastislav Voitavich is ill," his personal assistant, James Roland, had told him as he arrived at the back entrance to Symphony Center that afternoon, "but we've managed to find a replacement."

David hadn’t been concerned.  Such last-minute substitutions were rare, but not unheard of.  He knew there were plenty of violinists who would give their eyeteeth to take the stage under his baton and with such a prestigious orchestra.  There were few conductors on the classical music scene with his reputation, let alone as young as he.

"Has the replacement performed the piece before?"

"Of course, Maestro," James assured him. “Several times, I’m told.”

"That will be sufficient."  It would be just that—sufficient—nothing more and nothing less.  That was the way of all last-minute substitutions.  It would not be a memorable evening, but David would ensure that his audience did not leave disappointed.  The orchestra’s performance would, at least, be outstanding.

"There is one thing you should know, though," James added in a quavering voice.  It meant little that they’d worked together for nearly five years; David had never been an easy man to please.  But then, one didn’t get a reputation like his by having lax standards.  David was a perfectionist, and proud of it.

He glared at the young man—he didn’t appreciate being troubled with such nonsense before a performance—he needed time to prepare, to focus on the music, and review the score.  "What do you wish to tell me?"

"Th… the… the soloist… he… ah—"

"I don’t care who he is, as long as he can play the Sibelius."  David ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"He… he can, of course!" the assistant squeaked as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Five minutes before he’d taken the stage for the second half of the concert, when he read through the bio James had handed him, David realized what a mistake he’d made by not pressing the issue further.   It’s a concert, he reminded himself.  Nothing more.  There will be time to kowtow in apology to the board tomorrow, if need be.  He detested kowtowing, but he also knew he did it quite well.

It was rare that he had to make any public speech, let alone an announcement in the middle of a concert.  He despised public speaking, but there was nothing to do for it—the substitution had been too eleventh-hour to print something to add into the programs.

“Good evening,” he began with a practiced smile.  “There has been a slight change in tonight’s program. Our featured soloist, Lastislav Voitavich, has taken ill.”   There were murmurs from the audience, so David waited until the hall was silent before continuing, “Alexander Bishop has graciously agreed to perform the Sibelius.”  Instead of voicing their disappointment, the audience applauded with surprising enthusiasm.  “Thank you,” David finished, unsure of what to make of the response.   He nodded toward the wings.  There was renewed applause as the violinist took to the stage. 

Alex Bishop.  A rock star masquerading as a classical violinist.  Tattoos and groupies.  He didn't doubt that the man was competent—his assistant was young, not stupid.  Still, David loathed this "new breed" of musician who all too often graced the covers of magazines like Time and, more recently, Rolling Stone.  Tattoos, indeed.  In David’s estimation, the term “crossover artist” was merely a marketing tool, meant to exploit an artist’s good looks and increase sales.

He signaled for the concertmaster to provide the soloist with an opportunity to tune before turning to face the orchestra, his back to the audience.  The Sibelius violin concerto was a challenging but not an overly taxing piece, and he’d rehearsed his orchestra well.   The orchestra will shine, despite any deficit in the quality of fiddle playing. He raised his baton and did his best to ignore the auburn hair that fell onto the soloist’s shoulders in a tumble.

Alex Bishop was attractive enough, he noted.  Tall and muscular—taller than David himself.  Still, in spite of Alex’s apparent ease in front of the large crowd and his undeniable stage-presence, David knew Alex was no more than a pretender to the world of classical music.  All hype and no substance—a creation of Hollywood agents and a second-rate player, no doubt.  He’d heard so-called “crossover” artists perform before, and he hadn’t been impressed.

Alex glanced over to David, his instrument tucked under his chin.  Their eyes met for a brief moment.  It surprised David to note that Alex’s dark brown eyes simmered with passion and focus.  David raised his baton higher, the signal to the orchestra for the downbeat.  One deft flick of the baton later, the orchestra began the first measures of the Sibelius Violin Concerto in D Minor.

As a conductor, David had always preferred the less emotional, modern repertoire to the sweeping romanticism of Brahms, Mahler, or Sibelius.  Tonight's program had been a nod to the wealthy patrons who kept the orchestra’s finances in the black.  It was a tedious thing, to be required to accommodate the common musical tastes of his benefactors, but David tolerated it, knowing he'd been able to include a less tonal, more challenging piece of music later in the symphony's performance schedule.  In David’s opinion, the Sibelius concerto was no exception.  He was unmoved by its soaring and plaintive melodies, although he knew that his audience would respond to it enthusiastically.

David glanced over at Alex.  Their eyes met again as Alex began the first few notes of the solo line and the heady tones of Alex's violin filled the concert hall.  With practiced concentration, David returned his focus to the score that sat on the podium in front of him.  He didn't need to read the music to conduct the piece—he had committed every measure to memory—but he sought the distraction. 

Strange.  He’s better than I expected.  Far better, really, although David would hardly admit it to himself.

Alex finished the opening phrase of the movement with obvious ease.  Once again, David found himself taken aback by the intensity of the other man's playing, as well as the natural musicality and the warm tone he was able to coax from the fiddle.  The violin Alex played was serviceable, but it was no Stradivarius or Guarneri.  Still, David found it remarkable that the instrument sounded nearly as resonant the finest instruments he had heard through the years.  “A good instrument can make the performer,” his old friend and predecessor, John Fuchs, had once told him.  “But without talent, it is only an instrument.”

As the evening progressed, Alex began the second movement: a slow and sensual adagio.  Again, David found himself transported by the artistry with which Alex conveyed the depth of the composition, and again David found himself struggling to maintain his focus and not lose himself in the music.  After the third and final movement, the crowd jumped to its feet.  Amidst the enthusiastic applause were resounding calls of "Bravo!" from some of the patrons.  Including, David noted with pleasure, the two men and one woman seated in the Somers’s box.

The audience was satisfied with no fewer than four bows, each time calling back both soloist and maestro to the stage with more cheers and applause.  As they walked back and forth across the stage for each bow, David watched with interest, half-expecting Alex to react as a rock star might and toss an article of clothing to his adoring fans.  Alex did nothing of the sort, instead bowing with surprising grace and maintaining the decorum expected from a soloist performing with a world-renowned symphony orchestra.  David noticed that rather than basking in the glow of the audience’s response, Alex appeared slightly ill at ease with the adulation, although he smiled personably and with genuine appreciation.

After the final bow, David followed Alex offstage.  He had intended to retreat to his dressing room, but several fans already crowded the wings, blocking the way.  Irritated by the lack of security, David attempted to walk around the gathering crowd by taking a path through the wings instead of directly out to the corridor.  Several orchestra members milled about, clearly anxious to congratulate Alex on his performance.  Seeing David, they nodded in a formal manner—they had long since learned that the maestro did not wish to be disturbed after a performance.  David returned each gesture with a curt nod, then sidestepped the approaching fans before slipping out the door and into the hallway.

He closed the door behind him and looked up into a pair of dark eyes.  Alex, it appeared, had also sought to avoid the backstage chaos.  He smiled at David, holding his violin and bow in his right hand.  “Maestro,” he said.  Transferring his instrument to his left hand, he offered his right hand to David.

The two men shook hands in silence.  There was a moment’s hesitation before David withdrew his hand and said, "We appreciate your willingness to fill in at the last minute."

"It was my pleasure," Alex murmured.  He watched David as if unsure what to make of the man.  "I've played the concerto a few times, although never with such a skillful conductor."

David, used to compliments, was unmoved.  "Thank you."

Alex shifted inelegantly on his feet.  "Listen," he said, "we're having a little party at my place.  Just a few friends, a couple of beers, that sort of thing.  Nothin' fancy.  Would you like to join us?"

"I appreciate the invitation, but I’m expected at a donors’ party in a few minutes."

"No problem," Alex said with a smile and a nod.  "I understand."

Was that disappointment David saw in the other man’s face?  Unlikely.  He’s relieved.  Besides, can you see yourself at a party with a few friends and a ‘couple of beers’?  He’s just trying to be kind.  Then, realizing that his response had been quite rude, David said, "Perhaps another ti—"  His words were cut short by shouts and giggles as two teenage girls launched themselves at Alex, nearly knocking his violin from his hand.

David stepped backward to avoid the onslaught and almost collided with a woman with long blond hair who swooped in to protect Alex from the girls.  The girlfriend, no doubt.  Time to leave.  He turned and strode quickly down the hallway to his dressing room, closing the door and taking a deep breath on the other side.

*********

Alex bent down and managed to catch his instrument before it hit the ground, but when he stood up once again David had vanished.  He managed a self-conscious smile as another woman planted a wet kiss on his cheek, missing his lips by a hair's breadth.

That was strange, he thought, disappointed to see David had disappeared.  There was something appealing about David Somers, not the least of which his command of the orchestra and his unique musical voice.  He had heard David conduct before, of course, but performing under his baton had been a refreshing experience.

“Thanks for the rescue, Mar,” he said after he’d signed the girls’ programs.

"You looked like you needed it.”  She laughed as the girls headed off toward the exit.

He took his roommate's arm and led her down the hallway to the green room, where he’d left his coat and case.  Marla waited as he wiped the rosin from the strings, fingerboard, and bridge of his violin with a small white cloth.  Satisfied with his handiwork, he gently laid the instrument in its case, loosened the hair of his bow and locked it into place in the lid.  He clicked the case closed and picked up his coat without a word.

"You're quiet tonight," Marla observed, watching him with obvious interest.  “Disappointed with the performance?"

"Nah. It was one of the best concerts I've played."

"Sounded pretty good to me, too, but then I'm no musician." She pressed a pensive finger to her lips and cocking her head to the side, asked, "So, how was he?"

"He?"

"The maestro," she laughed.  "David Somers.  You said it yourself, he's probably the best young conductor on the classical music scene.  Did he live up to his reputation?"

"He…."  Alex hesitated.  He honestly wasn't sure how to describe David.  "He's certainly a difficult man to approach.  Still…."

Marla's musical laughter filled the room.  "I wasn't talking about his personality, silly boy, I was talking about his musical ability." She eyed him with suspicion, then added, "But it seems as though he might have made more than just a musical impression on you."

In spite of himself, Alex’s jaw tightened.  "You’re playing matchmaker again.”

"Can't help a girl for wanting a Michigan Avenue apartment of her own, can you?"

"You couldn't afford it without a roommate."

She sighed and shook her head.  "No, probably not." He’d been paying the rent and utilities on the condo they’d shared for more than a year—he had insisted on it now that he was making good money performing.  The advance on his last recording hadn't hurt, either.

"Besides," he added with a smile, "I've got a least a few more year's rent to pay you back before we're even."

"Eh, you're right." She tossed her hand in the air, as she often did when he let her win.  "I figure I've got about a year left before I'm out on the street.  So how about the maestro?”

“Don’t think he’s my type.” Alex emphasized the word and glared at her, shaking his head.

“You never know.”

There was an open challenge in her expression that he chose to ignore. Instead, he opened the door to the green room and picked up the violin case.  With her arm firmly wrapped around his waist, they walked back into the crowded hallway.  He signed a few more autographs until Marla began to push through the crowd, leading him to the stage door.  The fans, assuming that Marla was his girlfriend, looked more than disappointed, some openly hostile.  He ignored this.  He was used to it.  Besides, Marla was quite adept at fending off the women she affectionately called "simpering spineless sluts."

As they walked out of the Adams Street entrance, Alex spotted a limousine waiting a few yards away.  The driver held the door open and a lone figure walked quickly over, avoiding any contact with the public.  David Somers, dressed in a dark coat with a white scarf flung about his neck, ducked into the limo.  As he sat down, he glanced back to where Alex stood.  Their eyes met for an instant before the driver closed the door.

Marla eyed Alex with suspicion.

"What?" He shot her a look of mock irritation.

"Nothing." She grinned at him.  "Nothing at all."

They crossed the street and headed the half block to Michigan Avenue for the shortcut through Millennium Park to their apartment.

So okay, I admit it.  I’m a bit of a music geek (okay, so I’m a total music geek).  I started studying music at age five with something called Dalcroze Eurythmics, a wonderful dance type activity that helps musicians get a sense of rhythm and music in their bodies (look it up—it’s really cool!).  I started learning music theory at age six—the same year I started studying the violin on a tiny half-size instrument.  Later, I became a professional opera singer and performed all over the US and in Europe.  But it wasn’t until four years ago that I actually tried to write something about music.

All of which begs the question:  how do you write about music?  How do you write about something that’s primarily an auditory experience?  How do you find the words and the emotional connection to express the sound of the music and the process of performance?

The answer?  It’s not easy.

My Blue Notes Series books all have at their core musical expression.  The first book, “Blue Notes,” was about a former pianist who faces his long-standing fear of performing years after he’s given up performing.  There’s a scene in that novel where he begins to work through his fear with the help of the other main character in the book.  The pianist plays a complex and technically challenging piece, working through both the notes and the emotions it evokes as he plays.

The second book in the series, “The Melody Thief,” features a classical cellist who lives a double life.  He’s a world-renowned performer, sought after by the best conductors for his musical ability, but he’s also a sex-addicted, unhappy man who has never had a relationship that’s lasted more than a day or two.  In the book, he plays with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.  The performance is a breakthrough for him because he’s finally met someone who loves him unconditionally, and that love begins to translate into the music he makes.

So how does a writer talk about music on paper?  To be honest, I’m still learning how to do it.  With each book, I’ve learned new tricks for conveying the beauty of music to my readers.

First off, the easiest trick in the book:  tell your readers what piece they’re hearing.  Give them links to the music so they can hear it (and even listen to it while they’re reading if they wish).  For each book, I’ve posted a playlist on my website (www.shiraanthony.com).   If you click on book extras, you’ll find links to various interpretations of the music in each book.

Next, I try to focus on the emotions the music evokes: sadness, happiness, the feeling of being loved, the pain of loss.  Classical music compositions tend to have one or two main emotions they express.  In “Blue Notes,” Jason plays one of my favorite piano works, Brahms’ Intermezzo Opus 118, No. 2, a wistful and beautiful piece that is powerfully romantic.  For Jason, the piece helps ground him emotionally and connect with the music within.  It’s not overly challenging for him, so he doesn’t worry about making mistakes and embarrassing himself.  He just feels the music in his soul.  In “The Melody Thief,” Cary plays the Dvorak Cello Concerto.  It’s an angsty, romantic and tumultuous piece that mirrors the turbulence in Cary’s own heart.  It’s not sad, but it’s almost painful in its beauty, a wonderful companion to Cary’s internal struggle.

Lastly, I try to use adjective to describe the music:  warm, turbulent, bright, clear, colorful, hopeful, among others.  The adjectives become the notes on the page, a bit like an artist uses colors to express emotion in a painting.  Taken together with the other means of describing music, adjectives help to ground the reader in a sense of the beauty of the music.

Each Blue Notes Series book is a standalone story, meant to be read in any order.  The most recent installment, “Aria,” focuses on Aiden Lind, an opera singer who struggles to balance his relationship and his skyrocketing career.  Each book takes on a different aspect of music and musicians, and explores the lives of musicians based on my own personal experiences in the business.

Interested in reading a bit more about my musicians?  Here’s an excerpt from “The Melody Thief”—the passage I mentioned above, where Cary begins to grow as a musician in part because of his relationship with Antonio, the other main character in the story.   I hope you enjoy it! –Shira

*****************

Blurb:  Cary Redding is a walking contradiction. On the surface he’s a renowned cellist, sought after by conductors the world over. Underneath, he’s a troubled man flirting with addictions to alcohol and anonymous sex. The reason for the discord? Cary knows he’s a liar, a cheat. He's the melody thief.

Cary manages his double life just fine until he gets mugged on a deserted Milan street. Things look grim until handsome lawyer Antonio Bianchi steps in and saves his life. When Antonio offers something foreign to Cary—romance—Cary doesn’t know what to do. But then things get even more complicated. For one thing, Antonio has a six-year-old son. For another, Cary has to confess about his alter ego and hope Antonio forgives him.

Just when Cary thinks he's figured it all out, past and present collide and he is forced to choose between the family he wanted as a boy and the one he has come to love as a man.

******************

Excerpt: “The Melody Thief,” by Shira Anthony

Cary spent the first half of the program listening to the Beethoven from the wings. At last, on stage an hour later, he closed his eyes and listened to the long orchestral introduction to the Dvorák, noting with pleasure the richness David was able to coax from the string section and the clear, powerful tones of the horns as they took over the melody from their stringed counterparts.

He adored this music, from its dark and demanding opening theme to the more subdued secondary theme in the brass and the woodwinds. The warmth of the sound from the orchestra behind him sent chills down his spine as he opened his eyes once again and looked up for David’s cue. The conductor met his eyes with a trace of a smile on his lips, then lifted his baton.

The opening measures of the solo flew by with their arpeggio passages, giving way to the secondary theme with its lilting melodic line. Back and forth, soloist and orchestra wove the complex tapestry the composer had envisioned. In this piece, the cello and the orchestra were both integral to the music. Perhaps this was why Cary adored it so much, and the sense that he and David created the music together made this performance so much more satisfying than any other until now. For a short while, Cary just lost himself in the music as his fingers found their way with ease through the treacherous double-stops and arpeggios that made this such a virtuosic composition.

His eyes filled briefly with tears as the last notes resonated from the cello and the final movement came to a close. For a moment, he was utterly lost to understand the depth of his own emotion. How many times had he played the same notes over the past twelve years, since he had mastered the piece? And yet this time, it was entirely different. He came back to himself with the thunderous applause from the audience, and struggled to regain his composure.

“I’ve never heard you play as well,” David said as they both walked to the edge of the stage to take their bows. It was true; he never had. And he was pretty sure he understood why.

Back in his dressing room afterward, Cary sank into the couch and closed his eyes for a few minutes. It had become a bit of a habit for him to meditate after a performance—it was something Aiden had suggested to him years ago and which he had initially laughed off. Today, more than any other, he needed the time to decompress.

The door opened a crack and Alex Bishop peered inside. “You decent?”

“Never,” Cary answered with a snort. “Come on in.”

“I hope you don’t mind.” Alex walked into the room. “I brought someone with me.”

Cary was about to say something clever when he caught a glimpse of blond hair in the doorway. “Antonio?"

“I was in the neighborhood,” Antonio said, “and someone told me the music here was good.”

Grinning broadly, Alex closed the door behind him on the way out.

“You came all this way just to hear me?”

“Why not?” Antonio said, taking Cary into his arms and giving him a tender kiss.

Cary melted into the warm embrace, partly out of sheer exhaustion, but even more out of relief. “I missed you,” he whispered. Why was he afraid to say it louder? He loved this man.

Antonio kissed his hair and exhaled, his breath hitching with emotion.

“I missed you too, caro mio. Two weeks is too long.”

“How long can you stay?” Cary knew he shouldn’t feel so needy, but the performance had left him a bit off-kilter, and he needed reassurance that Antonio wasn’t leaving the next day.

“I’ve asked my colleague to handle things at the office. I’m going to stay until you’ve finished the recording. If you’ll have me, of course.”

“I’ll have to think about that.” Cary edged over to the door and locked it behind him. “But first I need to get out of this sweaty tux and take a shower.”

“I could help. I’m told I’m good at bathing other people.”

Cary pulled Antonio’s jacket off, unknotted his tie, and began to undo the buttons on his crisp white shirt. “That’s just what I was counting on.”

***************

"The Melody Thief" and the other books in the Blue Notes Series are available at Dreamspinner Press, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and AllRomanceEbooks, among other distributors.

Today's Daily Deal from Dreamspinner Press features the Blood Series! Buy Blood & Rain (Blood #1), get Blood & Ghost (Blood #2) for free! Perfect timing, since the final series book, Blood & Eternity, releases this Tuesday, 7/31!

Get the deal here!

The final series book releases on Tuesday, 7/31/18.