Tuesday, May 28, 2013

First Glance

I remember the first time I saw him, the effect of his presence, the striking beauty of his being. In my mind, I can catalogue the details, though I wasn’t aware at the time of how intimate my gaze must have been to him.

He stood apart from me, six feet in height, the heeled boots made him appear taller. He wore jeans, soft, worn, faded denim that fit like a comfortable glove, smoothing over lean, muscled thighs like a lover’s exploring caress. A dark leather jacket stretched across broad shoulders, collar raised against the chill breeze, a hint of black cashmere at the slightly open front of the coat.

I don’t know what sort of squeak I must have made, but he turned and looked at me, and my knees shook just a little. Everything hit my senses at once, the incredible impact of eyes so green they’re the finest jade; thick, well styled black hair, not quite perfect; and the slow upward curve of full, sensually sculpted lips. He took my breath away, or maybe I just stopped breathing?

To my absolute terror and delight, he turned and walked toward me, casual, graceful strides that telegraphed confidence, ease with himself, and the kind of power that is born in self-awareness. I looked up, memorized the planes of his face, the feathery tracings of lines that fanned from the corners of his beguiling eyes, the silken texture of his stubbled jaw. My fingers longed to reach up, to touch him.

When he took my hand and lifted it to drop a whispering kiss on the backs of my knuckles, I knew the tremor of response that rocketed through me was visible to him. When he spoke, voice accented, tone roughened with just the right amount of gravel, yet honeyed with seductive knowledge, he took possession of my soul and would own it forever…

To see the face of this extraordinary man, visit:

© 19th May, 2013

Blood Wine and Pales Roses is back

Blood Wine and Pale Roses was originally released a number of years ago, with the Wild Rose Press in their Black Rose category. It was a finalist for book of the year at LASR (Long and the Short of it Reviews), losing by a close 1% of the vote that year. As you can see from the reviews at the end of the excerpt, it's considered one of my best books. XoXo Publishing re-released the book, with a new look - and this is the first look at it in quite some time. The excerpt is new for this post, as well. If you enjoy a good vampire tale, you will probably enjoy this erotically charged story of hopes, betrayals, reawakened trust, and immortal hatred. Now, enjoy a sip of blood wine and pale roses....


Eden Colbourne has spent most of her life pursuing dreams that never quite came true. Running from yet another failed relationship, she seeks solace in the familiar surroundings of England's countryside, and her art. Drawn to the remnants of the abbey, she spends her days sketching the face of a man she believes is a ghost haunting both the abbey and her heart. The reality is even more disturbing...

When Sean Rourke finally reveals himself to her, Eden discovers the ghost is a creature of myth and dark dreams. Turned into a vampire by the man for whom his wife betrayed him, Sean is tormented and lonely, and more afraid of Eden's power to make him love than she is of his nocturnal curse. It isn't until the ancient vampire who made him returns to claim Eden that Sean is forced to decide once and for all if he can let go of the shade of his wife, and permit love to heal what remains of his humanity...


The sketchbook drew her eye, and Eden decided the best form of distraction would be work. She opened the book and stared at the face that smiled back at her from the top page. She’d never seen him before, yet she had filled several books with this man’s image. In fact, she had created an entire history for him. All that remained was a name, and that little detail always stayed just out of reach. No name  she settled upon felt ‘right,’ so he continued to be a stranger—a stranger to whom she felt closer to than most of the people who did populate her life.

“Who are you?” she murmured as her fingers brushed across the textured page and absently caressed the curving mouth.

“Who do you wish me to be?”

Eden  nearly dropped the book she held. The voice flowed into the air, low and compelling, rich with resonant power. She felt it touch her heart and demand a surrender she instinctively knew had been born  long ago. Strangely reluctant, she allowed her gaze to shift from the face on the page and look upward. Her grip lost its strength and the sketchbook slipped to the floor as she stared at him.

Despite the lack of light in the room,  he shone as though the sun itself illuminated his presence. Light within darkness—the thought drew itself in her mind,  a separate entity, disconnected from her.

He stood  tall and so incredibly pale that blue eyes, like the depths of the Caribbean after a summer storm, seemed a shocking presence of color within milk-white features and pale, ash blond hair. The blue repeated in the shimmering silk of his shirt. He wore midnight black jeans, boots of the same inky darkness, and the only adornment she could see was the heavy gold wedding band that glittered on his left hand. He stood well back from the fire, yet she had no trouble clearly seeing every aspect of his startling appearance.

“Who do you wish me to be, Eden?”

“You know me?” It was a whisper of air, uncertain and awed.

“You have come here often. I knew each time you entered.”


He paused to consider her query, then shrugged.

“I died here,” he told her with an icy smile. “Exactly one hundred and one years ago.”

“You are a ghost?”

Again that thoughtful hesitation before he nodded. “Of a sort.”

“I saw you, a year ago, running from here,” she realized aloud.

“A year ago I killed the man who destroyed my life.”

She sensed his agitation when the fire sputtered and shot tiny glittering red sparks into the air near them.

“Do you wish me to put the fire out?”

One expressive eyebrow rose as if the consideration for his comfort came as a surprise. He took a step away from the blaze and sat on a corner of her sleeping bag, his gaze still locked intently with hers.

“Who are you?” she repeated with sincere interest. “And how did you come to die in this place?”

“I was killed by someone I once loved,” he replied softly.

Eden tried to calm the erratic flutter in her stomach. Her heart beat so loud, she was certain he could hear each pulse of sound.


“Because she wanted to be free of me.”

“She?” The single word gasped, and Eden immediately felt both foolish and uneasy when his eyes narrowed. Irrational fear flooded her mind, and the sense of imminent danger stirred to life within her.

“You should learn to think before you speak, Eden,” he advised quietly.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said quickly. “Your... I was merely surprised,” she finished and her look darted away from his too powerful gaze. As if to brand the knowledge into her mind, firelight glanced off the gleaming gold on his left hand.

“Because you have already created a life for me?” He suggested, only curiosity in the  speculative statement.

“How would you know such a thing?”

“I have been here with you each time you have come to visit.” He laughed. “I often wished you would come at night.”

“I was afraid.”

“Perhaps you should be?”

“Do you intend to harm me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered with a careless shrug. “Your work is quite lovely,” he continued, the threat forgotten already. “You capture likenesses very well. And then you create lives for your images.”

“You seem so old,” she whispered. “Yet, I can see you are not.”

“Older than you think,” he acquiesced with a cool smile.

“Your name has always eluded me. None I have given you have ever felt right,” she admitted with a weak smile.

“What is your favorite?”


He was visibly startled, and she watched him in total fascination.

“It is your name?” she questioned, her eyes wide.

“No." He shook his head, his smile bitter. “My name is Sean. Sean Rourke.”

“What were you in your lifetime, Sean?”

He laughed again, this time the sound filled with disdain and cold contempt. Eden shuddered and turned away from him.

“Some would tell you I was a madman. Others would use words like killer, or monster. Where does that fit into your fantasy, Eden?”

“You assume you are the object of some sort of fantasy,” she replied with a scornful smile. She felt vulnerable and oddly exposed to this creature, as if his existence challenged hers.

“A dark one, to be sure,” Sean admitted. “But, your passion is revealed in your art, my dear. Your images of me are very flattering. I would love to know what you think as you create them.”

“I think now that I should never have come to this place,” she said. When she would have risen and walked away, she remained stunned into motionlessness by the solid grip of his fingers closing on her wrist. The hold real, not ghost-like, though his touch was cold as death and unnaturally strong.

“Do you think about me as a lover?”

“W-why would I?”. She fell back when he released her with a jerk and settled back in his spot a few feet away.

“I would not be pleasant with you, Eden,” he informed her. “It is not my nature. Now,” he added in a voice inaudible to her ears. Yet, she seemed to have heard him in spite of that.

“I don’t care! You don’t interest me.”

“You lie very badly.” Sean taunted with a mocking smile.

“I think monster describes you nicely,” she snapped.

“We are beginning to understand each other.”

“What are you, Sean? You are not the ghost I believed you to be.” She rubbed her bruised wrist as she spoke.

“I am a vampire.”

Some would tell you I was a madman. Others would use words like killer, or monster. She cringed, the reaction involuntary. He laughed.

 Read what the reviewers are saying...

"4 Hearts!...Dark this tale might be, but this reviewer enjoyed it. The characters were interesting and well drawn. Love and bitterness are shown as two sides of a coin. It made a compelling read as this reviewer wondered which side of the coin will succeed in coming out on top. The dialogue is skillfully woven into the story's fabric, making it easy to picture the speaker. The settings are vivid, bringing the places alive for the reader. The story line is sure to please those who like dark tales. Despite the dark side, it is still a heartwarming tale of love eternal." —Pam, Love Romances

"5 Cups!...Denyse Bridger has written a heartfelt story of love and emotional healing. Sean will tug at your heartstrings. His loneliness will creep into your heart the way the sun creeps up on a new day! This book is a definite keeper and I know I will be reading it and revisiting Sean and Eden over and over again. The characters are so true to life and fresh. Sean is a one hot vampire! The steamy love scenes will make you want a sexy vampire of your very own to bite you! I am anxiously looking forward to reading the many new books Denyse Bridger has published this year..."—Janean Sparks, Coffee Time Romance

"5 Angels!...Being a lover of paranormal romances, this story did not disappoint. Miss Bridger has woven a wonderful tale of love and suspense. The plot was well thought out and the story flowed beautifully. Her descriptions are very vivid and I felt like I was really in the story with Sean and Eden, experiencing their thoughts, feelings and actions. One part of the book in particular had me in tears due to the high emotions that were felt between the characters. She provided steamy sex scenes and I was able to really get a grasp on the love felt between both hero and heroine. She also did a very good job in creating the villain, Evander. I could feel the evil radiating off of this character and I loved to hate him. All in all, I don't have any complaints about this book. It had all the necessary elements to keep me transfixed until the very last word. If this is the type of story I can expect from Miss Bridger then I look forward to reading much more from her in the future. Blood Wine and Pale Roses comes with my highest recommendation to anyone who is a lover of paranormal romance or is looking for a new genre/author to try. Bravo, Denyse!"—Jennifer M., Fallen Angel Reviews 

Saturday, May 18, 2013

Blind leading the blind or Dumb and Dumber?

Earlier today a good friend came to me for advice because of something that had happened to an author she admires and respects. This writer has a loyal and supportive readership, people who genuine love her books, her style, and her sarcastic sense of humour. We should all be this lucky, to have readers who love us and care about our success. So let me tell you a bit of what happened, and you can then tell me how fair you think this situation is at the moment.

The author in question here writes witty, acerbic, somewhat irreverent books, I’m told. I don’t have an opinion because I’ve not read her books, but I genuinely DO feel anger for what has unfolded recently. Like many of us, she was invited to be a guest at a blogger’s site, and the writer thought it would be fun, so she accepted the invitation. Imagine her horror when her humourous responses were wholly misinterpreted, and even misquoted. Seems this unleashed a shit-storm of nastiness that has left the author feeling understandably upset to the point that she’s ill. To make matters worse, small-minded idiots seem to have taken it upon themselves to start leaving one star “reviews” and ratings on her books via Amazon–people who not only have NOT read her books, but who have been taking the word of gossip to make their nasty judgements. The blog host removed the post when it came to light what was happening, but the shit continues to go viral, with nothing to stand on.

So, authors and readers–what are your thoughts on a mess like this? And those of you who think you’re doing the general public a service by behaving like bitches and petty minded idiots are free to weigh in as well, because believe me, I wouldn’t dream of silencing you if you have something to say about your moral crusades because I’d like to know what the fuck you think you’re achieving? NO two people ever read the same words and see the same thing, it’s human nature. My opinion of a book is not the same as yours. BUT, I do believe we have to exercise some level of intelligence and understanding when we are dealing with written words. You can’t hear tone, laughter, or see the sparkle in someone’s eyes when they write words; and humour is very much a hit and miss gamble with the written word.

We all make mistakes when we deal with the public, assuming we are being clear and concise when sometimes we miss the mark. Does that mean if I say something that doesn’t stroke your sensibilities and soothe your ego that you’ll rise up against me and begin to pan my books, telling your friends to do the same? What gives you the right to judge what I meant, especially if you don’t ask–or worse, you’ve never even seen the “offensive” words, only heard about them from someone else?

The internet allows many small-minded people to have a sense of power, and if one of these people doesn’t like the way they hear about something an author has said, they can very easily jump on the hate bandwagon and start encouraging other people–without ever seeing the post/blog/interview themselves. Naïve or not, I’m one of those people who believes if I don’t see the content, I don’t have the right to judge it–wild concept, I know. We, as authors, put not only our creative hearts out to the public when we write stories, we then put our personal lives and fears before you when we do interviews and write blogs, etc. This is all in an effort to connect to the people who may enjoy our work and our craft. I don’t know of many authors who haven’t been trashed for one reason or another and been made to feel like total shit because someone misunderstood their book, or their intent when they’ve responded to a question. If you think it’s easy to be on display for an audience, try it some time. And before you decide to exercise your power of nastiness, why not exercise your brain and ask yourself just why it is you’re about to attack someone you don’t even know? Because yes, those one-star reviews you use as your retaliation–they’re taking away an author’s paycheque and credibility–all because you’re going to be a bitch who hasn’t got anything better to do at the moment, or this writer offended your girlfriend’s sensibilities because said girlfriend misread a statement and got shitty. Honestly, grow the fuck up and realize, if you don’t ask, only act, all you’re really proving is what an ass you are. There are enough hurdles and hassles in this business without readers looking for ways to hurt a writer’s reputation just for the sake of being able to do it.

The next time you want to jump into the pool of controversy, ask yourself honesty what the target has ever done to you? We write stories, the best way we know how, and then we offer them to you to entertain you. Maybe you should consider how you’d feel if we suddenly passed judgement on you for your tastes, or started slamming you because you said something we may have misinterpreted? There are always two sides to any situation, if you don’t know enough to ask and think for yourself, then go back to the pasture with the rest of the sheep, please. And here’s hoping the wolf is hungry when he finds you!!

*ALL comments welcome and unmoderated... and yes, that is sarcasm, but it's also true. Let's hear from you now.

Monday, May 13, 2013

GUEST: Tarah Scott


Award winning author Tarah Scott cut her teeth on authors such as Georgette Heyer, Zane Grey, and Amanda Quick. Her favorite book is a Tale of Two Cities, with Gone With the Wind as a close second. She writes modern classical romance, and paranormal and romantic suspense. Tarah grew up in Texas and currently resides in Westchester County, New York with her daughter.


London Heiress kidnapped by the Marquess of Ashlund, read the headlines. Yet no one tried to save her.

Phoebe Wallington was seven years old when a mass assassination attempt rocked Regency England. Her father was the only accused traitor to elude capture. Now as a grown woman and a British spy, she is no closer to learning what really happened that day.

Phoebe's quest for the truth takes a sudden turn when she's kidnapped by a suspected traitor. But Kiernan MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, may not live long enough to stand trial. Someone wants him dead. And Phoebe stands in the killer's way.

Even a case of mistaken identity can't get in the way of true love.

Thanks for having me, Denyse! It's so nice to be here. Today, I'm sharing bit about my latest release, the second book in the Highland Lords series, My Highland Lord. These books are stand alone, so no worries if you haven't read the first book My Highland Love.

My Highland Lord carries on the MacGregor saga with Kiernan MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, and is set at the very beginning of the Victorian era. I found this a very fun era to write about. Manners are everything, and unlike Kiernan's father, who shunned society, Kiernan is a product of British society. However, he is his father's son and just can't help breaking the rules when he's smitten with a lady. I hope you enjoy this snippet.


Phoebe shifted against the bed pillows and glanced at the mantle clock. Ten minutes before six. Her gaze fell to the low burning embers in the hearth. Morning was upon them and the commotion of the earlier hours had long since died. Yet, as promised by Kiernan MacGregor, Mather stood outside her door. Mather had shown the good sense to untie her before positioning himself as guard. Her first thought had been that Kiernan regretted his rash outburst of temper, but Mather’s “You ought not to have ignored his commands, Miss,” did away with any notion that his master had enough sense to comprehend his sin.

A perfunctory knock sounded on the door, then it opened and the object of her thoughts filled the doorway. Phoebe straightened.

“My one burning question, Heddy,” he said, closing the door as he stepped inside—she noted Mather no longer stood outside the door—“is why you were following Alan Hay?”

“That offense didn't warrant you tying me up as if me as I was the criminal,” she retorted.

Kiernan snorted. “I would have done far worse if you were a criminal.” He strode to the chair to the right of her bed and sat down. “Answer the question.”

“If I answer incorrectly, will you tie me up again?”

“I might.”

Phoebe forced herself to relax against the pillows and raised a brow. “A simple case of ennui.”

He blinked, and Phoebe feared she had earned another trussing up, then his expression grew speculative. The look abruptly disappeared and he settled into a corner of his chair.

He draped an arm over the chair’s back and drawled, “Ennui, you say?”

Despite his lazy expression, Phoebe was startled by the decided lack of interest in his voice. “Yes,” she replied.

He gave a single nod. “Your quest for adventure nearly got you killed, my dear.”

“It was an exciting adventure,” she rejoined in a bright voice. “Wouldn’t you agree?”


“Indeed,” she emphasized.

“I am pleased,” Kiernan said.

Phoebe frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“This fine bit of coquettish flirting.”

She stiffened. He was right, which made the analysis all the worse. “This isn't an evening ball,” she snapped.

“And I am not an earl.”

“You could be a merchant—or a farmer—for all I care." Phoebe narrowed her eyes. "Who are you? You keep company with Lord Stoneleigh, which means you're not lowborn, and the villagers here look to you for leadership. You are no merchant—or a farmer, for that matter."

He laughed. "If I was a merchant, would my money be enough for you, or is a title required?"

She forced her temper back. "Sir, I understand you believe I am Hester—”

He coughed as if to clear his throat.

Phoebe crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “I understand you believe I am Hester and that you're doing your friend a service.”

“Heddy.” He leaned forward and reached for the hand she had stuffed beneath her arm.

Phoebe stiffened, but he pried the hand free and lifted it to his lips. His mouth against her hand caused her pulse to jump and warmth spread up her cheeks. His eyes registered curiosity, but he released her hand and reclined in his chair again.

“Forgive me for laughing,” he said.

“I can forgive the mistaken identity—as inconvenient as it is—but tying me up goes beyond the pale.”

“I'm pleased to have your forgiveness, regardless of the reason.”

“When this escapade is finished, you will find yourself at a disadvantage.”

“Heddy,” he said with resignation, “I find myself at a disadvantage now.”

She gave him a dry look. “I doubt that. When do you plan on sending word to the authorities of the murder plot against the duchess—or have you already done so?”

Kiernan leaned back in his chair. “No need to concern yourself with that.”

"But—my God, you don't intend to report them. You will stand idly by while a murder is planned and executed?”

“What is one murder in exchange for fifteen thousand?" he replied. " Or do fifteen thousand Highlanders hold less value to you than a single noblewoman?” He paused. "Perhaps, the gratitude of the duchess' male relatives interests you more?”

Phoebe shot to her feet. “Even Heddy wouldn't lower herself to such debased actions.”

“Lower herself?” Kiernan laughed, although the sound held none of his characteristic humor. “Heddy, I have seen—”

“By heavens," she burst out. "I am not Heddy.”

“No?” he murmured. When all she did was give a frustrated growl, he rose, “Well then—" He yanked her against him.

His mouth crashed down on hers and she froze. One arm slipped around her waist while the other cupped her neck. She gasped, but he hugged her closer. His tongue invaded her mouth, the taste of him, shocking and intoxicating. His arm tightened, but the kiss, the thrust of his tongue, softened to a feathery touch. He shuddered, and her heart leapt into a furious rhythm.

His mouth moved slowly against her lips. She became aware of the hard bulge pressing against her abdomen and clutched at his shoulders. Heat streaked from the unexpected throb in her breasts to her stomach, then lower. He abruptly tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in her neck. Phoebe swayed. His low laugh washed warm across her ear and she shivered.

“You temptress,” he breathed. “I understand what Regan sees in you.”

“Just because I was in Heddy's coach doesn't mean I am her,” she said through a gulp of air.

Kiernan straightened away from her and stared down at her, eyes intense. “I wonder if Regan would believe me if I swore I didn’t know you're his lover." His gaze slid down her body, and she couldn't find the will to move even as his eyes lifted again to her face. "You make testing the theory tempting. In fact—"

His fingers tightened on her arms and she realized he intended to test the theory that instant.


Wednesday, May 01, 2013

Best-sellers and more ON SALE!

Starting today, New Dawning Book Fair has cut the price of our ten newest releases by 30 to 50% through May 12th. In addition all titles have been cut 30 % with the use of a coupon code Bookfair 30 at checkout. I have FOUR titles on the Best-seller list to the right of the main page covers - STOLEN RAPTURE, STRANDED!, HUNTERS' GAME, and my Cinderella tale GLASS SLIPPERS AND JEWELED MASQUES - all are ON SALE now. Drop in and check out all great books!!