You Have To Love Southern Women

Southern women have back bone. Stand up to their children’s teachers. And never step out the door unless fully made-up. They’re raised to say Yes, sir and No, ma’am and to be careful what they do in public because their actions will reflect on their family.

Family is everything. A Southern woman would give up her right arm for a needy second-cousin once-removed she hasn’t seen in thirty years. A Southern woman never forgets a wrong, but is quick to step in and set things right when the guilty person needs help. They are caregivers, and God blesses the man who has a God-fearing Southern woman to love.

If a Southern woman’s house needs cleaning she’s as likely to build a new one without spoiling her manicure. If her mate is faithful, she’ll stick with him through hard times and good, but if she trifles on her heart, she may kick him right out the door. Southern women are born sexy, feisty and quick witted with a sharp tongue thrown in for good measure.

I was raised in a Southern home with two sisters and a brother. I didn’t always get along with them, and may tell you the butcher knife story some other time, but I never spoke a word against a one of them outside our home. When I decided to write my Atlanta Burning series about three sisters I relied on fond memories of life in a hot-and-humid Southern town to include in my books.

 In And You, Virginia, Are No Lady, she asks an old school friend with a bad reputation to help her prove her client’s innocence, because he is the most respected private detective in Atlanta. He rides a Harley and has attitude, but like most Southern men his good looks open doors slammed shut on her. Their arguments are as much fun as the making-up sessions that follow each one.

 In Great Balls of Fire, her former professor asks Paris Hamilton, a public relations expert, to help Winston Harrison Gentry the Third retain a seat on the City Council, which means the notorious skirt chaser has to clean up his act. Paris, a firm believer in rules, lays down the law to Win.

Ya’ll listen up, there will be no hanky-panky on my watch, she tells him numerous times.

Shut the door, Win thinks. This suits the candidate just fine. He’s found his life mate — Paris — all he has to do is toe the line while he reels her in.

In Frankly My Dear, realtor Atlanta Hamilton is the lady who needs taming, and Rob Count knows which buttons to push to land the feisty lady in his bed. There’s a hint of suspense in this book, giving Rob a chance to man-up and keep Atlanta safe. She’s hot-to-trot and has no plans to settle down until Rob convinces her he’s the only man she wants.

These are erotic novels about sensual Southern women put to the test and are available for download at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other sources for eBooks.


BOB Excerpt from And You, Virginia, Are No Lady


That night as Virginia stepped out of the bathroom following her shower Gabe asked, “Did you take your Battery Operated Bob on our honeymoon?”

She blanched and her face reddened. “I–”

feb-hop-white-lettering“There’s no reason to be embarrassed, sweetheart. I’ve read most sexually active women take a Bob to bed at least once a week.”

“Well, I–”

“Stuffed it in your suitcase just in case?” he asked hopefully.

“No, I–”

Gabe couldn’t keep his disappointment from showing.

“–Tucked it in my purse,” she said, looking pleased with herself.

“Then dig it out. I want to watch you make love to yourself.”

Looking doubtful, she blanched again, then nodded with more enthusiasm than he’d expected to see.

She fumbled around in her oversized purse and after a moment lifted out a small velvet pouch.

“I hope the batteries are new,” she said, handing him the pouch.

I do, too.

Gabe removed the helpful gadget and turned it on.

“There are two speeds,” Virginia said, blushing again.

“Which one do you prefer?”

“Slow at first and then, when I start getting into it I–”

“Switch to high gear? Show me.” He turned Bob off.


“Yes, where ever you are the most likely to…”


“Right.” The tips of his ears suddenly burned.

Virginia ‘s nervous giggle put them both at ease, but she glanced around.

“Is there something else you need?”

“Something to set the mood. It’s still daylight and I’m not used to–”

“Diddling yourself when the sun’s still shining?”

She nodded, looking nervous again.

He drew the curtains. “Maybe some music will help. And do you have any incense?”

“No, but there’s a scented candle in the linen closet. Why don’t you pick out a CD and start the music playing while I look for the candle Paris gave me?”

He started a Nat King Cole CD playing while she lit a sandalwood-and-oak scented candle

“Now what?” Virginia asked timidly.

“What would you do if you were alone?”

“Dim the lights and lie on my back on the bed. Is that okay?”

“Yes, if I can lie beside you and watch?”

She looked dubious, but let the towel she was wearing pool on the floor, stacked two pillows for her head, then looked comfortable and damn sexy as she lay on her back on the bed.

Gabe rolled onto his side beside her, and handed the small vibrator to her.

A quiet hum quickly filled the room.

She closed her eyes, then slowly opened them. “Gabe…”

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Celebrating a New Release by Adriana Kraft

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BLURB   During an oppressive Iowa summer of drought and farm foreclosures, widowed Maggie Anderson makes a bold decision: She’ll merge her love of horses and her family’s three hundred and twenty acres into a horse farm and try her hand at nearby Prairie Meadows Race Track, where racing purses have just been augmented by the recently added casino gambling.

Down on his luck after being falsely accused in a racing scandal and banned from training, former Arlington Race Track trainer Ed Harrington has skulked home to Des Moines to drown his sorrows and wait for the dust to clear. He’s unprepared for the piercing robin’s-egg-blue eyes of pint-sized Maggie Anderson, who finds him at a flophouse and offers him a job. Can he pull himself together and meet the challenge?

As the two forge a tumultuous working partnership, they soon discover someone is out to get Maggie’s farm and will stop at almost nothing to force her off the land. Can they find and stop the culprit before someone is killed? Can they survive the far greater danger unleashed by the raw passion simmering just beneath the surface of their relationship?


“Mr. Harrington, have you decided to take the job?”

“Well, it’s not like I have a lot of other offers.” He grinned faintly, like a child returning from a runaway attempt.

That smile tore at Maggie’s heart. Had he really said she was pretty?

“You may be getting in way over your head,” he cautioned. “Hell, maybe me, too. But I’m willing to try. Of course, I don’t have much to lose. If you’re going to be in this business, it’s important to know something about all elements of the game. In the long run, you may not want to take on the track responsibilities of a trainer. There are a lot ways to play the game.

“We do need to clear up one matter.” Harrington sighed and dropped his gaze. “You know I can’t take your horses to the track. Can’t help you out there.”

Maggie nodded. “I know about the ban, Ed. That doesn’t have anything to do with me. You’ve been vouched for. That’s enough. There are likely a lot of bridges yet to cross. Let’s take them one at a time.”

“I’m all for that, Maggie.” Harrington lifted his cup in salute.

That was the first time he’d called her Maggie. It sounded too familiar, yet they had to be on a first name basis if they were going to work together as a team. She took a short breath, excited about actually beginning to put in place her plan to save the farm. Her nerves tingled at the prospect.

Or, perhaps they were responding to the man who pronounced Maggie in a gravelly voice that oozed intimacy.

Want to know more about Adriana Kraft?

Adriana Kraft is the pen name for a husband/wife team writing sizzling romantic suspense and erotic romance. The award-winning pair has published over thirty erotic romance novels and novellas to outstanding reviews. Romantic pairings include straight m/f, lesbian, bisexual, ménage and polyamory, in both contemporary and paranormal settings.


It’s Research, You Know

We’re celebrating the release of Heat Wave, Book Two in our romantic suspense series set in the horseracing industry, Riders Up.

We thought we’d share a little about researching for this series. Naturally, events in authors’ lives often serve as inspiration for the stories they write. With this series, we really can’t tell the difference between “research” and just living our lives.

Both of us have always loved horses and always hoped someday we’d have time, space and resources to own at least one, never dreaming it might actually happen. Some years back, my husband came into a small inheritance, and all the right ingredients coalesced. We lived out west at the time and had a friend who trained and raced horses at nearby Wyoming Downs. It wasn’t long before we’d worked out an arrangement with him, and he and my husband were able to attend the Barretts sale in California, where they came home with two promising thoroughbred fillies.

One of them did quite well for a brief time, even winning an allowance race at Los Alamitos. The other one sustained an early injury, but went on to become an excellent broodmare. We traded our interest in her to our friend for a promising quarter horse, who ran for a while at Wyoming Downs, but never took to racing. We then brought him off the track, stabled him closer to home, and my husband did his transitional ground training. We ultimately sold him to a rancher who trained him as a cutting horse.

So when we write the details of managing race horses, watching pre-dawn workouts, hanging out on shedrow, checking for hot or swollen joints, cooling a horse on a hot-walker, picking hooves, mucking stalls – all of the above, we’re writing things we know and love. We hope you do, too!




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After writing, editing and self-publishing three erotic novels in the last six months of 2013 and draining my muse, I decided to take a short sabbatical the first of January, walk away from my computer and whip my neglected yard back into shape. My gardener hadn’t returned to pull weeds since October, and the undergrowth was overgrown in the front and the back.

I could have hired someone else, but after years of me training, Leo knew which plants I treasured, recognized which ones were weeds and even hugged me on my down days, the kind of guy you enjoy having around. I didn’t have time to train someone new, but the weeds were knee high in back, almost as bad in front where a colorful display of drought-resistant plants native to southern California stops traffic each spring.

It would take me two weeks tops to complete the task, I thought, and dropped to my knees on the damp soil I’d watered the day before to weed. I love to garden. When I was growing up my mother grew, cut and arranged her flowers for the church altar, and K-Mart sold the tomato plants and petunias my father grew in his green house, so I came by my love of sinking my hands in rich soil naturally, and my abhorrence of weeds.

Two weeks tops.

I was barely into the second week of weeding when one of our daughters was hospitalized. Showering, dressing and visiting with her for two weeks virtually nipped my gardening in the bud. Then she was released to recuperate with us for three more weeks while outside, the weeds continued to grow.
I’d just finished weeding the front slope and was about to tackle the back yard when the off/on switch on my computer tower tanked and it had to be replaced.
While upstairs loading software onto my new tower our computer tech looked down on the flower beds in back and said, “I like your back yard. It’s rustic looking.”

I was horrified. Neglected? Yes, but rustic? Our yard had always been a showplace where a garden railroad wound through the miniature plants and villages, but as I too glanced down I realized I’d been closing my eyes to the deteriorating landscape to allow me to write free of guilt.

No longer content with a ‘rustic’ back yard, I began ripping out the abandoned track for the garden railroad and tossing warped farm houses, train stations and water towers unable to withstand the hot California sun.

The back yard needed renovating, and I was determined to do the job, even if it would involve moving numerous wheelbarrows full of dirt.

Fast forward to early April. Stepping stones once used to support railroad ties now wind past a new herb garden and a bed of amaryllis plants and end at a new rock garden just coming to life. My bed of miniature roses is bursting with blooms this spring, thanks to the layer of compost covering their roots. They’ve never bloomed so well.

I’ve discovered an unexpected benefit of my extended sabbatical. As each new plant unfurled, so did my Muse. Monday I’ll once again be seated at my desk, making interesting new characters come to life. Do you suppose my next heroine will like to garden?