When I think about how much I’ve loved category romance and how much of that love has diminished, I do thank the romance gods for Marion Lennox. Though I didn’t love her last romance, she’s come back in signature form in Cinderella and the Billionaire. Like Betty Neels and maybe Carla Kelly, Lennox has a set of romance elements that speak to me, never feel formulaic or repetitive, and put romance in the best of lights. There’s a man; there’s a woman, neither of whom are very happy, nor terribly unhappy. There’s a dog, or a child, or a vulnerable need somewhere. They answer the call of caring for another, or the land, or work that needs to be done. Their journey is funny, and touching, and painful, in the way that coming alive and feeling things after an emotional hibernation is. In Cinderella and the Billionaire, Matt MacLennan is “one semireclusive billionaire” who brings one grieving-7-year-old boy to Australia to give him over to his grandmother’s care, after his mother (Matt’s employee) is killed in an accident. (Matt had seen Henry around the office, as his mother worked all hours and grew to feel liking and sympathy for him.) Henry’s grandmother, Peggy’s care lives on an isolated Australian island. Matt needs to hire a private boat to reach it. In comes one skipper fisherwoman, heroine, Meg O’Hara, whose boss hands them a ramshackle boat named “Bertha,” the last of his meagre, dilapidated fleet, with which to reach Peggy’s Garnett Island. Continue reading
As I read Donna Alward’s Summer Escape With the Tycoon, I realized that I enjoy romance where the main characters are at a crossroads, out of their element/comfort zone, or about to embark on a fresh start. This context makes them more open to love, but also more vulnerable and uncertain. Alward is particularly adept at this theme. In Summer Escape, for example, heroine Molly Quinn has bid on and won her first alone-time vacation in years. At 29, she practises family law in her father’s law firm, thus far, her life dedicated to a career that pleases her parents. Eric Chambault, who carried the burden of his family’s welfare when their father abandoned them, has made financial good, so good his now ex-wife has taken 30 meagre millions in their divorce. He doesn’t care about the money, but the failure of his marriage and his ex-wife’s reasons for it (his absence and workaholism) have left him questioning his choices. Like Molly, he bid on the same silent auction holiday at the same charity event. Months later, when he mistakenly ends up in Molly’s hotel room and glimpses her in the tub, well, it’s a priceless meet-cute. The room issue is cleared up, but their vacation-journey through British Columbia’s natural beauty throws them together time and again, especially as they’re the only singles on the luxury trip. Continue reading
As I mentioned in a previous post, when I had an Audible account, I listened to Elly Griffiths’s first three Ruth Galloway mysteries. Recently, I read #4, A Room Full of Bones, and it may be my favourite yet. (I have the rest stacked and ready to go all the way to the most recent, #11, The Stone Circle. I’m hooked, yes, and a fan.) Like her standalone mystery, The Stranger Diaries, Griffiths has a winning combination of elements: a likeable, detecting, female lead, literary and genre allusions to make a reader smile fondly, a snappy style, smooth voice, moreover in the third person (my preference), and a great balance between the central mystery (the variable) and the personal lives of her detecting team (the given). That combination of original material with the steady thread of a group of compelling characters can see me follow a detecting series for years (witness my love for and obsession with C. S. Harris’s Sebastian St. Cyr Regency mysteries, all the elements of Griffiths’s within a historical setting). Griffiths’s protagonist, Ruth Galloway, is an academic, a forensic archaeologist professor at North Norfolk University, who’s drawn again and again, thanks to her “bones” expertise, into police cases headed by DCI Harry Nelson of the Norfolk police and his team members. Continue reading
All this week, I thought “How the mighty are fallen” and “pride cometh before a fall” … as I struggled to finish one book, just ONE, C.S. Harris’s thirteenth Sebastian St. Cyr historical murder mystery and part of my favourite series EVER; romance, mystery, history — it has it ALL and you should read it from its glorious beginning, 2005’s What Angels Fear, to its … well, whatever volume Harris is at. (Book 14 is out, Who Slays the Wicked, but I have to await the paperback to afford it. I try not to think about it.)
As I’ve spent the last two posts waxing on and on about the freedom to read whatever I feel like, leaving the ARC TBR behind, blah blah blah … I imagined luxuriating (it would be positively sybaritic, I thought, smirking) in my reading and went on a Amazong ordering frenzy (good thing is, I now have copies of Kate Ross’s Julian Kestrel series, which I’ve wanted to read for years). Sadly, I’d forgotten how work, taking out the garbage, and making my lunch sandwich take time! Also, sleep, many a morning I woke to the alarm bells and ereader screensaver staring at me.
More time suck resulted when I revived my love of knitting (the only reason I stayed sane during grad school) and struggled with mastering the art of the fingerless glove and “the horror, the horror” of double-pointed needles. My spare half hour to catch up with the shitstorm found nightly on CNN (I really should stick to the staid CBC and our staid Canadian politics, but I can’t resist that KA-BLAM of *BREAKING NEWS*) was spent contorting fingers and flailing knitting needles to produce one awkward, misshapen Fingerless Thing with Inelegant Protuberance (aka thumb gusset) … (pictured here as I writhe in neo-knitter’s shame).
And so, my drib-drab reading of C. S. Harris’s always-magnificent St. Cyr mysteries. Continue reading
I came to this lauded series late. Have the first two on audio and once again, I’ve had to relearn that my ability to listen to audiobooks is severely limited. It took me days and days to read Hollow, buffeted as I was by day-job issues. It never offered that romance punch of happiness and rightness, but it was a worthy read nonetheless.
For those unfamiliar with Thomas’s series, she sets up her Victorian female detective as a sly critique of Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Thomas imagines Sherlock Holmes as Charlotte, a cross-dressing, fallen woman amidst the puritanical strictures of Victorian England, who uses her troubling powers of detection and frighteningly incisive intellect to solve convoluted mysteries full of dastardly nemeses and plots within plots. In this third book in the series, Charlotte solves the murder of dear friend and eventual lover’s, Lord Ashburton Ingram’s, estranged wife, Lady Ingram. An ice queen if there ever was one, found murdered in the Ash’s estate’s ice house. Continue reading
I remember reading Linda Castillo’s first Kate Burkholder murder mystery, Sworn To Silence. I’d been reading romance steadily for two years and had come to realize that my previous mystery reading enjoyed the occasional romance that was included more than the mystery itself. What I missed about reading mysteries, though, was a sympathetic amateur/professional sleuth/detective, a voice of justice that rang true and vibrant and that I felt connected to. While Sworn To Silence‘s opening page was too violent for squeamish me, Kate captured my interest and sympathy. Castillo’s detective is, in this present volume, A Gathering Of Secrets, Painters Mill Ohio’s chief of police. She’d grown up as a member of their Amish community, but a teen-age sexual assault and the subsequent events and estrangements with family and community meant she left her sense of belonging behind. As a cop and now chief, Kate is nevertheless uniquely placed to deal with crimes occurring in Amish country, knowledgeable and understanding, yet very much dedicated to justice and the rule of law that comes with a secular perspective. Kate is a wonderful creation: fair, persistent, compassionate where she needs to be, never deviating from applying the law, but fully aware of the nuances of even the most heinous of crimes, and always, always empathetic to everyone affected, victims’ and victimizers’ families and communities. Continue reading
Priscilla Oliveras is a new-to-me contemporary romance author and one I’d heard good stuff about from romance-reading Twitter friends. I was happy to add her title to my TBR and appreciated what she had on offer: as Oliveras herself self-identifies on her bio, a “Latinx” heroine, Sofía Vargas.
Resort To Love opens with the hero’s, Nathan Hamilton III’s, arrival at the now-defunct, dilapidated, Floridian Paradise Key Resort, where he and Sofía fell in love, consummated their love, and set a path to an on-again, off-again romance through their college and early-career years. Sofia hasn’t seen Nat in two years, but the sight of him sets her immediately back in their high-school sweetheart days and everything their love entailed, especially as illicit “cross-class romance”: “Their forbidden romance – him in management, her a summer employee – had heightened their adolescent hormones.” Sofía is beset by memories and feelings, but her primary emotions are grief (she’s recently lost a friend), anxiety, and anger. On his part, Nathan too is overcome by tidal waves of desire and love, but he’s also hurt from Sofía’s rejection: “It’d been two years since they’d been together. Two years since she told him not to contact her again.” There be reasons! Continue reading
I read Jessica Gilmore’s first romance novel, The Return Of Mrs. Jones, and hailed her a romance-writer of great promise. I was disappointed in her second book and she dropped off my reviewing radar. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Some reviewing-Tinkerbell pushed me towards her latest, Baby Surprise For the Spanish Billionaire and the Gilmore magic was reinstated! Baby Surprise is conventional and uses some annoying conventions, BUT the writing is elegant and smooth, the dialogue clever, witty, funny, and moving, and the romance, well, so romantic, that I was reconverted to Gilmore.
Dr. Anna Gray, not medical, but an Oxford-trained historian, with a successful book in the world, arrives at her feckless mother’s Spanish island, La Isla Marina. Sancia has sent out “help” signals to her daughters: the resort Sancia inherited from her parents, one of Spain’s most beautiful tourist destinations, has gone to ruin, thanks to Sancia’s dreamy, negligent ways. But there is now a chance to restore its past splendor because one of the year’s great society weddings has booked the island as its venue. Practical, efficient, list-making daughter Anna (prodigal Rosa eventually also shows up) comes to the rescue, with begrudging resentment well in control, and one month to bring the resort up to Instagram-Twitter-hashtag-photo-snapping elegance. Continue reading
Donna Alward’s The Crown Prince’s Bride seemed a romance palate-cleanser after Willig’s intense English Wife. Certainly that’s what it felt like – initially. But Alward is a writer who transcends what I call the trappings of trite, with emotional wisdom and psychological acumen. While I settled comfortably into a mild romance read – not too much drama, not too intense a plot, decent protagonists – Alward managed to surprise and delight me.
First, the trappings. In the fictional kingdom of Marazur, heroine Stephanie Savalas is the supremely competent right-hand woman of Crown Prince Raoul Navarro, grieving widower, single dad, and his homeland’s hope (now that King Alexander, his father, has handed kingly responsibilities over to him). The novel opens as Stephani plans Raoul’s brother’s wedding to Raoul’s children’s former nanny, all the while juggling the country’s well-being and the big-ole torch she carries for her boss. Raoul is deep in mourning for his beloved wife, Stephani’s cousin Cecilia, who died in a car accident. And yet, dear reader, stirrings! Raoul always cared for Stephani and their platonic relationship is warm, friendly, affectionate, and caring until one night, these vague “stirrings” lead to a passionate kiss. Continue reading
Liz Fielding is one of those romance writers whose “closed-bedroom-door” conceit I forgive. Not to belabor the point, but you know my opinion of the closed-bedroom-door romance and its many shortcomings. Fielding, on the other hand, writes the kind of truth-telling, gently-humoured characters I adore. Her prose is fine, elegant and smooth, deceptively simple and subtly rich. Even flawed, it’s easy for me to enjoy her romances, as I did Her Pregnancy Bombshell.
The bombshell in question opens the novel as heroine Miranda “Andie” Marlowe makes her way to the Mediterranean island of L’Isola dei Fiori and her sister’s dilapidated, recently-inherited Villa Rosa. As she tells the customs officer, ” ‘I’m running away.” An intriguing opening and one that drew me in. Andie is escaping a confrontation with her one-night-lover and boss, Cleve Finch, CEO of Goldfinch Air Services, for which Andie flies charters. Andie, we learn, is pregnant, the result of Cleve and her one night of shared passion three weeks ago. For the past year, culminating in that night, Cleve grieved the loss of his wife, Rachel. His devastation is evident in every gaunt line of his face, every pound lost from his formerly-stalwart frame, the absence of his smiles, the sadness in his eyes. Andie, with whom Cleve has shared an affectionate friendship since pre-Rachel, has loved with him since the day she walked into his life as an eighteen-year-old pilot. Continue reading