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Karen Templeton -- Romance Author
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New Excerpt!
Read an excerpt from my bestselling Silhouette Intimate Moments release, ANYTHING FOR HER MARRIAGE (SIM 1006), on stands during May 2000, available at various online bookstores after that.
This is the second of the Spruce Lake stories, the sequel to ANYTHING FOR HIS CHILDREN. Remember Nancy Shapiro, Elizabeth's pushy, effervescent best friend? Well, this is her story. . .and guess who she ends up tangling with? Talk about your marriages of INconvenience! So scroll on down -- it's right after the bio schpiel!
And here's the bio schpiel. . .
I suppose my writing romance was inevitable. For one thing, I've always loved love stories, preferably those with happy endings. For another, I've got me my very own hero in my husband of almost 22 years, with whom I'm raising five -- count 'em, FIVE -- sons.
In this house, romance is a survival technique!
Of course, "romance" can be a pretty all-encompassing term. In our house, a "date" is being able to watch a video without being interrupted. Or being able to hold a train of thought for the four hours between when you start a conversation with your spouse and when you finally get to finish it. And it's folks like these, with lives like this, I not only write about (most of the time, anyway) but write for.
Falling in love is a piece of cake; staying in love while trying to deal with "life" is sometimes hard. And my stories are about men and women who understand that love in the real world is more often about juggling schedules, potty training, and if-you-go-to-the-soccer-game, I'll-go-to-the-orchestra-concert decisions than flowers and chocolate. They're about people with the guts to stay in love and fight for their relationship despite the challenges that life throws in their paths. And they're about the kind of people who realize that sharing their lives with one special person doesn't mean giving up their independence or identity. Instead, they discover that the right person supports and champions your dreams and ambitions and indeed, helps you to be the best person you can be.
I suppose there's a little bit of Jack in all my heroes, and a dash or two of me in all my heroines -- although I tend to think most of my gals are gutsier than I'd ever dream of being!
I've been writing full time since 1995; sold my first book (Wedding Daze) to Silhouette in 1996, quickly followed by Wedding Belle and Wedding Impossible, all for Silhouette's YOURS TRULY line (and all still available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble Online, and many other online bookstores). Soon after that, Scarlet Publishing in London bought my single title romantic comedy All She Wants (which has, with the demise of the line, slipped into The Land of the Hard to Find), and I've recently sold three books to Silhouette for their Intimate Moments line. Anything for His Children was released in December 1999, and the sequels, Anything for Her Marriage and Everything But a Husband will follow in May and December 2000, respectively.
If you're a real glutton for punishment (or the library's closed and you're going through major literary withdrawal), you can find an excerpt from ANYTHING FOR HIS CHILDREN after the one from ANYTHING FOR HER MARRIAGE. I promise, promise, promise, I'm gonna update this sucker within the next few months so it'll have all those neat little "click-on" jobbers, but until I can get to it, scrolling is the only option.
Enjoy!
Karen Templeton
Let me know what you think about my page. Send mail by clicking here.
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ANYTHING FOR HER MARRIAGE
A Waldenbooks Bestseller!
EXCERPT
Nancy gasped in the glacial blast that mugged them the instant they hit the porch. The light snow needling their cheeks was nothing, but damn it was cold. Underneath her black velvet swing coat, she couldn't stop shivering.
Not just because she was cold, though.
"At the risk of sounding tacky," Rod said next to her, his breath nearly opaque in front of his face, "my place or yours?"
She tried to laugh, but the sound froze before she could get it out. "I'm t-too plotzed to d-drive," she chattered, "b-but I live just on the other s-side of the lake. If we go there -- t-that is, if you t-take me there -- I can walk b-back over
here tomorrow and p-pick up my c-c-car."
He nodded -- she was beginning to see a pattern here -- then led her to his car, a gleaming silver luxury model sedan that had been the focus of a huge media blitz last year. His media blitz, she figured, when he was still head of Marketing
for Star Motors. Before he let her in, however, he shrugged off his topcoat -- made, no doubt, from wool plucked from the underside of some hardy beastie that grazed on grasses found only on the most remote mountain range in the
world -- and slipped it around her shoulders.
She wanted to crawl inside this coat and live here for the rest of her life. Well, actually, she wanted to crawl inside his car first, because the coat didn't
cover her feet which had turned instantly into two hundred dollar popsicles.
They got in. Then they sat there. His car smelled of fine leather and his cologne and some indefinable rich smell she could easily get used to. Nancy had no idea what Rod what thinking, but she was thinking. . . Actually, she was
shivering too hard to think, but the phrase ohmigod was in there somewhere.
She'd just invited Rod Braden out for coffee. And he'd accepted.
Somehow, she squelched the laugh threatening to blow her cool. She also remembered she had worked up the chutzpah to ask Norman Sklar to dance that night all those years ago. And that he'd accepted. She hadn't felt like this since that night -- apprehensive, excited, and damned smug.
If a tad perplexed. Rod hadn't said anything, or even started the car. Confined in a small space with him, he seemed. . .
She inwardly sighed. You know you're in trouble when you can't remember the last time you had sex. Hell, she vaguely even remembered who
she'd last had sex with. Not that her list of partners would impress anyone, but what a pitiful comment on her thirty-four years that -- if she was generous,
mind -- the best she could muster was two forgettables and one adequate. And
let's not go into which one of those had been her husband for five years.
The buzz alone two feet away was already more exciting than any of her actual experiences. She wasn't sure whether that was more of a comment on Rod or her, but she decided analyzing it would serve no viable purpose.
She jumped when Rod cleared his throat. "Where's your place?"
"Oh. Right." She gave him directions; the three-minute drive passed in silence. But now she noticed a sharpness to the buzzing that put her on guard, made her wonder if she'd edged closer to losing it than she'd realized. Had she
misinterpreted politeness for actual interest? Wouldn't be the first time, God
knew. By the time he pulled up in front of her lakefront bungalow, she decided
she'd let her imagination run away with her. From her.
"Look," she said on a sigh, "I'm sorry. I don't know why I asked you to leave with me. I guess the wine impaired my reason more than I'd thought, but
it's obvious you'd really prefer to be alone, so if you want to back out, it's okay--"
"Nancy," he said softly, and she turned, chiding herself for getting off on just the way he said her plain vanilla name. She'd left her porch light on so she wouldn't kill herself trying to come in later; the feeble light illuminating features she'd only ever seen radiate grace and confidence, before tonight. "If I hadn't wanted to come with you -- with you -- I wouldn't have. God knows, I didn't want
to be at that party, but I don't really want to be alone, either." His lips tilted into
a sad smile. "Done that enough this past little while to last a lifetime."
Her heart had become stuck somewhere at the base of her neck and was now pounding uncomfortably. She shifted, looked out at the puny snowflakes twirling in his headlights which he'd yet to turn off.
"Yeah. I know how that goes." She shuddered in the cold, swung open the door. "Well, come on, then. The inaugural meeting of the Spruce Lake Lonely Hearts Club is about to begin."
She hesitated, leaned back into the car. "Um, I have cats."
Rod chuckled. "There's a cure for that, you know." She rolled her eyes. "How many are we talking about?"
"Seven."
He simply stared at her, then said, "Just don't ask me to clean out their pans."
"Not a problem."
They got out of the car, icy pellets pricking their faces as they walked up to her door. Her smooth leather soles skidded on the filmy layer of snow underfoot; Rod caught her before she fell, kept his hand on her elbow the rest of the way.
Underneath his coat, she shivered, imagining what it would be like to cuddle against that solid chest.
Naked.
She pushed the thought out, sighed when it came right back like an eager dog with a stick in its mouth.
All these years, she'd entertained fantasies of what it would be like to have Rod Braden do more than politely smile at her, imagined being alone with him, receiving his undivided attention. Well, she didn't have to imagine that any longer. So, um. . .how far did she dare push her luck?
She inwardly snorted. Since when did she rely on luck to accomplish anything? If you want something, you go after it. Okay, so maybe that
philosophy had more than its share of holes, but it sure as hell beat waiting around for life to fall into your lap. Maybe tonight wasn't her only shot at upping the ante with Rod Braden. But maybe it was. Why heap more regrets on the
already burgeoning pile she'd accumulated over the years?
She took a very. . .deep. . . breath.
"And another thing--" she fumbled for her key in her Judith Lieberesque purse, managed to get it inthe door "--I haven't quite decided yet whether or not
to seduce you."
Talk about your stunned silences.
"Well," she said to the doorknob, since someone had to say something and apparently the honor had fallen to her, "I don't hear retreating footsteps, so I
guess that's a good sign."
What she heard was a short, startled laugh. "Are you always this forthright?"
Still staring at the doorknob, she nodded. Then his hands were on her shoulders, turning her to him, the look in his eyes. . .oy.
Something told her she wasn't the only person standing here who went after what they wanted.
(c) 2000 Karen Templeton-Berger
Reprinted with permission of Harlequin Enterprises
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Anything for His Children
"Pure delight. . .Karen Templeton has mixed appealing characters and true-to-life situations with laugh-out-loud humor and heart-tugging emotion to create a real charmer of a book. Wonderful!" -- bestselling author Marilyn Pappano
Excerpt
Arguing the whole way as they clanged up the outside metal stairs leading to the
second floor apartment, Ashli and Jake tripped over each other in their zeal to see who'd get to the door first. Guy followed at a careful distance, a bag of groceries on one hip, a smelly, shrieking two-year-old on the other, deciding that ignoring them was the safest policy at the moment.
"Get out of my way, turtlebrain." Ashli followed this directive by shoving
her four-year-old brother aside with her bony hip. "I got here first."
"I did!" rasped the little boy, shoving back, amazingly throwing his twice-
as-tall sister off balance. Which made her madder than a wet cat.
"Dad-dy! Tell him to get out of my way!"
"Tell her to get out of my way!"
"Excuse me, but you both can just get out of my way," Guy said wearily,
reaching the top of the stairs. He unlocked the door and they all tumbled over each other into the apartment. Guy winced at the musty, rancid smell that still permeated the place, even after days of airing and a case of Lysol. A large
electrified-furred dog of dubious parentage slinked over to them, his tail wagging his body, his sheepish expression screaming, "Guilty dog here!"
Guy didn't want to know.
"Ashli, take Einstein out before he piddles all over the place." Guy let the
baby loose, heaved the groceries up onto the counter that served to divide the
"living room" from the "kitchen", then grabbed the dog's collar and leash off a
hook next to the door and snapped it around the beast's neck.
"C'n I go, too?" squeaked Jake.
"Please." Guy steered them all out the door, which he left open so he could
keep an ear out. A breath and a half later, they all clamored back up. Damn.
"Did he go?"
The two older kids raced to the TV and plopped down onto olive green
shag carpeting that predated hula-hoops, immediately sucked into a rerun of The Simpsons Guy was sure they'd seen at least a half-dozen times.
"Gallons," Ashli called over her shoulder.
He looked at the dog, who seemed to be happy enough, then glanced
around the apartment. A real prize, this.
What would Elizabeth's Louden's reaction be to the place, with her
designer suit and silk blouse and expensively soaped skin? She'd probably hoist that pert little nose in the air and declare, "See? Men haven't evolved."
At the moment, he'd probably agree with her.
Wasn't as if he'd planned it this way, he thought as he grabbed the
chattering baby and trudged to the tiny bedroom all three kids shared. He quickly changed the little boy, barely able to think about dinner, let alone about finding a house where they could all sit in one room without inhaling dog hair.
Actually, he had seen one property he really liked, just a few blocks away.
But he doubted he could swing the down payment, not at the price the owner was
asking. Not to mention the mortgage -- he tossed the baby into the air and kissed his tummy -- which was a shame, because Ashli had immediately fallen in love with the old Queen Anne.
So it was either lower his sights, or risk slow death from asphyxiation and
overexposure to Avocado and Harvest Gold. Or pray his house in St. Charles sold quickly, which, considering current market conditions, seemed unlikely. This apartment had been an act of desperation, the only thing immediately available that would allow three kids and Godzilla-mutt here. Knowing it was temporary helped a little, but it didn't make the situation any more pleasant.
A brief but vociferous argument flared in the other room. Commercial
break, he figured, waiting out the fracas until the theme song from Home
Improvement started and peace was restored.
Guy set a much sweeter-smelling toddler on the floor and returned to the
kitchen, which is where he discovered the source of the dog's guilty slink. Making little whuffing noises and determined to kiss and make up, Einstein plastered himself against Guy's shoulder as he cleaned up the spilled garbage.
"Get out of my face, you miserable beast." Guy half-heartedly shoved the
dog away so he wouldn't track in the orange juice concentrate before he could wipe it up, then looked up to see a snakelike tongue repeatedly licking the air three inches in front of Guy's face. Maybe after a nap, he'd laugh. Right now, he didn't have the oomph.
"C'n we go to the park after dinner?" piped a gravelly soft voice right
behind him as he stood up, making him jump. How did they sneak up like that?
He turned to face a pair of imploring brown eyes. "I don't know, squirt.
I'm really pooped."
"Please, Daddy?"
Jake only whined when he was tired and irritable. But so was Guy, who
shot back, "I said, we'll see," before he caught himself.
After all, he was the grownup. The grownup. He let out an enormous sigh,
then squatted down eye-level with the child. "I just walked in, same as you. Giveme a minute to unscramble my brain, okay?"
God, he was beginning to sound like his mother. However, he handed the
little boy a bag of pretzels and sent him back to the electronic baby-sitter,
knowing the crumbs would be lost forever in the hideous carpet. Man. Here he'd thought he was pretty understanding and sensitive and all that stuff, helping out
with the kids and cleaning a bathroom now and then, making the bed every
morning and pancakes every Saturday. You know -- the new improved liberated
male? Hah! As contrite as Einstein, Guy had given his mother a very nice present that first Mother's Day after he'd become a single father.
Okay. . . food. Guy methodically opened cupboards, closed them again,
tried to push nagging self-pity out of his brain, then repeated the procedure with
the refrigerator, sidestepping the eighty-pound Brillo pad planted in the middle of
the worn linoleum floor. He grimaced. Guess it was spaghetti again.
He put on a big pot of water, then opened a jar of Ragu and dumped it out
into a saucepan. He hated spaghetti. If he never had to look at another plate of
pasta the rest of his life, he'd die a contented man. But it was the one thing he knew the kids would eat no matter what, unless they were sick, and it had the added advantage of hitting three of the four major food groups in one fell swoop.
He stood watching the steam rise from the simmering water as if watching
an oracle, a handful of dried pasta clutched in his hand. If nothing else, no one could accuse him of not being honest with himself. The past year and a half had been hell.
Thank you, Dianne.
He dumped the spaghetti into the water, stirred it, turned to get the milk
out of the fridge, pouring it into the plastic Tupperware cups he and his brothers used to use. From the living room, another shrill dispute snagged his attention.
"Ashli--" he warned, and was rewarded with a pair of angry blue eyes.
"Jake started it, Daddy," she began. "He's such a dork-face--"
"Ashli Nicole! No more!"
With a scowl that could freeze the sun, she turned back to the TV,
skootching cross-legged away from her brother, and rammed her chin into the
palms of her hands.
He hated raising his voice at her, but her perpetual bad mood was
beginning to get to him. Had gotten to him, months ago. He knew she'd been
devastated when her mother had left, but why she felt the need to take out her
pain and frustration on her little brother was beyond him. Kids fought -- as the
youngest of five brothers, that he knew -- but she really seemed to dislike Jake at
times. And that, he couldn't tolerate.
"Okay, guys. Dinnertime." He settled Micah into his high chair as the
other two wiggled into their chrome and vinyl chairs with much floor scraping
and giggling and one cup of milk, per usual, spilling. Guy silently cleaned up the mess, then sank into his chair, exhausted, and just watched his children eat.
He'd thought at first that staying in a familiar environment was the best
thing to do. After one shock, Ashli couldn't have stood relocation as well. Or so the experts said. But as time wore on, and the child's sullen mood didn't seem to improve, Guy decided to explore other options. Obviously, what he had been doing -- drifting aimlessly in the status quo -- wasn't working. Trouble was, he'd had no idea what to do.
Then, three weeks ago, his mother told him about an ad she'd noticed in
the Ann Arbor paper for an opening in a Realty office in Spruce Lake, just twenty
miles away. Wondering why he didn't immediately say thanks but that's okay,
Mom, he'd put the kids to bed, shoved a vintage Ella Fitzgerald cassette into the
player, then stood in the middle of his nearly empty living room. Just stood
there, thinking, in a house he'd been able to hang onto only by selling most of the stuff in it. Finally, after what might have been ten minutes or two hours, it
dawned on him that a lot more was missing than furniture.
Chicago wasn't his home, and it never had been. He'd only settled there
because that's where Dianne's family lived. Since there'd been no Dianne for
some time, why was he still there?
He'd called Maureen Louden the following morning, and she'd hired him
sight unseen. He'd been tempted to wonder what he'd gotten himself into, but
before he could chicken out he told her he'd be there a week from the following
Monday and would she mind lining up a few apartments that might take a dog
and three kids until he could find someplace permanent? And get him the name of a daycare center, too?
She'd apologized, at least five times, that this was the best she could do on
such short notice. At this price, she diplomatically refrained from adding.
Micah squealed, interrupting his thoughts.
Guy sighed and wiped a splotch of spaghetti sauce off the baby's pink face,
looked at his own bowl, pushed it away. He'd make a sandwich later.
"You guys done?"
They both nodded, Jake noisily finishing off his milk. "Daddy?" he asked
through a milk mustache. "Can we? Can we go feed the ducks?"
Guy caught Ashli's groan and held up one hand to squelch any comment
about stupid ducks, stupid ponds, or stupid younger brothers. She liked feeding the ducks as much as Jake did, and he was having none of her contrariness this evening. So he nodded, even though he was so tired he wasn't even sure he could
feel his feet anymore. "Sure," he said, and was rewarded with a grin that had a
remarkably salubrious effect on his nerve endings. "There're some old bread heels in the Roman Meal bag. Go get 'em."
Amid Jake's chatter and Micah's high-pitched mantra of "Baby go gucks?
Baby go gucks?", he heard Ashli ask, trying to keep anything resembling
enthusiasm out of her soft voice, "Can we go by the house, too?"
He knew which house she meant. "Sure, baby," he said, planting a kiss on
top of her head. "Why not?"
As they all scrambled down the stairs, each kid trying to yell louder than
the others, Guy vaguely wondered if Elizabeth Louden also liked feeding ducks and strolling around lakes on warm summer evenings.
Copyright 1999/2000 Karen Templeton-Berger
Reprinted with permission of Harlequin Enterprises, S.A. All rights reserved.
Being manless for the rest of her life, decides Zoe Chan, is preferable to enduring one more date from hell. But leave it to a pair of Cantonese Yentas -- her two older, very married sisters -- to find The Perfect Guy for Zoe, right in their favorite Chinese restaurant.
Forget it, Zoe says.
Mike Kwan has dated eight women in the past three years, all of whom decided they couldn't compete with a man already married -- to his business. But meeting a certain sloe-eyed spitfire has him rethinking his priorities. Then Zoe's sisters approach him with an intriguing plan. . .
Read an excerpt below
Silhouette Yours Truly
ISBN0373520859, February 1999
After three broken engagements, Charlotte Westwood needed chip-on-his-shoulder Gabe Szulinski in her life like she needed fleas.
After a disastrous marriage to one spoiled little rich girl,
the last thing single dad Gabe needed was another blue-blooded honey to make his life miserable.
Is this a match made in heaven or what?
Read an excerpt below
Silhouette Yours Truly
ISBN 0373520727, July 1998
Brianna Fairchild spends her days knee-deep in wedding gowns, seating plans, and floral arrangements. . .all for other brides. Then Spencer Lockhart deigns to cross the threshhold of her bridal salon for one reason only -- to hire Brianna to do his sister's Atlanta society wedding. But he'll never marry. . .or, worse, fall in love. Falling in love means losing control, and that's one thing the successful business executive never does.
Right?
Read an excerpt below
Silhouette Yours Truly
ISBN 0373520646, March 1998
Buy the Book Today!