Thursday, January 22, 2009

Rock On, Lilly Ledbetter.

(Or Tracy gets her nerdy political geek on.)

Tonight, the Senate, led by the formidable Senator Barbara Mikulski (D-MD), passed the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act of 2009. The House is expected to pass the bill next Tuesday, and President Obama has promised to sign it into law.

Lilly Ledbetter was, for 19 years, the lone female supervisor at a Goodyear tire plant in Alabama. That's right--19 years. Shortly before she retired in 1998, she found out that she was being paid thousands of dollars less than her male colleagues in the same positions, including those who'd been hired after her. She filed a lawsuit immediately after she received an anonymous note upon learning that lovely fact, and a jury agreed that this was an egregious case of sexist mouthbreathers keeping a good woman down--they awarded her $3 million. Goodyear appealed the case up to the Supreme Court, which ruled 5 to 4 in 2007 that Ledbetter shouldn't have been able to file her case more than 180 days after "a specific discriminatory event."

Nine of the 12 federal courts that heard this case as it was making its way to the Big Nine said that each crappy-ass paycheck Ledbetter received should be considered "a specific discriminatory event"--and so her case was well within the statute of limitations instituted by a previous law.

With women STILL making 77 cents for every dollar a man makes doing the same job, this vote is massive for working women across the country. The Institute of Women’s Policy Research says that this discrepancy will cost women anywhere from $400,000 to $2 million in lost wages over a lifetime.

The House is expected to sign the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act into law on Tuesday, and since President Obama argued hard for the 2007 version that got voted down in the Senate, it's pretty clear Lilly Ledbetter has won a massive victory for women everywhere. And actually, even more people: the new law should also help American workers pursue claims of pay discrimination on the basis of not only gender, but race, religion, national origin, disability, or age. I haven't found any claims that it will help with discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, but I hope so.

So, please join with me in sending a big mental "suck it" to Goodyear, Justice Roberts (who authored the Court's decision on the Ledbetter case), and everyone who puts corporate greed over the basic rights of hardworking people--who need fairness more than ever in this economic crisis.

Done now. I'll be funny again next time. (At least on my planet. Can't promise that on yours.)

Hey, Zulmara!

If you see this, you won my Chica Lit blog tour prize. Please contact me via my website with your mailing info!

And my huge apologies for the lateness of this notification. I thought I'd posted it, but when I checked, it was still in the "edit" stage. Ay.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

Chica Lit Blog Tour

Welcome to the final day of the New Year's Chica Lit Blog Tour! With all of the date switching and link confusion, I figure it'll be a miracle if anyone gets here. But if you do, just answer the question at the end in comments, and you'll be eligible to win a $10 (indie bookstore) gift certificate and a copy of my latest Harlequin Intrigue, I'll Be Watching You.

**I will post the winner of L.M. Gonzalez's prize as soon as I hear from her.**

The following is the very-much-in-progress prologue from my new manuscript for Intrigue, working title Soldier Resurrected.

Mosul, Iraq, 200 miles north of Baghdad

At exactly 1730 one summer evening, four shadowy figures materialized out of the dimness surrounding a squat, nondescript house on the southern edge of Mosul. They moved quickly, melting back into the shadows alongside the stone structure long before anyone noticed they were in the area.

At least, that’s what Private Angel Delgado hoped. Because otherwise, they were all kinds of screwed.

The Iraqi city was widely known as a terrorist hot-spot, one of the few areas that US military forces hadn’t been able to fully take throughout the whole of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Although they were among the best that the Army had to offer, Delgado had no interest in taking Mosul at the moment, and neither, he knew, did his fellow soldiers. All they had to do was capture one small house on the outskirt of the city. Just a walk in the park for six men from the 75th Ranger Regiment, 2nd battalion.

Driven by the high of the thrill-seeker’s cocktail—adrenaline and fear—Delgado crept along the rough-hewn wall toward the stone structure’s back entrance. He had to admit, it was mostly adrenaline that coursed through his muscles, fast and furious. He probably should have been feeling the fear more—especially since from where he stood, all signs pointed to the fact that they were heading into an ambush.

This mission was either going to earn them Bronze Stars, or become the biggest fustercluck in Ranger history.

They’d been tipped off that an American soldier, a flyboy by the name of Captain Johnny Chang who’d been MIA for the past two years, was being held in this very residence. And so the Air Force had called on the Rangers to find their boy and get him out, after which their planes would rain flaming destruction down on that creep-tastic stone house until it and the terrorist scumbags who called it home were nothing but a rubble-strewn black crater.

But Private Delgado had his doubts about that intelligence. Sure, the source was a Shi’a—a member of the Muslim faction who’d been persecuted by Sadaam Hussein’s regime and had the most to gain from the US presence in country. And yes, that Shi’a proven his worth in information previously on at least two occasions, although said information had never been this hot.

“What do you think, Delgado?” his commanding officer had asked him just before they’d moved north from Camp Diamondback into Mosul.

Delgado had turned his head to look pointedly at the sky. “If I were trying to ambush us, I’d say right now was a perfect time to drop the news about Chang.” And drop the news that the airman could be relocated any minute, so they had to move now. The hot desert sun loomed huge on the horizon like a ball of hellfire coming to smack them all in the face. It had just started its descent behind the sand dunes—and Delgado didn’t have to explain that dusk and dawn were the most dangerous times of day for soldiers battling insurgents in Iraq’s dangerous northern territories.

Visibility was always excellent under a hot, relentless desert sun. And at night, they had equipment that gave them cat-like night vision. Dusk and dawn? Neither their own eyes or the damn goggles worked as well as a soldier under fire would like, so until the sun made up its mind to come up or disappear, visibility was seriously jacked.

Like it was right now. Murky, dim, impossible light.

But his CO had just nodded grimly, acknowledging the challenge—and that Operation Free Johnny Freakin’ Chang was going to go forward as planned. The intelligence said that Chang could be relocated on the drop of a dime, so they had to move now. They were Rangers. If there was the remotest chance that Chang had survived imprisonment and torture for three years in enemy hands, they had no choice but to move in and get him.

Never quit.

Never accept defeat.

Never leave a fallen comrade.

And ambush or not, the insurgents probably hadn’t counted on coming up against the full force of the 75th Ranger Regiment’s 2nd battalion.

Private Delgado waited for the signal, blending into the long shadows on the structure’s east wall, moving only his eyes. Their target stood set apart from a cluster of homes to the northeast. Silence weighed heavily in the still air, coating the neighborhood like a stifling security blanket. Nothing stirred—not a hand behind a curtain, not a shadow in a doorway, not a gunman on a rooftop.

All clear.

All quiet. All still.

Too quiet. Too still.

But it didn’t matter now. Never leave a fallen comrade.

Johnny Chang, you’d freaking better be alive.

“RLTW,” someone whispered over the headsets. Rangers lead the way.

In a swift, sudden movement, Private Delgado kicked open the back door. The wood gave immediately, splintering underneath his boot. He moved in, swinging his GUN in an arc across the room. A black-cloaked figure rose from behind a table. Delgado’s finger flexed on the hair-trigger of his weapon. He had only milliseconds to assess “friend or foe.”

Private First Class A.J. Ramez moved up to flank him. And Delgado stepped in the line of fire.

“Civilian!” he shouted, sweeping an arm out to move the veiled woman aside, his hand on her waist to confirm that she wasn’t hiding a boatload of C4 under her hijab. She shouted at him, a bowl of rice clutched in her brown hands. PFC Ramez spoke quickly into his headset, then started chattering to the woman in Northern Mesopotamian Spoken Arabic—a language he’d learned from his Jordanian-American parents—as he hustled her toward the door.

While Ramez handed the civilian off to a couple of soldiers outside who would hustle her over to the Humvees, Delgado strode across the room, clutching the handle of the door on the back wall. He heard the shout of “all clear!” behind it, seconds before he pulled it open and came face to face with PFCs Harrold and Isenberg.

All clear. All too quiet. All too still.

Isenberg swore at the sight of Delgado and Ramez, at the too empty house. At the knowledge that Johnny Chang was nowhere near them and never had been.

And the ground shook with fury as a mortar hit the side of the house.

“Ambush! We walked into a goddamned ambush!” Jenkins shouted as he followed Delgado out the western door, into the kill zone. Sure enough, IEDs ignited around them, raining sand and chunks of God-knows-what down onto their helmets. With ear-piercing whistles, RPGs whizzed through the air around them.

Ducking his head, Delgado charged down the dusty road, flanked without hesitation by Ramez, Isenberg, and Harrold. Men wearing black hoods melted out of the shadows, in doorways, on rooftops, behind stacks of tires and piles of rubble—some so close, the shell casings fly into the air like popcorn.

The dim twilight made it almost impossible to spot every one of the telltale muzzle flashes from the enemies’ AK47s, and lesser men would have ran to the east, back to the Humvees hidden behind the abandoned mosque, two clicks away. But operating completely on Ranger instinct, Delgado led the other three men straight into the worst of the fire, and they followed—as he’d known they would--firing their own weapons and running with everything they had.

Rangers were armed with close-assault weapons, no match for the long-range of the AK47s. So they did what they were trained to do. Assault the ambush. Close the range. Do exactly the opposite of what the insurgents expect.

Because had they gone east, they’d all be dead now.

With a guttural rebel yell, Privates Roderick “Alabama” Harrold swept into the nearest one-story building, Isenberg flanking him. Ramez and Delgado put their backs against the wall, providing cover. Delgado pulled the stock of the M4A1 against his shoulder and fired at a nearby rooftop. The kickback of the weapon left his hands tingling.

A hooded, black-clad figure jerked back, then went limp and toppled off the roof.
Another took his place within seconds.

The world slowed down, and Delgado moved as if through water, easily dodging a rain of gunfire from the roof. Ignoring the needles piercing his palms, he brought his weapon back up.

Isenberg and Harrold barreled out of the house, blood spatter dotting their dirt-smeared faces.

Delgado aimed for the man on the roof.

The bullets crossed in the air. The terrorist fell to his knees, sliding down the slanted tiles toward the ground.

Harrold went down with a shout. He clutched his leg, raw and bloody from where the AK47 bullets had shattered his kneecap.

Time sped up again. Delgado ran forward, stumbling as he stepped over Harrold to shield the fallen soldier. It only took a second to right himself again, but Isenberg shot a quizzical look at his leg. “Sir, what--?”

Delgado shook him off, grabbing Harrold under the arms and dragging him behind a pile of old tires propped up against the side of one of the buildings. The smell of burning rubber assaulted his nose as another hail of gunfire hit their makeshift barrier.

“GO! GO! GO!” He jerked his whole forearm back and forth, pointing to the west. Away from the rooftop snipers. Isenberg and Ramez took off toward the next building. Delgado swung his weapon around the tire shield and fired again and again, his hands burning as they clutched his weapon. His mind went blank. All he could do was pull the trigger. And howl.

Black cloaked figures came at him from every direction, RPGs exploded yards from where he stood. But Angel didn’t leave Alabama’s side. He just continued to fire. In the name of Johnny Goddamned Chang.

Then his leg gave out.

It felt like someone had pulled the ground out from under one side of him. He staggered, favoring his left side. His shoulder slammed against the broken stone wall.

A quick glance down confirmed his worst fear—he hadn’t been hit. No bullet, no RPG, not even a stray piece of rubble had caused this.

Mind over matter, soldier. There’s nothing wrong with you.

Delgado’s hands stiffened around his weapon, sharp, pointed pain stabbing through his right palm like he was gripping a handful of needles. He tried to stand upright again, but the damn leg buckled like a puppeteer had jerked on its string. His gun slipped out of his grasp, and he fumbled clumsily for it, only to watch it clatter to the ground.

Oh, hell no. He’d thought he’d had more time. He’d thought he could make more time, through sheer force of will. And now Alabama was going to die because of that effed-up miscalculation.

He crumpled to his knees, stared into the bewildered, pain-racked face of one of the men he'd served with, eaten with, fought beside, for the past year. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black-hooded shadow slip around the corner. It moved toward them.

Delgado lurched toward his weapon, a loud, guttural cry escaping from the depths of his lungs. He fell chest-first onto the hard, packed sand, his body armor slamming into his ribcage. Dust filled his mouth, got in his eyes. His left hand closed on the barrel of his M4A1.

He heard the insurgent behind him lock and load.

Even as he swung his weapon around, he knew it was too late.

On his back, weapon at the ready in the wrong hand as his useless right leg refused to cooperate, Private Angel Delgado looked into the dark, burning eyes of the man who was about to kill them.

And he let one name fill his mind and wash over him like rain—the one he’d had to keep in a mental box since the firefight started.


* Here's a question for which there's no right or wrong answer (seeing as you all can't see what's in my head at the moment): What do you think caused Angel's leg to give out?

Saturday, January 10, 2009

16 Random Factoids About Me

If you're looking for the Chica Lit New Year's Blog Tour, some of the blogs had an error in the list. You'll want to visit L.M. Gonzalez's site at I'll be up tomorrow, so be sure to check back then!

My friend Miriam tagged me with a request to write down 16 random factoids about myself. It's like those surveys you get in the mail--I can't stop myself from doing these things. So if you're tagged and feel so inclined, write down 16 random factoids about YOURSELF, then tag 16 friends--including me so I can read them. (My friends are tagged via Facebook, FYI.) Have fun!

1) People who talk about themselves in the third person make me want to shove a metal bucket on their heads and clang it with a spoon until they stop.

2) I have a Master’s degree in English lit with distinction from Boston College. And I write category romance novels. Somewhere, someone probably has a “Slacker Alumni” list in their hands with me in the number one position.

3) I have a little scar on my forehead that obliterated my widow’s peak from an incident when I was four years old, standing on a table, and belting out Cher’s “Half-Breed” at the top of my little lungs. I fell off said table and hit my head on one of those ancient coiled metal radiators. It’s the one and only time I’ve ever had stitches.

4) Just this week, I called my daughter Maggie “Chuck” for most of the day at her insistence. I also congratulated her a few weeks ago on her marriage to her bedroom curtain, which she calls "my little curtain."

5) I LOVE adventure video games, and am anxiously awaiting the third and presumably final segment in the Longest Journey/Dreamfall series.

6) I love Longest Journey so much, I contemplated moving to Oslo, Norway and applying for a game writer job with Funcom so I could work on the creators’ next adventure game.

7) Although I love the South, I can’t stand living in Florida. I put this down to a combination of scorpions in my house and weird, ubiquitous “grass” that feels like rows of blunt razor blades under your feet.

8) After researching search and rescue foot trackers for Finding His Child, I nearly chucked it all to go train to become a tracker.

9) After researching FBI agents for Maximum Security, I nearly chucked it all to apply to the FBI academy. I was wicked devastated when I turned 36 and realized this option was no longer available to me unless I suddenly picked up flawless Arabic/Farsi/or other Middle Eastern language.

10) I worshipped Wonder Woman and the Bionic Woman as a kid. Lindsay Wagner was in my office once when I worked in Washington state, but I didn’t know it until she left, so I only saw the back of her head and did not worship it. This is probably a good thing for Lindsay, as there would have been some serious fan-girling going on, otherwise.

11) I have a rather serious book-buying addiction.

12) I just bought HD Tivo today and am ridiculously excited about it.

13) I became a somewhat shrill and militant feminist at the age of 7, after my third-grade teacher introduced me to the biography section of the library and I read a succession of bios of several Suffragettes.

14) I think The Suffragettes would make a fabulous band name.

15) Though I might be too old for it, I love and adore and refuse to part with my Janis Joplin T-shirt.

16) When I have laryngitis, my favorite thing to do is belt out "Piece of My Heart" until I lose my voice completely, because it's the only time I remotely sound like the late, great Janis.

Anyone else want to play? Consider yourself tagged!

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Things I'd Like to Forget, 2008 Edition

Ariana Huffington just posted her annual list of things she'd like to forget from 2008 on the Huffington Post. And once again, I thought it was such a spiffy idea, I decided to do my own version (though with much more vapid pop culture content and an attempt at bipartisan political content, out of respect for the fact that I have no clue what the political bents are of the three or four people out there who actually read this blog).

Without further ado and in honor of a new year and a fresh start, here are the things I’d like to forget from last year:

• The aftermath of talented Heath Ledger’s death. Here’s a free clue for everyone out there: When you find your employer unconscious on the floor, for the love of all that is holy, the first person you call should probably be first responders and NOT a random Olsen twin.

• “You can actually see Russia from an island in Alaska.”

• The Hollywood writers’ strike. Seriously, people, paying your writers their fair share should be a no-brainer.

• That the Hollywood writers’ strike almost killed Reaper, one of the smartest, funniest shows on television. And let me just say that it returns as a mid-season replacement on March 17, so please watch it. I’m begging you. I don’t think I can take another Firefly.

• The Anne Hathaway/Steve Carrell and Jim Carrey/Zooey Deschanel makeout sessions in Get Smart and Yes Man, respectively. Eeeeeuw. Harrison Ford can get away with macking on a woman a third of his age. You two gentlement, however, cannot. And yes, Jim Carrey, I know you are wonderful to Jenny McCarthy’s son with autism, which gives you major nice-guy cred but still doesn’t make that scene in your film any less creeptacular.

• The proliferation of extremists calling Democrats “Socialists” and “Communists.” Because, of course, anyone who voted Democrat in the last election obviously wants to give her house to the government and go stand in a bread line. :::mental forehead smack:::
Despite our differences of opinion, I have no doubt that most of us vote the way we do because we want to help create a better world for ourselves and our children. It’s time to inject a little bit of civility back into the elections and stop the ignorant name-calling. On both sides.

• Starting with forgetting about Minnesota Rep. Michele Bachman’s frightening appeal to a new McCarthyism during the 2008 election. “I wish the American media would take a great look at the views of the people in Congress and find out, are they pro-America or anti-America?” Seriously?

• The fact that Bachman won. They can’t redraw that crazy harpy’s district fast enough.

• Everything about John Edwards, from his $400 haircuts, to his conscienceless Playboy-bunny-gone-to-seed mistress, to his cheating on his warm and loving wife who stumped for this pathetic excuse for a human being while DYING of cancer. All of the above earn you the Asshat of the Year Award. And then you are dead to me.

• That Katrina survivors were (and probably still are) living in FEMA trailers well known to be offgassing poisonous formaldehyde.

• Illinois Governor Blagojevich. You, Sir, are the very definition of a sleazeball.

• That Joss Whedon’s new show features Eliza Dushku, who acts about as well as a wilted piece of lettuce. With an egg-shaped head. Ay.

• George Lucas’s apparent determination to crush his cinematic legacy into utter ruin—this time, by employing Shia LeBeouf and a few poorly placed CGI monkeys in the much-beloved Indiana Jones series. Oh, and that whole alien thing.

• That Jolie sociopath.

• OK, I tried to move on, but I can’t let this one go. The Marion Ravenwood we all met in Raiders of the Lost Ark would have kicked Indiana Jones’ boot-ay for burning down her tavern, dropping off the planet for 20 years, and leaving her a single mom in the pre-feminist 30s, 40s, and 50s, where she would have been an automatic social pariah. With all of that emotional baggage, she would NOT have morphed into a grinning Stepford moron right after he threw her a measly bone by calling her “Honey” and DIDN’T APOLOGIZE. Profusely and repeatedly, and at great, verbally self-flagellating length. I think SOMEONE needs a romance writer on his Lucasfilm story development team.
And though it didn’t happen in 2008, Leia’s mother—as in Princess Leia, the gun-toting, self-sacrificing, whipsmart, stoic feminist icon of 1976—would never have “lost the will to live” with two small babies who needed her to protect them from their insane father. Watched Revenge of the Sith the other day with my daughters, and despite all the mental preparation of knowing the ending in advance, still wound up shrieking, “YOU'RE LEIA'S MOTHER! GET UP, you pantywaist!” at the dying Padme on my television set.

• McCain-Palin rally crowds calling out “Terrorist!” and “Kill him!” whenever the candidates made reference to Obama. If you can’t beat the guy on policy or popularity, let’s just call for a good, old-fashioned lynching. Niiiiiice.

• I’ll echo Ariana Huffington on this one: the “thrill” going up Chris Matthews’ leg during his MSNBC election coverage. Ick.

• That Silda Spitzer stood by her man during that painful-to-watch “I slept with a hooker” press conference, instead of smacking him upside the head with a frying pan for all the world to see and telling him to take his undoubtedly herpe-ridden self off her planet.

• Still trying to forget Ann Coulter’s special brand of crazy. Still unsuccessful at it.

• Every creepy picture of Miley Cyrus in existence. With or without her likely felonious boyfriend. Eeeeuw.

• That ridiculous Vanity Fair cover of the Obamas in terrorist gear doing a fist-bump. Yes, I understand it was meant to be satire. Next time, give it a title and make it more obvious for the racist mouthbreathers out there.

• All the racist mouthbreathers out there.

• Especially the guy who said to me when discussing why he didn’t vote, “I didn’t think I was a racist, BUT….”

• The fact that it would have been illegal to hit said guy over the head with a frying pan, so I had to settle for a snarky comeback.

• Joe the plumber—just because through no fault of his own he was as overexposed as those dingbats in the Playboy mansion.

• That we never got to see Tim Russert cover the 2008 presidential election.

• Jennifer Love Spewitt insisting that she was a size two in these photos. First of all, honey, you are no size two in those. You are not fat, but you are not a size two.
Second of all, your desperate grab for media attention by claiming to be a size two (ha.) FEMINIST who is just trying to fight against the “scrutiny of women’s bodies” probably did more harm to impressionable girls with borderline eating disorders across the US than the media idiots who called your most-likely size 8 body “fat.” Now instead of AIMING for a size two or four, these girls mistakenly think they will be deemed gelatinous cows at that miniscule size and are most likely shooting for size double-zeros. Nice job, vapid fame ho.

• That Carrie Underwood was considered fat when she was a size six and hailed for losing enough weight to be a (legitimate) size two. Seriously, people, it’s time to lay off the double zeroes, ones, and twos and start eating something for lunch other than a glass of water and a toothpick. This is getting insane.

• Prop. 8 being voted in in California. Prop. 2 in Florida, sad and intolerant, but kind of expected. Prop. 8—awful and infuriating!

• My stomach-still stretched out from my last pregnancy despite Pilates and crunches, and looking like someone smacked a ball of pizza dough on it. Oh, waist, how I miss you.

• Robert Pattinson’s apparent refusal to wash his hair when he’s not on set. Maybe instead of throwing spray paint or cream pies at him, someone can attack him with a bottle of Suave when he’s not looking.

• Iggy Pop shirtless at the 2008 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony. My eyes! They burn!

• Sarah Jessica Parker’s weird little taxidermified-peacock hat at the Sex and the City premiere. Gutsy, but … no.

• Amy Winehouse having emphysema in her 20s.

• That each one of Suri Cruise’s dresses probably costs more than my annual salary.

• That my retirement accounts now contain less than I’ve put into them over the past decade-plus. I can’t even stand to think about my close-to-retirement parents’ accounts.

• Another Huffington echo: Alan Greenspan’s shock at the economic meltdown. Seriously, dude, of all people to be “shocked….”


• That the NASA and university models showing how fast global warming is progressing didn’t take into account carbon releases from melting permafrost and so we’re in more serious shape than we thought. Scared. Thinking about pop culture again, stat.

• That China had a “pretty” girl lip-synch at the Olympic Opening Ceremonies because the girl who could actually sing was deemed ugly.

• That Dana Torres is four years older than I am and has zero body fat. (Major props to her for the silver medal, though!)

• My stomach, because it’s so annoying, it deserves a second mention.

• Election recounts. Whether they turn out the way I personally want them to or not, they're just stressful.

• That women still make 77 cents per every dollar a man makes doing the same job. (The need for feminism is over, my big, Latina booty.) Tell Congress to pass the Lily Ledbetter Fair Pay Act and the Paycheck Fairness Act today!

• Pulling my daughters’ newborn feety pajamas out of a drawer last fall and feeling that pang in my heart when I realized how fast they’re growing. Trying not to think about how soon it's going to be before they're past the little-and-cuddly stage….

Anything you’d like to forget?

Sunday, January 04, 2009

New Year's Chica Lit Blog Tour!

Wow, I am really remiss in posting this, but we're running another Chica Lit blog tour in honor of the new year. There will be stories, excerpts, and PRIZES. Visit each author on her given day, read her entry and also instructions on how to be entered to win that day's prize. Then follow the link the next day to the next author's story, and do it all over again!

Here's the line-up:

Jan. 01: Misa Ramirez

Jan. 02: Jamie Martinez Wood

Jan. 03: Julia Amante

Jan. 04: Berta Platas

Jan. 05: Mary Castillo

Jan. 06: Alisa Valdes Rodriguez

Jan. 07: Margo Candela

Jan. 08: Caridad Ferrer

Jan. 09: Gabriella Hewitt

Jan. 10: L.M. Gonzalez

Jan. 11: Tracy Montoya

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Tracy Montoya writes romantic suspense for Harlequin Intrigue.

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