Incy is the one in the pink dress in the photo! This is how she describes herself:
It took a swan dive from a roof to convince Incy (aged 5) she wasn’t an avenging fairy and that no, she most certainly couldn’t fly. Bruised but undefeated she retreated deeper into her make-believe world populated with the brave and the poisonous.
When not fighting injustice and righting wrongs on ‘Planet Incy’, she works as a Marketing Director. (Unfortunately, her law degree languishes unused, the distinction between good and evil proving too worrisome in real life.)
Her five children are well versed in what scares her (most things) and delight in pushing her neurotic buttons—at their peril.
Incy taught me not to take myself so seriously, and to love being an author, and to focus on the love of what we do, and not let the little publishing hiccups we meet on the way, take us from our journey. Her post below is one I will cherish.
Australians are a little crazy—but we love them.
Annie Seaton is laid back. She reminds me of an elegant glider noiselessly catching life’s updrafts, no fuss, no bother. If she does have feathers to ruffle, I’ve never found them. So with that in mind, rather than discuss my new release Hard to Protect or my writing process, I prefer to share why my in-person encounter with Annie was a blast—and will forever remain indelibly imprinted on my psyche.
Picture four Australian women—statuesque, gorgeous, proud—travelling the globe. I’m not saying they wrecked havoc, but they came pretty damn close. And that was just in London. The refined folk of Bloomsbury might recover—one day, but they will never forget.
Annie, Savannah, Diane and Kristen ‘pulled’ in a rooftop beer garden, brazenly swapping names and business cards with some young builders. Such was their enthusiasm for the second pub, I’m fairly certain they offered to partnership up with the owner. They wandered off—and got lost—in Trafalgar Square. I won’t mention they did the same on the Underground. None of this was bad, it was curiously endearing to a Brit.
But, Oh. My. God. They kept getting bitten—by a wild and wanton impulse.
Seemed like every ten minutes, up would go their arms, back would go their heads, out would come their war cry, “Ozzie, Ozzie, Ozzie, Oi, Oi, Oi,” loud enough to fell all buildings within a three mile radius! It was shameless. It was hilarious. It was terrifying, mortifying, too. And as an experience it ranks right up there with the top ten in my life. It will also, along with the personalities involved, one day find its way into one of my books.
Go Aussie women, go—never change!
Some Black Op missions are too dark—even for him.
Volcanic hot and ambitious Special Agent Will Berwick doesn’t give a damn what his orders are, he’s not taking the enemy—the lovely, but arctic Dr. Angel Treherne—to bed. Nor will she die on his watch, most certainly not by his hand. Oh, he’ll root out her secrets. But his own way—teaching her a much-deserved lesson while he’s at it: that no one messes with his career plan just because they’re a little peeved with him.
Caught up in a tangled web of deceit and betrayal, psychotherapist Angel trusts no one—certainly not alpha-cocky, cunning Will Berwick. First he’s hostile, then he’s charming, now he wants to protect her? Why? What’s he hiding? With her life—and heart—on the line, she needs to know.
With the risks high and personal, can Will and Angel agree the dangerous choices they must make?
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