The Call. Released April 30, 2014

The Call.

Is it witchcraft or madness? Angharad Jones heeds the call and relocates to Wales hoping to discover her heritage. She is unprepared for the battle of power unleashed upon her arrival. Angharad, a successful author, seeks answers to explain the visions plaguing her since childhood. In a drastic move to uncover the mystery behind her visions, Angharad moves to Wales, the one place her mother refuses to talk about. While renting a cottage in Fishguard, she meets Rhyse Williams, the handsome Chief Inspector, who is investigating the death of two students found naked and bound together on the beach below the cliffs surrounding the village; the same two students in Angharad’s vision. Their attraction to one another is immediate and intense, but can she trust Rhyse or will he run for the hills when she tells him about her visions. It is all unleashed when Angharad discovers that Rhyse is part of the call. Are they destined for love or betrayal? Murders are uncovered, spells are cast and love is found. The battle of power between good and evil begins.

A small taste from The Call:

Upon reaching the top of the hill, she discovered a wide expanse of yellowing sea grass that stretched to the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. Her lungs expanded as she breathed in the scent of the ocean. The tall grass rustled in the wind as Angharad ran, driven toward her destination. Despite being fearful of heights, she stood at the edge of the cliff, unable to tear herself away, riveted by the ocean’s majestic power. She watched the ocean crash against the rocks below, creating swirls of white caps. Its strength and fury left her in awe. The tide was in, covering all signs of the beach that lay below the crashing waves. Without warning, her headache roared in her skull, much like the waves crashing below, and she dropped to her knees, holding her head in agony. She swayed back and forth, her head riddled with pain, until the vision came. The face of a woman, in her mid-thirties, with long, curly, dark hair appeared in her mind. Her blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face stared vacantly as she floated in the sea her hair splayed around her. Angharad cried out as she recognized the similarity between the woman and her own appearance. It was as though she looked in a mirror. Holding her head, she began to sob uncontrollably. Tears splashed to her knees as she rocked back and forth. Maybe she saw herself in death. Whatever it was, she had a sense of overwhelming grief and screamed, the sound carried out to sea by the wind. Were her visions manifesting into her own reality? Absorbed in the memory of what she’d seen, she jumped when a hand touch her elbow. “Miss, may I help you? What are you doing on the cliffs?” She turned to the voice and exhaled a breath, relieved she was not yet lost to the madness of her mind. The stranger appeared concerned and held her steady as he helped her to her feet. When she opened her mouth to thank him, her words blew away with the wind. He led her down the path to his car, gently helping her into the front seat. Still struggling for awareness, she let the stranger drive her away.

Hot, hot, hot off the press, pick up your copy of The Call.

http://www.amazon.com/Call-Patricia-Hudson-ebook/dp/B00K2FB0VQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399260507&sr=1-1&keywords=The+Call

About Patricia Hudson Book cover 9313 029Patricia Hudson was born in Wales, U.K. As a young girl she moved to America with her family and currently resides on a small horse farm in central Illinois, with her husband, David, two dogs, and her beloved quarter horse.

She has written eleven books: Stolen Hearts released in 2013. The Call, Love on the Double T, Love’s Deception, and The Exchange to be published in 2014. Also in production are The Circle, and Jana Morgan, PI.
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Writing the Love Scene or Not

How do you prepare to write the big love scene? Maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who finds it easy. No inhibitions to hold you back. No pent up emotions or repressions. Free thinking parents who always called body parts by their real names. Parents who explained that love (sex) was a natural part of life. If you are, then I’m jealous.

I remember saying the word sex at the dinner table and my dad, who was the most loving father in the world, choked on his cup of tea.

My mother, also an adoring parent, never mentioned specific body parts. She would just point her eyes to that part of my body until I got what she was talking about.

When I heard the words spoken by friends, you can imagine my distress. They’re descent to Hell was a big concern.

Are you beginning to understand my difficulty?  Now here is where things really get weird. I am a CP for a wonderful writer of erotica in addition to her other genres. I hear you laughing. I didn’t know she wrote erotica until we’d bonded, and the thought of losing her was traumatic. She’s the best CP, ever.

She obviously knew my difficulty with love scenes. After all, she’d listened to me lament about them for hours. “Do you want to CP my book? It’s okay if you don’t. I understand.”

Maybe this was an answer. If I read graphic sex scenes, I’d build up a tolerance. A type of immunity to the chilling words. I’d read somewhere that if you do something over and over, you become desensitized.

I agreed to CP her book. I secretly thought I could skip the sex scenes and concentrate on the story. Erotic books are all about sex scenes. Did you know that? I was able to muddle through it and even give some good suggestions. She actually changed some of the scenes that didn’t make sense to me.

Now, to write my own scene. I was armed with knowledge, a blasé attitude, and the will to succeed. I can do this, I said with great determination. Right! Wrong.

Reading someone else’s sex scene is not the same as writing your own. My hands shook when my fingers tried to type the dreaded words. I really wanted to write a sexy scene. I put on some music. Michael Buble has some very sexy CD’s. I poured a glass of wine and gulped (not sipped) while I wrote. I made myself type the words. I sat back with a satisfied and tipsy grin on my face. Well done, I said. I’ll read it tomorrow with fresh eyes.

“April, I’ve written a sex scene, a real one.”  April is a pro at this. It always confuses me, because she is very shy. How does she manage to type the words and describe the act in such detail? I mean excruciating detail.

“Let me read it. E-mail it to me.” I copy and paste the best scene I’ve ever written into the body of the e-mail. I write that tongue-in-cheek.  I read it for a tenth time. It’s very sexy, I think, proud of my accomplishment. My finger clicks on the send button.

I wait, and I wait, and I wait. What’s taking her so long? Does she think it’s as great as I do? She’s probably stunned because I wrote such a graphic scene.

My computer dings. I have an e-mail. I can’t wait to hear her praise.

“It’s cute,” she writes. Cute, cute! What does cute have to do with a hot and torrid sex scene? Sexy, hopefully… Sensual, of course… but cute. Cute and sex do not belong in the same sentence. Even I know that. My head drops to the computer.

I let myself go and write the hottest scene of my writing career.

The next day I couldn’t wait to read my scene. I knew it was going to be sexy, romantic, and hot. I scrolled to the scene and began to read. My heart raced. I felt the flush creep up my body until my face burned with embarrassment.

Dear Lord, I can’t publish this. My fingers went wild deleting. What was left were two paragraphs of mish-mash.

I rewrote the scene.  Sigh, I doubt I’ll ever reach the level of sensual or hot.

 

To find Stolen Hearts on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Stolen-Hearts-ebook/dp/BooE3LMF71

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Books:

Released 2014

Stolen Hearts    

Coming in 2014 by SoulMate Publishing:

The Call

Love on the Double T

Moody Gallery

The Exchange