A Christmas of Our Own by M.S. Spencer

When I was ten years old my father landed a job with UNESCO, the United Nations Education, Scientific and Cultural Organization, at it's headquarters in Paris. Our family of five took the Queen Mary first class across the Atlantic, but that's another story for another time. We moved into a house in a suburb of Paris called Palaiseau. The town happened to be run by Communists, who, in order to prove how wonderful their system was, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, built a beautiful stade (recreation facility) and other amenities. What they didn't deliver was enough coal to heat the houses in what turned out to be the coldest winter since 1923. We lived in an ultramodern house reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright's less comfortable designs. It consisted of a square concrete block on stilts with large, uninsulated windows, so the cold wind not only swept around the house and through the windows, but underneath it. After a freezing night, we'd step from bed into icy puddles on the floor. To keep warm we used layers. And layers. And layers. So many layers that one night I heard a screech from the bathroom. My mother stood there, still in her underwear, soaking wet. She figured after shedding two sweaters, four shirts and five trousers she was clear and only learned her mistake when she stepped into the shower. To make matters worse, our trunks took six months to arrive, leaving us with only a few clothes and utensils, and of course none of our Christmas decorations. Us children (6, 10 and 12) figured whining would help and made a serious attempt to keep it up well into Christmas week. When even that failed we tried moping. My mother walked in two days before Christmas to find us in full mope mode. Without a word, she laid on the table several rolls of construction paper and glue, together with sparkly sprinkles and other small ornaments. "We're going to make our own decorations," she announced cheerily. A few hours later we'd made enough ornaments to cover the tree. My father found some real candles with little hinged holders and we attached them to the tree. It was magical! Little green paper pines with red polka dots, yellow stars, sparkly with silver sprinkles, and popcorn chains covered the little tree, all of it lit by golden light. At last we began to feel the Christmas spirit and went to bed with visions of roast chicken (no turkeys in France) and pain au chocolat (no Hershey kisses) in our heads. By the morning I was so excited my stomach hurt and I had to hold a gallon jug (no hot water bottle) on my lap. Despite-or perhaps because of-the absence of our store-bougth,factory-made, cookie-cutter American trinkets, it was the best Christmas we'd ever had. If you liked this story, please leave a comment. I will be giving away a lovely Christmas ornament to the first person who joins my blog site and can name all four of my titles! Merry Christmas, M.S. Spencer My Latest Release: Take lost masterpieces, brilliant inventors, and stolen prototypes. Add Three Sisters, Indian spirits who guard the Potomac River. Stir in three sisters and their lovers. Result? Jealousy, sex, genius, larceny and love. Who will end up with whom, and will the Three Sisters take another life as the legend demands? Triptych, by M. S. Spencer Released November 9, 2011 ISBN: 978-1-61885-064-5 68,00 words, M/F, Contemporary romantic suspense, 3 flames (erotic) Blurb

Both Miranda Cabot and her sister Honor prefer their solitude to romance, Miranda having watched her husband die in flames on the Potomac River rocks called the Three Sisters. Not so the youngest, Sybil, who invites a mysterious Frenchman calling himself the Chevalier du bon Arnaque to stay with them in their mansion overlooking the Sisters.

Misgivings about the stranger’s intentions lead Miranda and Honor to ask their neighbors Dieter Heiliger and his grandson Corey to chaperone. Three beautiful, strong-willed women living in a house with three handsome, virile men results inevitably in an intricate web of jealousy, sex, and intrigue. Add in long-lost master artworks, stolen prototypes and a resident genius and you have a recipe for romance. Who will end up with whom, and will the Three Sisters take another life as the legend calls for?

Buy Links: http://store.secretcravingspublishing.com/index.php?main_page=book_info&cPath=4&products_id=171 All Romance E Books: http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-triptych-641725-148.html Book Strand: http://www.bookstrand.com/triptych Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Triptych-ebook/dp/B0067MSSO0/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1321481301&sr=1-4

Excerpt: "That's the car, Sybil! The plane must have arrived early. Go open the door." Miranda heard the pounding of excited feet on the stairs. She checked her hair and dress and prepared herself not merely to meet the Chevalier du Bon Arnaque, but to dislike him intensely. She called to Honor and stepped sedately down the long formal staircase to the centeral hall where Sybil was taking the coat of a very tall, black-haired gentleman. As she stood on teh last step, he turned and glanced up at her. A long pause ensued. Did my heart just stop beating? The house, the hall, Sybil, everything but the man faded into the background. She examined his face minutely, as though she had all the time in the world. ringlets of thick, glossy black hair twined over his forehead, the light catching highlights of silver at the temples and deep in his ebony eyes. Tanned skin stretched tight over his high cheekbones, reminding her of the portrait of a Highland chieftain that hung in her study. She could just make out a tiny upturn at the end of his nose that lent a fanciful air to his appearance. Perhaps not a clan chief but an elvish prince? Slowly she grew aware of Sybil's chattering. "Monsieur le Chevalier-see how well I pronounced it, monsieu? I've been practicing. I promise to be your best student ever! Oh, and this is miranda, my sister. Honor? Honor! Are you coming down?" Miranda took the last step into a new world. She faltered before this man who turned her inside out with a single look, and words failed her. As she struggled with an unaccustomed shyness he held out a friendly hand to her. She mustered up a firm shake from somewhere, noting the hard calluses that lined his palm. A work-hardened hand. Could it be he's not a leisure-loving gigolo after all? CONTACTS: Website: www.MeredithEllsworth.com Facebook Author Page:www.facebook.com/M.S.SpencerAuthor blog:http://msspencertalespinner.blogspot.com Twitter: www.twitter.com/msspencerauthor Author Pages: Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/M.S.-Spencer/e/B002ZOEUC8/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1277387999&sr=1-2-ent All Romance E Books Author Page: http://www.allromanceebooks.com/storeSearch.html?searchBy=author&qString=M.S.+Spencer