Happy Release Day! Author Guest Post w/Michelle Pillow; Portrait of His Obsession

Happy New Release Day!

Portrait of His Obsession by Michelle Pillow

I'm so happy to have Michelle Pillow, author of Portrait of His Obsession, here with us today. While her newest release through Samhain Publishing is PoHO, Michelle has published NUMEROUS books from a multitude of publishing companies such as Simon & Schuster, Ellora's Cave, Random House, Raven, and of course, Samhain. And what genres does she write you ask? Um, maybe it would be best if you asked what doesn't she write! Michelle has wrote everything from futuristic, PNR, historical PNR, historical, dark paranormal, fantasy, and more. I think you get the idea... Michelle pens what ever her heart desires!

So without further ado, please help me welcome Ms. Michelle Pillow to the blog.

How many times in life have you wished a situation or person came with an instruction manual? I know I have. As an author, I can make my characters (mostly!) do what I want them to. In real life, you can't make people like you, or love you, or talk to you, or leave you alone if they're determined to do the opposite. But what if you could get a glimpse into changing a person's mind? Or opinion? A cheat sheet if you will. That's exactly what my hero, Harrison, gets.

Having tried everything else he is desperate to thaw the heart of the prim and proper Syrian, but no matter what he tries, she doesn't want anything to do with him. Finally, as a near-hysteric last ditch effort, he begs a stoic painting of his lady love for help. To his amazement, it seems to answer. Does some unseen force take pity on him to give him answers? Or is his obsession finally getting the best of him?

~*~Book Blurb~*~

Not all obsessions are bad.

Lord Harrison, Earl of Wrotham, once lived from pleasure to pleasure—until the rain-swept night he sets eyes on his best friend’s sister. Surely the beautiful temptress who dances in the moonlight can’t be the reserved, humorless prude of rumor.

Instantly smitten, he finds no pleasure in his old, roguish ways, and sets about taming his nature, molding himself into the kind of man he is sure will please her. Only then will he discover if she has a wild soul like his own, waiting to be released from the constraints of society.

Knowing the earl’s reputation as a scoundrel, Syrian Blakeney has no trouble holding off his affections…until her artist brother reveals a portrait he has painted of her. Does the world really see her as this prudish ice queen? Now it seems only the earl is able to see beyond the damning portrait and touch her most secret desires.

Does she rebel against the damning portrait, throwing caution to the wind? Or does she remain as she appears, as reserved and unfeeling as paint on canvas?

This book has been previously published and has been revised from its original release.

Warning: This book contains an ice queen who is as frigid as they come, and a slightly obsessive, reforming rogue willing to melt her icy heart, regardless of the cost.

~*~Now For An Excerpt~*~

Syrian frowned at him, as if to say, Oh, do go away! Her lips pursed together to hide the effect he had on her body, but he knew he had to affect her. Why else was she beginning to shiver? And why did her eyes want to travel down his scantily clad body to his bare feet and back up again? His feelings couldn’t be one-sided, could they? The wind suddenly felt as if it again chilled, though the breeze was warm. Syrian’s frown deepened. He was surprised that she would allow herself the bold inspection of him. He had to admit he was pleased to discover it. If anything, it proved she did have some interest in him as a man.

Her cheeks stained a dark pink and Harrison saw her swallow nervously. Her eyes rolled heavenward, as she demanded in annoyance, “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he mused, stepping closer.

Syrian stiffened at his approach and he stopped. He wondered why it was she suddenly looked afraid of him. Her eyes narrowed, holding him back. He knew she was too proud to run away though her body looked tense and ready to do so.

“This is my home,” she said, regally lifting her chin to stare down her nose at him. If he hadn’t known differently, he would have thought her title above his. “I, unlike some, actually live and belong here.”

“You don’t like me much, do you, Syrian?” he asked, not letting his hurt show in his light words. Each time she tried to get rid of him, it cut him deeply. His only desire in life was to be near her. He longed to make her happy, for her happiness would complete him.

“You will address me properly, my lord,” she ground out, not looking pleased. Her eyes narrowed and her tone cut. “You may be my brother’s good friend, but you are not mine. I haven’t given you leave to be so familiar with me. In the past week, I have tried to overlook some of your more glaring faults, but I can no longer permit your vulgarities in—”

“Tell me, Miss Syrian,” he broke in with quick wit, if only to stop her onslaught of words. His brain didn’t want to hear them. After living with her in his head for the last year, he didn’t feel as if they were complete strangers. “Did you memorize Lady Hatfield’s entire book of etiquette or just the first three chapters?”

Harrison’s whole body lit with fire. Her skin against the moonlight was so pale and blue. He wanted to kiss the long line of her neck. Her hair was still pulled back, ever proper. He wanted to pull at it until the locks swam over her shoulders in waves that he could touch. It was clear she had absolutely no idea of his affections for her.

“I’m surprised you are even aware that such a book exists, Lord Wrotham, being as it wasn’t written in a playbill and in large print,” she quipped. She seemed completely unaware of how their sparring made her chest heave against the fabric of her nightdress, or how the breeze pushed the thin material to every single curve of her body as she faced him.

It wouldn’t do to tell her how he obsessed about her. No doubt, she would only ridicule and torture him for it. He licked his lips, not answering.

He wondered if he could even begin to torment her a fraction of how she plagued him. Her nightdress stirred, blowing forward to touch his legs. He almost shivered to feel the touch of it pressed so airily to him. Aside from the gloved hand she’d offered him upon meeting, it was the closest she’d ever willingly come to him. He didn’t need to touch her skin to know how it would feel against his. Hours of dreaming had brought her flesh to him, soft as silk, smooth as velvet, warm as fresh cream.

His voice dipped, low and seductive, the words hoarse from the passion he always carried for her. “So I’m not your friend, Miss Syrian?” Syrian blinked, wondering at his tone. If she weren’t mistaken, he looked hurt by the idea. Saying the only thing she could think of, the only thing that might get his bright blue eyes from sending chills over her flesh, she said, “I don’t make fast friends, my lord, and I have only known you for a week.”

“What if I told you I have known you for much longer?” he murmured, stepping even closer. He lifted his hand as if he would reach for her. Syrian jerked back, but didn’t step away. There was something in the softening depths of his eyes that held her where she was. His hand hovered near her face, lingering as if trying to decide its next course. In the end, he pulled it away.

Eyeing him warily, she replied in her confusion, “You mean you have heard Thomas speak of me and feel as if you know me?”

Harrison nodded, though his expression hardly looked convincing.

“After seeing Thomas’s idea of me earlier today, I don’t think you can know me at all from his descriptions,” she said, never knowing why she would admit to such at thing—especially to the Earl of Wrotham.

Suddenly, Harrison blinked as if coming from a fog. “I’m sorry to hear that we are not friends, Miss Syrian.”

“Why is that?” she asked breathless. She became all too aware of a heat from his chest. The playfulness entered into his eyes once more, calling out to her to join him in a fight—or was it something else he tried to wrest from her? The breeze molded the linen of his loose shirt about his muscular frame. She saw the folds of his tight physique beneath the weak barrier. She itched to touch him, to pull his shirt up to see if her memory of his stomach was accurate in its amazing detail. She smelled him, a scent so intoxicating in its subtleness that it drowned out her notion of the flowers.

“For if you were my friend, I would be honor bound to keep your secret. But being as I’m not, I’m honor bound to your brother to tell it.” Harrison bowed properly at her and moved away.

Her gaze drifted down to his muscular backside, before stopping. “Wait, what secret do you speak of?”

He smiled, trying to cover his grin with a look of innocence. It didn’t work. “Why, the secret of you being out in the gardens, at night, un-chaperoned, clad only in an alluring nightdress. If one were to see such a thing, imagine what would be assumed of it.”

Alluring? Syrian glanced down at her body. He thought her nightdress was alluring? Then, the rest of what he said penetrated.

“You wouldn’t dare to tell him,” she cried, rushing forward only stop and back away from him once more. “Not like that. When you say it in such a way, it sounds…horrible.”

“Is it not horrible? And so very indecent of you, my most proper Miss Syrian Blakeney?” he murmured.

She was troubled and barely noticed that he again came to her. When he looked at her, his gaze strayed to her lips.

“Why do you keep tormenting me?” she asked. “What have I done to deserve it? Are you so bored that you must find ways to vex me to ease your own…lack of amusements?”

“Do I torment you?” Harrison asked, drawing ever closer

“Yes,” she returned instantly. Her eyes found his, so close, so bright, so full of humor beneath their depths. But there was more, a look she’d never realized in him. His dimple pressed deeper, though it wasn’t with a playful grin. He looked almost serious. “You call me a prude. I’m not a prude.”

“Then kiss me,” he stated, staring at her parted lips.

“What?” she gasped, sure she just imagined his request. Oh, why did her mind choose now, this man, to bewilder her with?

“You must let me have a kiss of you, if you wish me to keep your secret,” he said. He lifted his hand to touch her cheek, ever so gentle as he stroked over the softness of her skin. “Come, Miss Syrian, what’s a kiss between friends? Give me an act of trust.”

Syrian hesitated. She didn’t move, didn’t answer.

“No? Shall I call your brother?” he asked, as he made a move to leave.

“No, wait, don’t,” she stammered. Taking a deep breath, she eyed him with disbelief. Her gaze filtered to his mouth, not at all repulsed by the idea. A strange awakening came to her senses, fogging her brain with the idea of such a simple, wicked pleasure. “All you want is one kiss? That’s it? Nothing else?”

He gave her an odd look and she wondered at it. His whole body was aflame being this close to her. No, he wanted much more from her than a kiss. In a whisper he answered, his voice trembling ever so slightly, “Yes, just a kiss.”

She didn’t hear his hesitance over the beating of her own heart. She kept her eyes trained on him for any deceit as she turned her cheek so that he may peck her. She was surprised when he didn’t take it.

“Your promise first that you won’t stop me,” he said.

Syrian smelled the liquor and thought he played a game merely to toy with her. The melodious tone of his voice washed over her. His breathing noticeably deepened and she wondered at it. A thrill coursed through her, seeming to jump off his untamed skin, at the feel of his heated breath to her neck.

“You have it, so long as you don’t tell Thomas you found me out here—so long as you don’t tell anyone about this,” she answered. “If you do, I’ll deny it.”

“On that you have my word,” he murmured. A tremor raced along her body.

“All right, you may have a kiss, my lord.” Again she offered her cheek. “You have my promise that I won’t stop you.”

He drew his fingers across her offered cheek, only to turn her lips to him. His eyes narrowed, serious and probing, as he commanded, “Lie down on the bench.”

When she opened her mouth to protest, his finger moved over her lips to hush her. Her mouth trembled along his finger.

“I’ve been known to make a lady’s knees go weak. I wouldn’t want you to fall,” he teased.

“I don’t swoon so easily, I assure you,” she quipped, though her voice was softer than usual. “Pray, take your kiss and end this. I’m tired and wish to get some rest. Some of us actually awaken with the dawn, not hours after it.”

“Are you afraid?” he goaded. “Are you so like your portrait?”

A strong sense of danger overcame her usual hesitance. It was the only thing he could’ve said to get her down on the bench. Detecting the challenge, she wanted desperately to prove that she could be devious and spontaneous, that she wasn’t like the damning portrait.

Syrian sat, her back stiff as she waited for him to come to her. He didn’t join her. Instead, he stood to tower over her, indecently close. She saw his stomach near her face. There was a strange protrusion coming from his breeches, but she didn’t dare to dwell on it.

Swallowing, she said, “Well, take your kiss. I assure you, my knees feel perfectly fine. I won’t fall over.”

He swiftly knelt before her. She blinked. Her pulse raced and she had the insane notion he was about to propose marriage. When he didn’t take up her hand, she relaxed.

“I said, lie down,” he commanded her.

“I’m fine—”

“You are afraid, aren’t you?” he challenged.

“I’m not afraid of you, my lord,” she answered, cool and reserved. Though it was a lie—a damnably huge lie. Syrian feared this man greatly. She feared the way she felt when he looked at her. She feared the insincerity in him, legendary in his conquering reputation. He was a gentleman rogue. He used women, left them. She didn’t want to admit to it before now, but had been trying so hard to deny she even liked him. The first moment she saw his blue eyes, alighting on her as he stepped down from his fancy carriage, she’d felt it—a jolt, a sting, a swift and powerful burning deep inside, a void needing to be filled. She was drawn to the rogue and she hated it.

She’d done her damnedest to slight him, ignore him, and spurn him. In return he teased her until she wanted to rip out his hair. He took nothing seriously, so it only stood to reason he didn’t take her seriously—nor the things he said to her. Any day she expected one of the prettier maids to walk by and catch his eye, drawing his potent attention away from her. That day hadn’t come yet, but she had no doubt it would.

She kept her eyes steadily on him. Maybe it was the way the moonlight caressed his tight features, or the slight shadowing of a beard on his normally smooth face, that convinced her to disregard societal rules and mores. Slowly, she lay down, crossing her hands on her stomach.

Thank you so much Michelle, for taking the time out of your schedule to tell us a little more about Portrait of His Obsession.

Where to find the author...

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Giveaway:

Ms. Pillow has so generously offered up an ebook of King of the Unblessed (Realm Immortal Book 1)! How nice is that! I wish I could enter the contest!

Contest Rules:

• Leave a comment with your email addy.

• Contest will end midnight EST on Friday, October 22.

• As always, the winner will be chosen using random.org.

Thank you for stopping by and supporting Michelle and her newest release! Good Luck!