Hi, my name is Janice Seagraves and I’m a erotic romance writer. My first book is Windswept Shores, a contemporary eroticÂ romance set in the Bahamas.
I’ve been asked how I got the idea for my book?
Well, I’ve always had aÂ fascinationÂ for people stranded on a deserted island, using their wits to survive. It all started with the Swiss Family Robinson, then I read RobinsonÂ Crusoe in the seventh grade. Later I watched Cast Away with Tom Hanks, then became addicted to Survivors. Of course I also watched Lost, but became lost after the second year, lol.
I kept thinking about what you would have to do in order to survive. Then of course being a romance writer I thought: could a couple who didn’t know each other learn to trust each other in order to survive and could they fall in love?
Please leave a comment and you can have a chance to win a pukka shell necklace.
Windswept Shores by Janice Seagraves
Cover Contest Winner
erotic contemporary romance
novel (approx 50K)
Cover Art by Pink Petal Books with assistance from Winterheart Design
The sole survivor of a plane crash, Megan is alone on a deserted island in the Bahamas until she finds a nearly-drowned man washed up on shore. Another survivor, this time from a boat wreck. With only meager survival skills between them, will they survive and can they find love?
Breathing hard, she flicked a glance at the teal-colored sea. She’d thought a vacation to the Bahamas would be the perfect getaway, would be a solution to the problems she and Jonathan had faced. She’d been wrongâ€”dead wrong. Tears of grief filled her eyes. The never-ending crash of the waves on the beach and the cries of the seagulls seemed to mock her with the reminder she was utterly alone.
She’d felt like a tiny speck of sand last night when a violent storm had swept across the island. It had made a mess of her meager campsite, which had taken all morning to fix, and had demolished her seaweed SOS sign. She’ll have to recreate her SOS. Sighing, Megan trudged toward a pile of kelp. As she got closer, she saw a figure wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt. Her stomach lurched.
Oh, God, itâ€™s another body washed up from the plane wreck. That would be number twelve. As always, she couldn’t help but wonder if the next one would be Jonathan. He hadnâ€™t been wearing jeans on the plane, so she knew sheâ€™d been spared seeing his corpse this time. Thank God. She approached the body with dread. Tightening her resolve, she knelt. Suddenly the “dead body” coughed and rolled over. With a scream, Megan jumped back. She clutched her chest and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.
Biting her lip, she stared down at the still-breathing man. His drenched t-shirt molded against his broad shoulders and well developed upper body. Short, golden brown hair stuck out in all directions.
Megan, get control of yourself. Donâ€™t wet your pants the first time you finally see a living person. She got on her knees, plucked the seaweed from him and wiped the sand from his face. His day-old whiskers scratched her palm. Reddened skin stretched across both cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. Her thumb caressed his parched full bottom lip.
She patted the side of his face. â€œHey, are you okay?â€Â Thatâ€™s a dumb question. He isnâ€™t okay.
â€œHmm?â€ Gray eyes fluttered open. He stared at her a long moment, frowning slightly. â€œGâ€™day.â€
â€œHello there.â€ She hated the sound of her voice. It sounded rusty, unused.
Abruptly he rolled away from her to heave onto the sand, making a loud, ugly retching noise.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at her. â€œSorry, mate, I swallowed too much sea.â€ His gaze went over her shoulder in the direction of the bonfire which crackled and popped not far from them. â€œMite big for a barbie.â€
Sitting back on her heels with her hands folded in her lap, Megan followed his gaze, then back to him. â€œMy signal fire.â€
â€œSignal for what?â€
His accent intrigued her. Was he English or Australian?
â€œGâ€™darn,â€ he looked around, â€œwhere the bloody hell am I?â€
â€œDonâ€™t know. Thereâ€™s no one here to ask.â€ Megan shrugged helplessly, but couldnâ€™t contain her curiosity. â€œAre you from England?â€
â€œNaw,â€ he rubbed his eyes, â€œI hail from Sydney, but my port of call these days is Fort Lauderdale.â€ He blinked up at her. â€œYou?â€
Ah, heâ€™s an Aussie. â€œIâ€™m Megan Lorry, from Anaheim, California,â€ she said, barely loud enough to be heard above the sounds of the surf and the roar from the fire. â€œAre you a survivor of Air Bahamas flight 227, too?â€