Here's Catherine Robertson with her hero Benedict Hardy...

I'm thrilled to have the awesome Catherine Robertson on the blog today. Catherine is New Zealand's number one humourous, women's fiction writer - she's been number one on the bestselling lists here and is an all round super star. So let's meet one of her men, shall we?!

Meet Benedict Hardy from The Not so Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence (Black Swan, 2012)

Name: Benedict Hardy

Vital Stats: Our first glimpse: “Benedict Hardy was tall, around six two, and as lean and fine-boned as a whippet. He had very long legs, their thinness exaggerated by the tight, tapered black jeans he always wore, topped with either a Buzzcocks-style blazer or a zipped motorcycle jacket, à la Joey Ramone. Both jackets were just that little bit too small, but somehow contrived to make him annoyingly stylish. He had suitably punk-pale skin and close-cropped white blonde hair. In Aishe’s opinion, he was saved from looking like an anaemic wading bird only by a generous mouth and a lively pair of green-brown eyes.”

Occupation: itinerant tutor of Gulliver, Aishe’s 14 year-old son (Aishe is heroine #2 in the book, and Benedict’s love interest.)

Celebrity Look-a-like?  Laurence Fox, aka Detective-Sergeant Hathaway in Lewis.

White Lie or Absolute Honesty: Benedict is scrupulously honest, but also very well brought up, so he will err on the side of politeness – until it becomes necessary to say what he is thinking.

Sunny Side Up or Over Easy: Scrambled. Benedict went to boarding school.

Boardshorts or Briefs: Boardshorts – he needs the bulk.

Best known for: being on the run from his crime-lord father, whom Benedict thinks is out to kill him.

So how about an excerpt… [halfway through the book, Benedict ends up with a girlfriend that he doesn’t really want, but he’s too polite to get rid of her]

Izzy lifted his hand and placed it under her t-shirt. Izzy never wore a bra; she didn’t need to. Her breasts were full but as yet unaffected by age and gravity. They were fantastic breasts, Benedict had to admit. But right now, I’d rather be holding a book.

When Izzy began to unbutton his jeans, Benedict tried frantically to think of an excuse. The options he came up with were angina, brittle bone syndrome and cystitis, and he was on the verge of being desperate enough to pick one when the room was filled with the smell of burning cheese.

‘Fuck!’

Izzy leapt off him, grabbed a dishcloth and yanked open the oven door. When she plonked the smouldering dish down on the table, Benedict saw that the cheese was still bright yellow, but also now hard and shiny, like a piece of bad pottery glazed in a kiln. The corn chips and beans that were visible were blackened.

‘It’s not so bad,’ Izzy said. ‘You can just pick off the burned bits.’

And that’s exactly what Benedict did. He even ate some of the burned bits so that Izzy wouldn’t have to.

I can’t tell, he thought as he tried not to gag, whether I’m a gentleman or a moron. The history of the British aristocracy would suggest that it’s entirely possible to be both. Take Sir Walter Raleigh, he of the cape and the puddle. He was a perfect gentleman yet the queen still imprisoned him for acting without her permission. What was it he did again? Oh yes, thought Benedict. He got married.

For a moment he was gripped by a dread so intense he felt the strongest urge to glance over his shoulder. It was like the room had been entered by some malevolent presence — one whose inimical attention was focused like a poisoned dart pipe on the back of Benedict’s neck.

Then he felt a second urge, this time to look at Izzy, which he did, very carefully, as if she might suddenly have transformed into something with scales and very long fangs. She hadn’t. She was smiling at him. Her cheeks, her eyes were glowing with that most potent mix of youth, health and beauty. Her hair was a cloud of spun gold — there was no other way of putting it. She was gorgeous, ravishing, and she was all his. And she was right here, sitting in his kitchen, where she’d be again tomorrow morning after she’d shared his bed. And the following evening, she’d put the shopping on the bench, rub his shoulders and cook him dinner, and . . .

Oh God, thought Benedict. Goddamn it all to the darkest depths of hell.

She’s my milkmaid and I’m her swain. She’s my Greensleeves, my nut brown maiden, my lassie coming through the rye. These two joined hearts let no man put asunder. For ever and ever, amen.

I’m done for.

“Chick lit meets Lake Wobegon – that is, the men are good-looking and the women are strong. Michelle Lawrence, who calls herself Mo to irritate her Southern-belle mother-in-law, is a lawyer on the Mummy track in North Carolina. That’s OK but it gives her too much time to think especially when her handsome husband Chad relocates the family to San Francisco, then immerses himself in the new job. Conveniently, Michelle’s-best-friend-in-England’s boyfriend’s sister ran away to San Francisco years ago and the introduction is successful because both Michelle and Aishe are first-class stroppy witches. Catherine Robertson’s second novel features several characters from its predecessor, with similar amounts of warmth and positivity. It’s all about getting over yourself, with help from friends, family, decorative men, running jokes and backbone.” (Review in Your Weekend magazine, Sept 2012)

I know, you want a copy, right?! Well, you can find out where to to buy her books from here and be sure to go into the draw below!

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Catherine Robertson was born in Wellington, New Zealand. She left for a while to live in San Francisco and Buckinghamshire, but is now back home. She lives in a house by the sea with her husband who sheds bicycle bits, a black labrador who sheds hair, a cat who sheds bits of whatever it’s just eaten and two sons who shed all of the above. Her first novel was The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid. Both novels reached number 1 spot on the New Zealand bestseller charts (Catherine is not ashamed to say she did a little dance).

Find out more on Catherine's website and Facebook page and you can find out where to buy her books from here.

Welcome Toni Kenyon with her hero Jules...

I'm thrilled to have another Kiwi author with me this week - please join me in welcoming Toni Kenyon who writes contemporary, issues related fiction. Let's meet her hero, Julian MacAvoy...

Meet Julian MacAvoy from PRIVATE LOVE IN A PUBLIC PLACE

Name: Julian MacAvoy (Jules)

Vital Stats:  5'11", toned muscular body, sea-green eyes, and black hair

Occupation: Rock Star

Celebrity Look-a-like?  Why - himself, of course!

White Lie or Absolute Honesty: Absolute honesty - but the press never believe him anyway!

Sunny Side Up or Over Easy: Sunny side up

Boardshorts or Briefs: Boardshorts - but he's an extrovert - so nothing if he can get away with it!

Best known for: His ability to hold 80,000 screaming fans in the palm of his hand and make every one of them believe they're the only person he's singing to.

In his words…

Jules said, "I’m going nowhere ‘til this is sorted.  What the hell’s going on with you?"

I wriggled free and stood up, desperately trying to get some space between us, but his movements mirrored mine.  We were still far too close, his proximity, the feelings, all flustering me.  I burst into a fresh set of tears.

He pulled me close, hugging me while I sobbed against his chest.

I let him stroke my hair.  I was tired.  Far too tired.  Tired of the chaos, of the bullshit, and of life on the road.

"Come on, Mags.  This isn't like you." He said.

He was right.  I was the trooper.  The staunch no-nonsense organizer.  The one who could deal with anything. 

Except how I was feeling at the moment.

I sniffed, wiped my nose on my sleeve and pulled myself away from Jules so I could sit back down again. The tears felt cool and strange on my face.  Crying wasn't something I often indulged in.  Nor was being emotionally vulnerable.

"I'm sick of the bullshit."  I looked Jules straight in the eye.

"Bullshit's part of touring.  You know that."

How could I tell him I didn't like him making so much of his body available to the public?  And why had that started to bother me now? "You could be a bit more discreet."

"Discreet!"  He laughed at me.  "This is rock ‘n’ roll, Mags.  It don't understand discreet."

"Well, you should."  Anger returned.  Along with confusion.  I was being an idiot; even I could see that.

"We're in the business of selling dreams, Mags.  Don't ever forget that.  You can't mix me, the man, with Julian the product."

"It doesn't have to turn you into some sort of idiot pissing on the side of the road."  I felt tears prickling at my eyes again and turned my face away so he couldn't see.

He squatted in front of me, looking up into my damp eyes.  He caught a single tear on his fingernail.  It sat there, a tiny, perfect bubble of me on the end of his ring finger.

Looking across his raised hand, he put my tear in his mouth, his unblinking eyes daring me to protest in some way.  A surge of heat ran through me. 

In my peripheral vision I caught sight of Otis.  I looked over to him and he turned his back on us. 

I stood up. “We need to get back." My voice sounded rough.  Emotional.

"We need to talk."

"There's nothing more to talk about."  I hurried away from him, thankful we were on tour and surrounded by people.

He rushed after me. "Mags, I know you feel this thing between us."

"You don't know what you feel in any given moment - that's why you need me on hand twenty-four, seven.  So how the hell could you know what I feel?"  I sounded bitter and spiteful and I didn't like that.

"Don't you like being with me?"

"You know I love being with you.  But I can't be with you."

He stopped then. 

Let me get ahead of him.  Let me get away from him.

I'd heard somewhere that a man eventually falls in love with a woman he's attracted to and that a woman becomes more strongly attracted to a man she loves.

I knew three things.

One, I was tired.

Two, I was only one of the many women who loved him.

Three, I was a married woman.

How long could I manage the narrowing distance between us?

Mags O'Brien lives on the alcohol-soaked, drug-enhanced concert circuit, managing out-of-control rocker Julian MacAvoy. She helps him spread his musical gospel to his adoring followers, despite the fast-spinning turnstile on his bedroom door, and the broken hearts he leaves in his wake.

Mags believes she’s immune to Julian’s magnetic personality but when controversy hits the tour, she finds herself in danger of falling at his feet, slave to his appetites and her own desire and need.

Julian refuses to be tamed, but the pressure of the ravenous crowds clamps tighter and tighter around him. His chaotic world starts to crumble when he realizes his motivation to continue touring comes from an unobtainable woman. Can he force her to make the agonizing choice between himself and her estranged husband?

An erotic and candid look at life on the road.

To be in to win a copy of PRIVATE LOVE, check out the Rafflecopter draw below:

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PRIVATE LOVE IN A PUBLIC PLACE is available at all good e-tailers including

Amazon, Smashwords, ARe and iBooks

Toni Kenyon lives in Auckland with her husband-to-be (and their two dogs) her son (and his cat) - the goldfish is just squatting! She's a Registered Legal Executive by day and sings in a band by night. In her spare (yeah, right) time she hangs out with her imaginary friends. Toni loves to hear from readers. Pop on over and say 'Hi' any time, she loves company.

Catch up with her on her website, blog, Facebook, Twitter and at GoodReads.

Welcoming Kris Pearson & her irresistible hero Nick!

 After the fun we had with those hot RIVA heroes, I thought it might be nice to have a few New Zealand penned men... so first up is the irresistible Nick - from the fabulous Kris Pearson's indie book RESISTING NICK - let's find out a little about him!

Nick Sharpe is 30. He’s six-two, olive skinned, dark haired, has snapping black eyes, a temper to match, a give-away scar on one thumb, and a big tattoo on his even bigger right shoulder.

Nick owns a chain of fitness centers. He works out every day, and is a great advertisement for his own product.  He’s totally obsessed with taking his business global.

White lie or absolute honesty?  No time for lies. If you don’t like Nick’s truth, get over it!

Sunny side up or over easy?  Sunny side up. Nick’s impatient - why put another step in the process?

Boardshorts or Briefs? He’s a fisherman when he can find the time, so it’s boardshorts for him.

Best known for: taking on big projects. He works like a demon. Bad-boy cheek, charm, and ferocious drive have brought him a rare classic Ferrari, a fitness empire, and a decrepit old house by the sea.

Oh he sounds GOOOOOD, right?! And here's an excerpt for you...

She held the bra between two fingers, gave it a sexy little swish, and tossed it through onto the bedroom carpet.

“Get in the bath,” he repeated, hoarse entreaty in his voice.

“But I’ve still got my panties on,” she teased, stepping close enough for him to peel them down. If he hadn’t been coated in shaving foam he’d have buried his face between her thighs the moment he uncovered her. Instead, he consoled himself by grabbing her hand so she couldn’t escape again.

“Get in here with me right now,” he ground out.

She stepped out of her pretty panties and kicked them towards the doorway, then lifted a small foot and set it down between his thighs. Only then did he believe it would happen.

“I wonder how we’re both going to fit?” She sent him a wide eyed mock-innocent grin.

“We’ll manage.” He tugged on her hand to encourage her to take the last step.

She sank down through the bubbles. The water rose higher up his chest. At last she was where he wanted her, but just to make sure he looped his legs around her waist and pulled her closer until they were face to face. “Are you really going to do this?” he asked.

Sammie nodded and reached out for the razor. After a few seconds’ intense concentration she cradled the side of his head in her hand and tilted it back.

“Stay just like that.” Her fingers moved to his neck, held the skin taut. The razor slid around his chin and bit gently into his beard.

“Ha,” she murmured. “No worries. You didn’t think I could, did you?”

She reached sideways and swished it in the bowl to clean it. Another firm grip. Another expert glide downward. The steam swirled around them, and in the silent apartment Nick heard the faint scrape of his stubble capitulating. The blade dragged slightly against his skin. He wondered how long the edge would hold. He was totally in her hands—and the feeling was amazing.

She rinsed the razor again, and leaned closer to select the site for her next pass. Nick closed his eyes to intensify the feeling. Again she pulled his skin taut, again she guided the blade with the grain.

“I don’t think this shaving foam is as good as Grandpa’s English shaving soap,” she said. “Not as slippery. You’d enjoy it more if we had some of that.”

Nick couldn’t imagine enjoying anything more than this. The feel of her hands on him, the glide of the blade, the soft swishing as she rinsed it, all combined into a sensuous ritual that excited as much as it soothed.

After several more long slow strokes and a couple of short scary ones under his nose, she picked up the washcloth and wiped half his face clean. “No blood,” she teased, running her fingers over his skin. She reached out for the mirror and held it so he could check her work. “Okay?”

Nick Sharpe owns a chain of fitness centers. He has money, ambition, and a body honed to perfection, but he’s just discovered he was adopted and never told. To make matters worse, his P.A. has walked out at short notice. His business and personal lives are suddenly in disarray—and then fate hands him Sammie.
Sammie Sherbourne only needs a temporary job until her passport arrives, then she’s off to see the world. The last thing she wants is to become one of Nick’s many conquests. But Nick’s hot and he’s hurting, and Sammie knows she might hold the key to his identity. That’s a lot of temptation for a girl with a tender heart.

Warning: Contains sexy games in beds, bathrooms, and on balconies.

Enter the Rafflecopter draw below for an e-copy!!!

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And you can buy RESISTING NICK  and Kris's other books through Amazon or  Smashwords... 

Kris grew up surrounded by orchards in Hastings, New Zealand, and has been a writer all her life.

Her first job was in radio, as a copywriter. Then she traveled to Italy with two friends and attended the University for Foreigners in Perugia.

She met her husband when they were both working in Television. Being the newest in the department she was allotted one of the two desks down the back behind the filing cabinets. At the other sat an intriguing TV news director. Romance blossomed behind their barricade.

One day they took their lunches to the botanic gardens, fell asleep in the sun, and slunk back to work hours late with horribly sunburned faces. As easily as that, the cat was out of the bag. No wonder she’s a romance writer...

See all Kris’s books at her website and be sure to sign up to her newsletter when there!!!