Welcome to Tuesday Teasers! Every Tuesday here on the Alinar blog, we'll be featuring a new book available at Alinar Publishing. Since it's December, we'll be focusing on Holiday reads.
Today we have a Holiday read by Alexandra Marell.
Every Christmas Eve, the ghost of Catarina Bellamonte takes human form and waits for her lover to return.
It’s been sixty-two long years and Catarina’s ghost is still waiting for Philipp, the German soldier she fell in love with during World War Two. The white light calls her with promises of peace, but she refuses to heed the call when there’s a chance that her lover still might come. Didn’t they promise they would take this walk together rather than be parted?
Philipp Munch makes one last nostalgic visit to the old Italian villa and remembers Catarina, the woman he loved and lost so many years ago. As he enters the house his only thought is to say a proper goodbye and lay the ghosts of the past to rest. But it’s Christmas Eve, the one day of the year that Catarina becomes a living, breathing human again. He’s just about to find out that she kept her promise, and waited for him after all.
genre: paranormal romance
length: 11,000 words
Released: Dec. 2008
Rating: Sensual
Price: .49cents
>> Buy at Alinar Publishing
>> Buy at Amazon.com
>> Buy at Amazon.co.uk
>> Buy at Smashwords
Today we have a Holiday read by Alexandra Marell.
It’s been sixty-two long years and Catarina’s ghost is still waiting for Philipp, the German soldier she fell in love with during World War Two. The white light calls her with promises of peace, but she refuses to heed the call when there’s a chance that her lover still might come. Didn’t they promise they would take this walk together rather than be parted?
Philipp Munch makes one last nostalgic visit to the old Italian villa and remembers Catarina, the woman he loved and lost so many years ago. As he enters the house his only thought is to say a proper goodbye and lay the ghosts of the past to rest. But it’s Christmas Eve, the one day of the year that Catarina becomes a living, breathing human again. He’s just about to find out that she kept her promise, and waited for him after all.
genre: paranormal romance
length: 11,000 words
Released: Dec. 2008
Rating: Sensual
Price: .49cents
BUY THE EBOOK FROM:
>> Buy at Alinar Publishing
>> Buy at Amazon.com
>> Buy at Amazon.co.uk
>> Buy at Smashwords
Excerpt
EVERY Christmas Eve, at the stroke of midnight, the ghost of Catarina Bellamonte shimmers into being, takes human form and waits for her lover to return.
But after sixty-two long years little hope remains. She no longer hears the muffled staccato of distant machine-gun fire. The windows no longer rattle to the heavy drone of bombers overhead. And her German soldier has long returned to the Fatherland. Or died in battle – she never found out why he didn’t come for her.
Deep in the pine forest, hidden in the undergrowth, her soft leather suitcase gives in to the elements and crumbles away. And nearby is a grave, not shallow, but deep – they hid her well. No markers or traces remain. Those who knew are gone, like her, and their secrets with them. Honour was satisfied and Catarina paid her dues. For loving the enemy, and for bringing disgrace on her noble family, there could only be one price.
But what did they know of love and of the heart? A poet once said the heart wants what the heart wants, and that was so true. She could no more have stopped herself falling in love with Philipp than stop breathing.
The mirror reflects the face of a twenty-year-old woman, frozen in the bloom of youth, who remembers when the villa rang with laughter and life. Looking around, she takes in the cobwebbed and dusty walnut furniture. The familiar black and white of the marble floor tiles, littered now with dried leaves that crackle and scrape as the breeze catches them. Weak winter sun filters into the room through the fogged-up windows, throwing patches of orange light onto the moth-eaten quilt that covers her bed. Catarina rises from her stool and crosses the room. With her sleeve, she rubs a clean patch on the glass and looks out. The light is fading, the sun melting into the earth as the day winds down and she feels herself fading with it.
If he listens hard enough he still hears the sound of laughter and music, floating on the sharp night air from the elegant ballroom. Philipp Munch buttons up his thick tweed coat – he feels the cold badly these days– and stands at the rusting iron gates of the old villa. The years roll away and he can still remember the first time he saw her. The first and last time he fell in love. His heart clenches and, even as hot tears threaten, he finds himself smiling at the small bunch of alpine flowers clutched in his fist. Every detail is still there...
Satin skirts sweep the ground, glasses clink and the sea of faces parts to reveal the most beautiful woman Philipp has ever seen, smiling and walking towards him. He stands there, mesmerised and captive, as she floats by in a rustle of silk and a flurry of dark curls. She smells of flowers. He turns and, like a sleepwalker, follows her retreating form until she stops and talks to a young man who touches her elbow with his hand and tries to steer her away from the crowd. She resists, shakes her head and laughs. The man laughs too and sweeps up her hand to kiss her palm. His lips linger there while the woman watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth curved into a smile. The man whispers something, and her smile fades.
“Who is she?” Philipp asks the waiter, who stops for a moment to hand him a long-stemmed glass of champagne.
“Catarina Bellamonte. The only daughter of the count. The man is her fiancé, Santino Allessio, son of the richest man in the province.”
Philipp frowns and watches the battle of wills. The fiancé is short and sickly-looking. Clearly not good enough for her. And no match for her, either. The man’s arm is around her waist now, while Catarina strains away from him, and, in a moment of sheer madness, Philipp finds himself walking towards them with only one thought in mind – to dance with this enchanting woman. He's in full uniform, something which gains him both reluctant respect and outright contempt. Italians aren’t a people who hide their feelings– one minute smiling benevolently, the next just as likely to slit his throat in a dark alleyway. When he reaches the spot where Catarina was standing, she is gone.
A quick glance across the room tells him that the Generalmajor won’t be needing the services of his driver any time soon. His commanding officer waves him away with a drunken smile and returns his attention to the champagne and the tall blonde hanging, laughing, on his arm. So Philipp makes his way to the double-doors, Catarina’s only means of escape. He finds her standing in the shadows at the edge of the stone patio. Arms wrapped around her body, she is staring into the night. Somewhere in the village below a church bell chimes and, to its slow, steady rhythm, he walks towards her.
“Buon Natale, soldier.” There’s laughter in her voice. She doesn’t turn around.
Phillip's courage falters and he stops, just out of her sight, only now remembering the language barrier between them. “Buon Natale, Signorina Bellamonte.” The words trip on his tongue, still sounding awkward and strange to the ears of a young man who had never travelled much farther than the next town before the war. He fingers his glass, takes a deep breath and steps forward.
“Or should I say Fröhliche Weihnachten?” Catarina says. She turns and steps into the pool of light spilling through the glass ballroom doors. “We speak German here too.” Her gaze flickers once over his uniform then comes back to rest on his face.
He shrugs, as if to say “What can I do? I’m as trapped as you are.” She smiles briefly and looks away.
Behind them, in the ballroom, Philipp hears the sound of people talking and, laughing. Exchanging festive greetings. Before him the ornate, formal gardens drop away in a series of terraces, which merge eventually with a stand of pine trees. The trees’ dark shadows form a boundary, beyond which he can see the shimmering lights of several small villages. Moonlight bathes the slope of an alpine meadow and catches the sharp peaks of snow-covered mountains. He feels very far from home.
He takes another step to stand beside her, and sets down his glass on the edge of the stone balustrade. Together they listen to the bells, now ringing in a joyful riot of noise and celebration. Catarina laughs again, a slightly hysterical sound which makes him turn towards her in question. In one smooth movement she tears a ring from her finger and throws it high into the air and into the garden below. Catching the moonlight, it tumbles into the flower bed below like a tiny falling star.
“It’s over?” he asks. Third finger, left hand– he saw that much – and Philipp can’t keep the laughter out of his voice either, nor the sheer relief that he has no right to feel.
What have you done to me? he thinks and shakes his head. Five minutes ago I didn’t even know you existed. Now you’re all I can see.
“They can’t make me marry him,” Catarina says, tilting her chin defiantly back at the house. “I’ll kill myself first. Throw myself into a ravine. Then they’ll be sorry.”
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. He wonders what colour her eyes are.
“Easy for you to say. What, are you here to sweep me off my feet? Take me away from all this? Wave a magic wand and make Santino disappear?” Her hand moves suddenly and closes over the pistol holstered at his hip. Dangerously close to a part of him that has been responding to her since the moment she walked into his sight.
He recoils. Instinctively, his hand covers hers and holds it still. She’s so close now that when she speaks her breath warms his face. Her eyes catch the light. They are a deep green.
“Would you kill him for me?”
It’s a question, urgently whispered. A plea, a command and a challenge. Philipp is trapped. Catarina deftly unclips the leather strap holding the pistol in place and half-slides it from the holster.
He's never considered himself a passionate man. Nor one prone to outbursts. He’s not here for the glory of the Fatherland. He’s here because they told him to be. Philipp has always done as he’s told.
“Well?” Catarina tilts her head and holds her breath. Her hand under his flexes and he responds by sliding the gun back into the holster. Disappointment flashes in her eyes, so briefly he almost misses it – he’s too busy concentrating on the feel of her hand, trapped beneath his.
She presses her lips into a thin line and nods twice. “I’m sorry,” she says, sane again. “You must think I’m a madwoman. Did they send you to fetch me?”
“No, no…” he manages to stammer out. Her hand slides away, leaving his still on the pistol, gripping it tightly. In the heat of battle the enemy is unknown, faceless and remote. Killing is easy then. But to kill a man in cold blood – could he ever do that?
“What then?” Catarina returns her gaze to the garden, hands on the balustrade, arms rigid as she leans forward. “What could a lowly sergeant want with the daughter of a count?”
No, he may not be a passionate man, but he is a proud one and rises to the bait, consequences be damned. Clicking his heels together he makes a formal bow and holds out his hand. “My name is Philipp, Sergeant Philipp Munch. Would you give me the honour of this dance, Miss Catarina?”
Behind him the orchestra strikes up a waltz especially for them.
Light as air, Catarina floats between worlds, feeling, always, the pull of the white light with its promise of peace and completion. But how can she go when Philipp might still come? They promised to take this walk together rather than be parted. That hope refuses to die.
The shadows lengthen and the distant mountains darken in the purple dusk. Catarina clings to the earthly plane and prays harder than ever before.
“Please don’t make me do this alone,” she whispers. “Philipp, where are you?”
Philipp takes a key from his coat and, with a trembling hand, pushes it into the padlock. It hasn't been opened in twenty-two years, yet the key turns surprisingly easily. The chains rattle to the ground, but the gate is rusted onto its hinges and refuses to move. He pushes harder, puts his shoulder against it and digs at the dusty ground with his heel. Bit by bit the gate opens until there's a gap big enough for him to squeeze through. He retrieves the flowers and starts walking the long gravelled driveway, stopping halfway along to place a hand over a heart that beats far too fast these days. It used to do this for her. There were times when he swore she would give him a heart attack there and then – she was so beautiful. Especially when they made love...
He waits for more than hour, refusing to believe she won’t come and just as unable to believe that she will. As he’s reaching for the ignition key of the Audi staff limousine, feeling thoroughly ashamed of his foolishness, she’s there, standing by the small side-gate. The silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders flaps in the light breeze.
Philipp’s hand freezes on the steering wheel and his courage leaves him in a rush. What does he say to her? One dance and I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you? Foolish indeed. He wants to run away. Instead he starts the engine, eases the car from its hiding place behind the trees and steers it back onto the main road. When he looks up, Catarina lifts a hand and waves. In one smooth movement he applies the brake. She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.
“You came…” he says, and bites the corners of his mouth to stop the stupid grin that’s threatening to break out all over his face. For a few minutes he just drives, with no thought of taking her anywhere but away from here and marriage to Santino.
“Where to?” he asks eventually.
“Up there.” Catarina points to the top of the highest mountain. “Take me up there…”
Buy the eBook From
>> Buy at Alinar Publishing
>> Buy at Amazon.com
>> Buy at Amazon.co.uk
>> Buy at Smashwords
But after sixty-two long years little hope remains. She no longer hears the muffled staccato of distant machine-gun fire. The windows no longer rattle to the heavy drone of bombers overhead. And her German soldier has long returned to the Fatherland. Or died in battle – she never found out why he didn’t come for her.
Deep in the pine forest, hidden in the undergrowth, her soft leather suitcase gives in to the elements and crumbles away. And nearby is a grave, not shallow, but deep – they hid her well. No markers or traces remain. Those who knew are gone, like her, and their secrets with them. Honour was satisfied and Catarina paid her dues. For loving the enemy, and for bringing disgrace on her noble family, there could only be one price.
But what did they know of love and of the heart? A poet once said the heart wants what the heart wants, and that was so true. She could no more have stopped herself falling in love with Philipp than stop breathing.
The mirror reflects the face of a twenty-year-old woman, frozen in the bloom of youth, who remembers when the villa rang with laughter and life. Looking around, she takes in the cobwebbed and dusty walnut furniture. The familiar black and white of the marble floor tiles, littered now with dried leaves that crackle and scrape as the breeze catches them. Weak winter sun filters into the room through the fogged-up windows, throwing patches of orange light onto the moth-eaten quilt that covers her bed. Catarina rises from her stool and crosses the room. With her sleeve, she rubs a clean patch on the glass and looks out. The light is fading, the sun melting into the earth as the day winds down and she feels herself fading with it.
* * * *
If he listens hard enough he still hears the sound of laughter and music, floating on the sharp night air from the elegant ballroom. Philipp Munch buttons up his thick tweed coat – he feels the cold badly these days– and stands at the rusting iron gates of the old villa. The years roll away and he can still remember the first time he saw her. The first and last time he fell in love. His heart clenches and, even as hot tears threaten, he finds himself smiling at the small bunch of alpine flowers clutched in his fist. Every detail is still there...
Satin skirts sweep the ground, glasses clink and the sea of faces parts to reveal the most beautiful woman Philipp has ever seen, smiling and walking towards him. He stands there, mesmerised and captive, as she floats by in a rustle of silk and a flurry of dark curls. She smells of flowers. He turns and, like a sleepwalker, follows her retreating form until she stops and talks to a young man who touches her elbow with his hand and tries to steer her away from the crowd. She resists, shakes her head and laughs. The man laughs too and sweeps up her hand to kiss her palm. His lips linger there while the woman watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth curved into a smile. The man whispers something, and her smile fades.
“Who is she?” Philipp asks the waiter, who stops for a moment to hand him a long-stemmed glass of champagne.
“Catarina Bellamonte. The only daughter of the count. The man is her fiancé, Santino Allessio, son of the richest man in the province.”
Philipp frowns and watches the battle of wills. The fiancé is short and sickly-looking. Clearly not good enough for her. And no match for her, either. The man’s arm is around her waist now, while Catarina strains away from him, and, in a moment of sheer madness, Philipp finds himself walking towards them with only one thought in mind – to dance with this enchanting woman. He's in full uniform, something which gains him both reluctant respect and outright contempt. Italians aren’t a people who hide their feelings– one minute smiling benevolently, the next just as likely to slit his throat in a dark alleyway. When he reaches the spot where Catarina was standing, she is gone.
A quick glance across the room tells him that the Generalmajor won’t be needing the services of his driver any time soon. His commanding officer waves him away with a drunken smile and returns his attention to the champagne and the tall blonde hanging, laughing, on his arm. So Philipp makes his way to the double-doors, Catarina’s only means of escape. He finds her standing in the shadows at the edge of the stone patio. Arms wrapped around her body, she is staring into the night. Somewhere in the village below a church bell chimes and, to its slow, steady rhythm, he walks towards her.
“Buon Natale, soldier.” There’s laughter in her voice. She doesn’t turn around.
Phillip's courage falters and he stops, just out of her sight, only now remembering the language barrier between them. “Buon Natale, Signorina Bellamonte.” The words trip on his tongue, still sounding awkward and strange to the ears of a young man who had never travelled much farther than the next town before the war. He fingers his glass, takes a deep breath and steps forward.
“Or should I say Fröhliche Weihnachten?” Catarina says. She turns and steps into the pool of light spilling through the glass ballroom doors. “We speak German here too.” Her gaze flickers once over his uniform then comes back to rest on his face.
He shrugs, as if to say “What can I do? I’m as trapped as you are.” She smiles briefly and looks away.
Behind them, in the ballroom, Philipp hears the sound of people talking and, laughing. Exchanging festive greetings. Before him the ornate, formal gardens drop away in a series of terraces, which merge eventually with a stand of pine trees. The trees’ dark shadows form a boundary, beyond which he can see the shimmering lights of several small villages. Moonlight bathes the slope of an alpine meadow and catches the sharp peaks of snow-covered mountains. He feels very far from home.
He takes another step to stand beside her, and sets down his glass on the edge of the stone balustrade. Together they listen to the bells, now ringing in a joyful riot of noise and celebration. Catarina laughs again, a slightly hysterical sound which makes him turn towards her in question. In one smooth movement she tears a ring from her finger and throws it high into the air and into the garden below. Catching the moonlight, it tumbles into the flower bed below like a tiny falling star.
“It’s over?” he asks. Third finger, left hand– he saw that much – and Philipp can’t keep the laughter out of his voice either, nor the sheer relief that he has no right to feel.
What have you done to me? he thinks and shakes his head. Five minutes ago I didn’t even know you existed. Now you’re all I can see.
“They can’t make me marry him,” Catarina says, tilting her chin defiantly back at the house. “I’ll kill myself first. Throw myself into a ravine. Then they’ll be sorry.”
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly. He wonders what colour her eyes are.
“Easy for you to say. What, are you here to sweep me off my feet? Take me away from all this? Wave a magic wand and make Santino disappear?” Her hand moves suddenly and closes over the pistol holstered at his hip. Dangerously close to a part of him that has been responding to her since the moment she walked into his sight.
He recoils. Instinctively, his hand covers hers and holds it still. She’s so close now that when she speaks her breath warms his face. Her eyes catch the light. They are a deep green.
“Would you kill him for me?”
It’s a question, urgently whispered. A plea, a command and a challenge. Philipp is trapped. Catarina deftly unclips the leather strap holding the pistol in place and half-slides it from the holster.
He's never considered himself a passionate man. Nor one prone to outbursts. He’s not here for the glory of the Fatherland. He’s here because they told him to be. Philipp has always done as he’s told.
“Well?” Catarina tilts her head and holds her breath. Her hand under his flexes and he responds by sliding the gun back into the holster. Disappointment flashes in her eyes, so briefly he almost misses it – he’s too busy concentrating on the feel of her hand, trapped beneath his.
She presses her lips into a thin line and nods twice. “I’m sorry,” she says, sane again. “You must think I’m a madwoman. Did they send you to fetch me?”
“No, no…” he manages to stammer out. Her hand slides away, leaving his still on the pistol, gripping it tightly. In the heat of battle the enemy is unknown, faceless and remote. Killing is easy then. But to kill a man in cold blood – could he ever do that?
“What then?” Catarina returns her gaze to the garden, hands on the balustrade, arms rigid as she leans forward. “What could a lowly sergeant want with the daughter of a count?”
No, he may not be a passionate man, but he is a proud one and rises to the bait, consequences be damned. Clicking his heels together he makes a formal bow and holds out his hand. “My name is Philipp, Sergeant Philipp Munch. Would you give me the honour of this dance, Miss Catarina?”
Behind him the orchestra strikes up a waltz especially for them.
* * * *
Light as air, Catarina floats between worlds, feeling, always, the pull of the white light with its promise of peace and completion. But how can she go when Philipp might still come? They promised to take this walk together rather than be parted. That hope refuses to die.
The shadows lengthen and the distant mountains darken in the purple dusk. Catarina clings to the earthly plane and prays harder than ever before.
“Please don’t make me do this alone,” she whispers. “Philipp, where are you?”
* * * *
Philipp takes a key from his coat and, with a trembling hand, pushes it into the padlock. It hasn't been opened in twenty-two years, yet the key turns surprisingly easily. The chains rattle to the ground, but the gate is rusted onto its hinges and refuses to move. He pushes harder, puts his shoulder against it and digs at the dusty ground with his heel. Bit by bit the gate opens until there's a gap big enough for him to squeeze through. He retrieves the flowers and starts walking the long gravelled driveway, stopping halfway along to place a hand over a heart that beats far too fast these days. It used to do this for her. There were times when he swore she would give him a heart attack there and then – she was so beautiful. Especially when they made love...
* * * *
He waits for more than hour, refusing to believe she won’t come and just as unable to believe that she will. As he’s reaching for the ignition key of the Audi staff limousine, feeling thoroughly ashamed of his foolishness, she’s there, standing by the small side-gate. The silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders flaps in the light breeze.
Philipp’s hand freezes on the steering wheel and his courage leaves him in a rush. What does he say to her? One dance and I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with you? Foolish indeed. He wants to run away. Instead he starts the engine, eases the car from its hiding place behind the trees and steers it back onto the main road. When he looks up, Catarina lifts a hand and waves. In one smooth movement he applies the brake. She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.
“You came…” he says, and bites the corners of his mouth to stop the stupid grin that’s threatening to break out all over his face. For a few minutes he just drives, with no thought of taking her anywhere but away from here and marriage to Santino.
“Where to?” he asks eventually.
“Up there.” Catarina points to the top of the highest mountain. “Take me up there…”
Buy the eBook From
>> Buy at Alinar Publishing
>> Buy at Amazon.com
>> Buy at Amazon.co.uk
>> Buy at Smashwords
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