Saturday, November 29, 2014

SALE! LIMITED TIME ONLY! Husbands And Lovers now 99¢ usually $3.99

SALE!  LIMITED TIME ONLY!  Husbands And Lovers now 99¢ usually $3.99

Million copy NYTimes bestseller!
Winner, Best Contemporary, Romantic Times!

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A lonely wife. A jealous husband. A passionate lover. A gun in a Tiffany bag.

The Married Woman--Drab wallflower Carlys Webber marries multimillionaire Kirk Arnold but when Kirk changes from a loving husband to a distant stranger, will Carlys risk her precious marriage for a few moments of stolen passion with handsome architect, George Kouras?

The Single Woman--Fashion world superstar Jade Mullen survives deception and divorce. She vows never to be betrayed again but what will she do when she falls madly in love with George and he asks her the one question she doesn't want to answer?

The Husband--Kirk Arnold struggles to forget the dark secrets of his tormented past. He achieves one dazzling success after another, but will the tragedy that destroyed his family destroy his marriage to Carlys, too?

The Lover--George Kouras rises from humble beginnings to the top of his profession. He and Jade think they have discovered a new way to live happily ever after, but what will Jade do when she finds out about George and Carlys?

Set in the glittering world of fashion and in high-powered executive suites, in run-down houses, ethnic neighborhoods and sedate suburbs, Husbands and Lovers is about men and women losing--and finding--themselves in the gritty 1970s and glitzy 1980s.

"Sharply and stylishly written. Harris writes with intellect, insight and humor." --The Chicago Sun-Times

"Harris's empathy for her women, especially the ugly duckling who makes herself into a swan, adds a satisfying dimension of reality. Steamy and fast-paced, you will be spellbound." --Cosmopolitan

Monday, October 20, 2014


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2014 edition newly revised  and updated by the author for today's reader.

THREE WOMEN. THREE DECADES. Spanning the years from the optimistic post-War 1940s to the Mad Men 1950s and rule-breaking "Make Love, Not War" 1960s, DECADES is about three generations of women who must confront the radical changes and upended expectations of the turbulent decades in which they lived.

Evelyn, talented but insecure, is a traditional woman of the Forties. She is a loyal and loving wife and mother whose marriage and family mean everything to her.

Nick, handsome and ambitious, a chameleon who changes with the changing times, is her successful but restless husband.

Joy, their daughter, confused and defiant, a child of the Sixties, needs them both but is torn between them.

Barbara is the other woman, younger than Evelyn, accomplished but alone. She is a transitional woman of the Fifties who wonders if she can have everything--including another woman's husband.

DECADES, sweeping in scope yet intimate in detail, is the emotional, compelling story of family, marriage, crisis, betrayal and healing.

"The songs we sang, the clothes we wore, the way we made love. Absolutely perfect!" --Publisher's Weekly

Monday, August 25, 2014

Wave of Nostalgia: Like It Was Yesterday.

I remember the Fonz and Archie Bunker.
I remember when LBJ meant the President (Lyndon B Johnson) and not a basketball player (LeBron James).
I remember the California Raisins, Louis the Lizard and the Budweiser Frogs.
I remember when the NY football Giants moved to the NJ Meadowlands.
I remember pin curls and garter belts, home perms and "Which twin has the Toni?"
I remember Dick and Pat, Jack and Jackie, Ronnie and Nancy, Jimmy and Roslyn, Bonnie and Clyde, Steve McQueen and Ali McGraw, Liz and Dick, Ken and Barbie.
I remember when you had to get up and cross the room to change the channel.
I remember gas station attendants, newsstands and soda fountains.
I remember streakers, est and transcendental meditation.
I remember consciousness raising, encounter groups and the Manson Family.
I remember Bullitt, The Godfather, and The French Connection.
I remember Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd and Marvin Gaye.
I remember Sergeant Pepper, Tricky Dick and Flower Power.
I remember the Bouffant, the Beehive, the Shag, the D.A, The Wet Look, The Dry Look and Greasy Kid Stuff. 
I remember Joy, "the most expensive perfume in the world" and  "Modess...because"
I remember Pan Am and TWA.
I remember disco and Donna Summer, hula hoops and Rubik's cubes.

I remember lots but I can't remember:
  1. What I had for dinner last night.
  2. Where I put my glasses
  3. Why I went into the kitchen and what I was going to do there
  4. Why I clicked on Google and what I wanted to look up (Thanks to Anne R. Allen for this one!) 
I got the idea for this post while writing THE CHANEL CAPER. If you relate to ups and downs of being in your fifties, I think you'll enjoy the adventures of Blake and Ralph as they navigate their way through that sexy and sensational decade.

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Saturday, August 9, 2014

Big Savings On Chanel And Gatsby!

Anne R. Allen and I have put our comedy-mystery boxed set on sale!

99c for a limited time!

One click. Two books.

Get them while they're hot—and they are! ;-)

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Sunday, June 22, 2014

A Freebie, A Cheapie, A Retired Husband Joke.


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Ladies! Is Your Husband Driving You Crazy?

Is the husband you’re living with the man you married?  Or has he changed? And not for the better?
Is he too pooped to participate?
Does he get an “F” in foreplay?
Don’t give up. Get even.
Stop the ugly nagging.
Put an end to your anger, resentment and frustration.
Two sisters who managed to survive four husbands decided to do something about it.
Their creation, HUSBAND TRAINING SCHOOL, is dedicated to saving marriages—and the sanity of wives the world over.

Kindle  |  Kobo  |  GooglePlay  |  Nook  |  iBooks

Three fed-up wives—and only HUSBAND TRAINING SCHOOL stands between them and murder.

Tougher than Harvard and more demanding than MIT, Husband Training School is under the command and control of its founder, twice-divorced former Marine Drill Instructor Robin Aguirre.

Hardened by years of experience, Robin knows how to train men the Marine Corps way—tear them down and build them back up. She is confident she has seen and heard it all as she prepares to meet her new students.

Will Trailer is a super-achiever on the baseball diamond but at home? Not so much, according to his gorgeous movie star wife.
Efficiency expert Howard Hopkins has just retired. His wife married him for better and for worse—but not for 24-hours-a-day.
Gordo Canholme would procrastinate breathing if he could, but will he ever get the new baby’s room ready? Not without HTS, according to his very pregnant wife.

Robin thinks she is ready for anything the most hapless and hopeless husbands of the 21st Century can dish out.

But is she?

Retired Husband Joke.

After working for thirty years, Ed B. retires. His friend asks him what he's doing now.
"I'm my wife's sexual advisor," says Ed
Friend looks slightly shocked. "What do you mean by that?" asks the friend.
"Simple," Ed says. "My wife told me that when she wants my fucking advice, she'll ask for it."

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Fallout. Fireball. Fusion. Fission. F*cked up. FREE

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Fallout. Fireball. Fusion. Fission. F*cked up.


Coming Soon To NOOK!

(A 1500 word excerpt from THE ATOMIC TIMES: My H-Bomb Year at the Pacific Proving Ground)

Cherokee was the second of 17 nuclear blasts in the 1956 United States H-bomb test series, Operation Redwing, conducted in the South Pacific. Cherokee was typical of what happened when over 1600 men (including me) became guinea pigs for the Department of Defense.  The unstated motto at the Pentagon was:  Everything that CAN go wrong WILL go wrong.

And it did. Cherokee was a prime example. 

THE ATOMIC TIMES was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize by its original hardcover publisher, Random House.

"THE ATOMIC TIMES is a gripping memoir of the first H-bomb tests by one of the small groups of young servicemen stationed at Ground Zero on Eniwetok Atoll.  Leavened by humor, loyalty and pride of accomplishment, this book is also a tribute to the resilience, courage and patriotism of the American soldier." --Henry Kissinger

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Women of a certain age: Stylish and sexy? Or frumpy and dumpy? Go ahead. Guess.

Ralph Marino, at sixty, is handsomer and sexier than ever. Women of all ages notice Ralph, they swoon over him, they hit on him.

But what about Ralph's wife? Blake Weston is 56, the age when women become invisible.

  • No one listens to her even when she knows more about the subject under discussion than anyone else in the room.
  • Taxis don't stop for her.
  • Waiters ignore her.
  • Salespeople look through her even though, within reason, she can buy whatever she wants.

Is Blake happy about the situation? No way. Is she about to give up? Never.

I loved writing about Blake and Ralph, their relationship, and the deadly mystery they must work together to solve. Finding a cover image turned out to be, as they say in biz-speak, "a challenge." To put it mildly.

Since the story is told from Blake's point of view, I wanted her on the cover, front and center. I used search terms like "mature woman," "adult woman," "beautiful mature woman," "lovely adult woman," "attractive mature woman,"and here's what I got:

Inspiring, right? Grown-up women, the smart, savvy readers I write for, will love it, right? Because this is exactly what they look like and the way they see themselves, right?


What I ended up using was a woman too young to be Blake but, after hours of searching, it was the best compromise I could come up with. :-(

I kept looking. And kept looking. Trudging my way from site to site. Wracking my brain for different search terms. Getting nowhere. Until—

At long last I finally found something I hadn't seen before: a sexy, stylish grown-up woman. Like my heroine. Like my readers.

So here she is, the beautiful mature woman—and the smart, savvy reader I write for—in all her glory:

  iBooks  |  iBooksCA  |  iBooksAU  |  iBooksNZ  |   Kobo  |  GooglePlay


A quick guide to the characters:
Julia, Blake's BFF from boarding school, has embraced Mindful Living and just made the switch from hetero to homo.
Barbara Salem is Julia's Pilates teacher and Wellness Facilitator.
Ralph is Blake's husband. They've been married for twenty-seven years. He's freaking out about turning sixty and has transformed himself via a strict diet and killer exercise regime.
Melanie is Melanie Bradshaw, a flak-jacket-weariing, gung ho war reporter and possessor of a spectacular pair of 36 Double D's.

Located on a quiet side street just off Sutton Place, the Lancaster Hotel was housed in an ivy-covered brick building that whispered of Washington Square and Henry James. It looked discreet, refined. Which it wasn’t. What it was, was a sleazy hideaway for cheaters.
As I approached the entrance, a white-gloved doorman in a dark green uniform with polished brass buttons opened the door for me. I entered a small lobby whose fresh flowers, period furniture and Oriental rugs reeked of old money, good breeding and illustrious family trees.
The illusion ended right there.
A comb-overed old galoot with his hand on the thigh of a women young enough to interest Donald Trump sat in one corner. Opposite was well-barbered forty-year-old in a $3,000 suit wearing a wedding ring and nibbling on the ear of a woman wearing a nightgown under a mink coat. The rest of the room was empty. All the other guests probably upstairs in their rooms screwing their brains out.
I made my way to the reception area, asked for the Spa, was told that it was located off the small passage that led from the foyer to the elevators.
I followed the direction and knocked on the door.
Barbara Salem presided over a tranquil area of blond wood, shoji screens, aromatherapy candles and a sound system playing Buddhist chants—according to Julia, an essential for those seeking enlightenment or, as she was currently calling it, samadhi.
Makeup-free except for lip balm and smelling of sandalwood, Barbara was wearing a t-shirt printed with a lotus flower, flowing black yoga pants and alterna-lifestyle-approved Birkenstocks.
She had a gentle smile and biceps like Mike Tyson. She welcomed me with the smile.
I took a deep breath, then I plunged in. “Julia said you might be able to help me. It’s about this man,” I said, extracting from my HBO tote a snapshot of Ralph taken the previous year. In the photo, the pre-Improved Ralph looked pale, tired and a bit pudgy. “I wonder if you’ve seen him here? He’s lost weight since this picture was taken. And replaced his glasses with contacts—”
She examined the picture and then handed it back. “That’s Mr. Piretta,” she said. Piretta was Ralph’s mother’s maiden name and I was (slightly) disappointed that Ralph, ex-detective, was so unimaginative. “He just rented a suite—”
”A suite?”
”For a month—”
“‘A month?’” I repeated, over the nauseating lump that had developed in my throat.
”He’s already moved in some clothes,” she said. ”Pants, a few shirts, some mini skirts—”
I almost choked. ”Mini skirts?”
She nodded. ”That’s what the maid told me,” she said. “He drops in every few days or so along with his guests—“
My mouth went dry. “Guests?”
She nodded. “Tough-looking guys,” she said. Ralph is into rough sex?, rough gay sex?, I wondered as Barbara went on. “Kids, too. They look like students. You know, jeans and t-shirts—”
“Boys?” I said, thinking of Julia’s late life sex switch as my stomach lurched greasily and dive bombed. “Girls?”
“Both,” she said. “Two or three at a time—”
I was speechless. Ralph was into threesomes and rough sex? Or was it group sex and orgies? More effective than goat’s milk yogurt for reviving a flagging libido, I supposed.
“Sometimes a woman joins them,“ Barbara said. She cupped her hands in front of her chest to indicate an Everest -sized pair of knockers. “If you want, I’ll let you know next time he checks in—”
“Please do,” I said, barely able to get the words out. I gave her my cell phone number and rose to leave. As I reached the door, I almost tripped over the Pilates machine in the corner. Between the adjustable metal bar, heavy-resistance springs and long leather straps, it looked like something left over from the Spanish Inquisition.
“I’d probably kill myself on that thing,” I said, trying to regain my balance.
“Don’t worry,” she smiled, extending a helpful hand. “We haven’t lost anyone yet—”
Yet,” I said and we laughed.
Or, I should say, she laughed. I was thinking of kinky threesomes and group sex, of orgies and mini skirts, of Melanie, her Mammoth Mammaries and her Raunchy Red lipstick.
I managed to make it to the office without puking.
And wondered what godawful catastrophe Fate had in store for me next.