The Bulls would be Furious

“The bulls would be furious!” isn’t the sort of statement one would expect from an eight-year old girl, riding up a chairlift above the ski slopes of a Swiss alpine resort in mid winter. At this time of the year, all bovines have long been escorted down the mountain by tanned, six-packed hotties in tight tee-shirts and faded denim. They’ve been washed, brushed, their bells removed and polished, and are tucked up cozily in their sheds, mooing contentedly, lazily chomping on Edelweiss laced hay fed to them by buxom, rosy-cheeked blondes skipping around in time to merry accordion music playing in the background.

Well, sort of… It’s a pleasant image, anyway.

What I do know from experience is that there are no bulls roaming the snow capped slopes, pawing the ground and tossing their horns at the hordes of tourists skimming down the resort’s vast choice of runs on sunny afternoons in February. The bulls would be furious? What on earth was my eight year old niece on about? What bulls? Where?

My husband wasn’t so sure either, riding alongside her on the chairlift, gazing absentmindedly at the sharp peaks cutting into the crystalline sky, a million mental miles away from toreadors hollering “Olé!” at fierce, snorting challengers. He twisted in his seat and turned to look at her, found her gazing down at a group of skiers in red jackets, shaking her head in exasperation. “What do you mean, Giovanna?” he asked.

Giovanna’s silver helmet flashed in the sunshine as she whipped her head around, eyeing him from behind her goggles like he was the ultimate dimwit. “Just look at all those red jackets!”

Lateral thinking, anyone?

xx Francesca
Francesca Prescott
"MUCHO CALIENTE! - Wish upon a Latino Superstar"
An effervescent romantic comedy
LASR: Best Long Book of the Year 2008 : "Laugh out loud hilarious!"
NOR: Reviewer Top Pick : "A seriously fun book with more twists and turns than expected"
http://www.francescaprescott.com/

Glowing Review for "Mucho Caliente!"

"“Mucho Caliente!” / romantic comedy
Reviewed by Terri for Night Owl Romance, December 2008 (www.nightowlromance.com)
Score: 4.75 / 5 Hearts / Reviewer Top Pick


Gemma Talbot is beautiful, intelligent, on her way to Ibiza, and recently divorced. Her ex, Richard, left her for an older woman telling Gemma that she was too immature and impulsive. It didn’t help that Gemma instead of listening to the music popular in her 20s listened to the current popular music in her late 30s. Now, she’s ready to take control of her life and start a new chapter. She’s off to stay with a friend and earn living painting old chandeliers. Little did she dream or imagine that her life was about to change sitting in coach on an airplane.

Latin heart-throb, Emilio Caliente, decided on the spur of the moment to run away from his manager, his last single flopping and his recording label not happy with his new album. That’s why he is sitting in coach in a not very good disguise. All he wants is a little peace and quiet. Talking to the woman next to him on the plane wasn’t on his agenda but he was taught to be polite.

Upon landing, a mix up of bags and a need of a ride seem to force these two very unlikely people into each others company where they find themselves wanting to know more about the other. Add several members of a fan club, the ex husband, a psycho manager and a lot of misunderstandings and you end up with a seriously fun book to read with more twists and turns than expected.

This book doesn’t just gloss over the insecurities of either main character but lets the reader live through them with the characters. What woman doesn’t worry about those extra pounds and sagging especially when standing next to some young thing? How do you deal with a morning after with a rock star? And is she after me or my fame? And how do I find out without seeming like an egotistical jerk? Better yet, how do you deal with your ex when you’re with your new friend? These problems and more are realized and resolved though not always easily, quickly or in the way expected.

Because you saw the characters flaws and concerns, they became real. Not only did the main characters seem real but the other characters were given enough depth that you felt as though you knew them. The secondary characters added interest and gave a more rounded feel to the story. Emilio’s band was important to his life so it makes sense that they should interact with him. Gemma was going to live with a friend so having her around was natural. These personal relationships made the give and take of daily living and the rough road of a new relationship have a context.

My only confusion was the references to high school. High school is a US school and though Gemma being in the US was briefly mentioned most of her past was European based making a US upbringing hard to imagine. Still, it was a very small issue and didn’t really distract from the story. I’m thinking this was to appeal to US readers who for the most part don’t understand or know anything about schools in other countries. But, it is pretty much a minor detail.

I loved the way Gemma’s thoughts and fears were made known and shown. I loved that she was a regular woman just like me and my friends. I liked that there were problems and life didn’t go smoothly. I think the best part was the ending and that I’m not sharing! This was one twist and turn that I didn’t expect and fully appreciated."

Francesca Prescott
"MUCHO CALIENTE! - Wish upon a Latino Superstar"
An effervescent romantic comedy
http://www.francescaprescott.com/
Amazon.com: Mucho Caliente!: Francesca Prescott: Books
Mucho Caliente! - BookStrand.com

Author Discovery: Review of 'Mucho Caliente' by Francesca Prescott

Does Gemma dare wish upon a Latino superstar?

Thirty-seven year old Gemma hadn't reckoned on being seated next to Latino heartthrob Emilio Caliente on the flight to Ibiza. She's bravely dismissed her cheating husband's generous divorce settlement, opting instead for a creatively satisfying, financially independent, bohemian lifestyle on a Spanish island in the sun.

Falling in love with a pop music superstar eight years her junior was definitely not part of her plan. Common sense dictates staying away from Emilio Caliente and his cinnamon kisses: his life is in turmoil, his latest single has bombed, the press want to see him naked and his hellacious manager seems increasingly deranged.
But surely the chain of extraordinary events that insists on bringing them together is proof that love is oblivious to common sense? Does Gemma dare follow her heart and wish upon a pop star without undermining everything else she set out to achieve?

In this delicious romantic comedy, Gemma is an appealing heroine in the midst of a major life change. Newly divorced from the dull and very unkind Richard and beginning a new artistic life in Ibiza, does she need the complication of pop heart-throb Emilio Caliente? Yes, of course she does!

Written from Gemma's chatty, intelligent first-person viewpoint, Mucho Caliente is an engaging, amusing story, full of high frolics, antics and laughter. Gemma is always prepared to laugh at herself at the foibles of the world. She negotiates her way through complications such as Kevin (another sexy hunk who, like Emilio, is interested in her), a shower consisting of a shower head and large blue plastic basin, missing suitcases, an ex-Miss Sweden and more with sunny charm. I particularly like Gemma's assessment of a bikini as 'leopard print butt floss with matching nipple warmers' and her desire to 'pound X in the tomato zone'.

There are some beautifully ironic, comic moments in Mucho Caliente - look out for the Caliente Fan club and what happens next, especially after Gemma's too-close encounter with a jelly fish.

Strong emotions such as jealousy are vividly and amusingly depicted while throughout Gemma remains sympathetic. When she and Emilio do get together it is very tender and passionate. I love the little love words Emilio uses - very Latin lover!

The setting in Mucho Caliente is also a real plus. It's clear from her detailed description that Francesca Prescott has spend time on Ibiza and she shows the island in all its natural and also frivolous glory, with some particularly lovely descriptions.

Throughout the story holds attention and it really hots up when Gemma's nasty ex Richard appears on the scene and things become really complicated, right to the very end!

Emilio calls Gemma a star and so she is. If you are looking for Mucho entertainment, look no further than Mucho Caliente.

http://www.bookstrand.com/product-muchocaliente-13914-330.html

Lindsay Townsend
Please visit my blog at http://lindsaysbookchat.blogspot.com
And my Bookstrand author page at: http://www.bookstrand.com/authors/lindsaytownsend/

THE SWEET SMELL OF SMURFCESS

The Sweet Smell of Smurfcess

It was my birthday last Sunday. How old am I now? Dream on! All I’m willing to reveal is that in the past decade, the state of my eyesight can no longer be associated with regal birds featuring giant wing spans. Nowadays, without my glasses, my sight is reminiscent of nocturnal flying rodents with inverted sleeping habits.

Basically, I can see the big picture, but not the small print. This is a drag, of course, but since I’m not one to mooch on the drab side of life, I’ve decided to embrace the positive aspects of hypermetropia. Lens-less, when I look in the mirror, although I don’t feel an irrepressible urge to float my arms into the air, pick up my skirts and twirl away trilling “I feel pretty”, I don’t gasp with horror and dash off to dial 1-800-Nip/Tuck either. Sans lunettes, my fine lines, my not-so-fine lines, my crow’s feet, assorted dry patches and random dodgy bits are magically Photoshopped. Generally, first thing in the morning (when I need all the Photoshopping I can get), I enjoy tripping around the house with reality pleasantly out of focus. I’ll have breakfast with my family and, once they’ve left, I’ll hop in the shower and reach for my familiar soaps and gels, my shampoos and conditioners. Then, pink and fresh and squeaky clean, I’ll slap on some moisturizer, get dressed, put my glasses on, do some tidying up and then head for my office, with my two little dogs pattering along behind me.

But last Monday began rather differently. I’d had a busy birthday weekend, and with my first book release scheduled for Tuesday, I knew the days ahead were bound to be even busier. Consequently, I decided to treat myself to a slow start and stayed in bed a little longer. The house was empty when I finally got up and made myself a mug of tea. Feeling a little risqué, I took my mug back to bed and read a book for half an hour while the dogs lay on the bedside rug, snoring. It was lovely!

It was so lovely that when I finally rolled out of bed, I went into published author/glamour puss mode, opting for a long morning soak in the bath instead of my usual quick fix in the shower. Besides, I had some nice new goodies to heighten my bathing experience; my family and friends know I’m a sucker for bubbles and crystals and oils, and had lavishly indulged me over the weekend. I reckoned I’d slip into the age of literary success, sophistication and maturity by relaxing in hot, perfumed water.

Channeling Nora Roberts, Jackie Collins and various other literary sirens, I lit a lilac scented candle, put on some soft music and tuned on the taps. I’d like to say I shimmied out of my champagne colored silk negligee, but that would be a lie, so I’m going to admit to struggling out my old flannel PJs. I stepped into the tub and reached for a brand new bottle of ocean blue bath crystals with a big, stylized fish on its label. While Spanish guitar music wafted from the CD player, and multicolored leaves danced outside my window in the cold November wind, I unscrewed the bottle-top and poured a ribbon of ultra fine, cerulean salts into the water. Drifting in a Caribbean blue, I lay back, closed my eyes and relaxed, my long hair spreading out around me like a mermaid’s. I inhaled a somewhat pungent, steamy blue bliss, opened my eyes, lifted one foot and, with my big toe, drew a blue circle above the surface of the water on the far end of the bathtub.

“Wow, what brilliant bath salts!” I mused, languidly sketching a lopsided heart. Was this some sort of multitasking formula, designed to stimulate people’s artistic skills while they bathed? Wonders never cease! I lay daydreaming for a while, then sat up and doodled a daisy with one finger, my hair dribbling blue rivulets down my body…

Wait a minute! Blue rivulets dribbling down my body?

Perplexed, I stood up and squinted at myself in the large mirror opposite the bath and nearly burst my Botoxed brow. Was this some kind of joke? What the devil was in these bath salts? Why was I Smurf blue from my head to my toes? More alarmingly, why was I so horribly itchy? And – crikey! – was I going to have to repaint the bathroom to match the streaky, marbled, speckled, bright blue bath before my husband came home that evening?

Nora Roberts, Jackie Collins and the rest of the sirens immediately decided they had more important things to do. They cleared their throats, wished me well and left, leaving me floundering in Smurf City, naked, lost and all alone.

Whimpering, I pulled the plug and jumped out, leaping straight into the shower cubicle. I turned on the water and stood under the deluge, scrubbing myself with soap, dredging my Smurf hair in shampoo, anxiously watching the colored water drain away. To my relief, eventually (and I mean mucho eventually) the water ran clear, so I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel, wincing as the thick cotton came into contact with various particularly irritated areas of my anatomy. Muttering under my breath, I slathered my skin in ultra-soothing, one hundred percent organic body lotion, grabbed the incriminated bottle, went into my bedroom, found my glasses and zeroed in on the label.

And promptly had another panic attack.

This elaborately packaged, fishily decorated bottle did not contain bath salts, but chemically colored sand to be used strictly for decorative purposes.

“Avoid contact with skin” warned the initial small print, before yelling, “DO NOT INHALE!”. This was followed by an endless list of diabolical chemicals in a microscopic font that stubbornly defied my nocturnal rodent eyesight, specs or no specs.

If my skin had been crawling before, it was now formicating. I could feel my pores oozing carcinogenic substances. My pulse galloped off into a red, raw, apocalyptic future. I raced back into the bathroom and plunged back into the shower where I remained for a good part of the morning, emerging only to ring my Mama.

“You’d better go and scrub the bath; Cedric’ll have a fit!” she gasped, after I’d poured out my Smurf woes.

“But…what about my skin?” I bleated

“Oh, you’ll be all right! Rub on some Nivea, and take a couple of drops of Fenistil. Now, have you got any bleach? You’re going to have to fill the bath with cold water, and then…”

Cedric didn’t have a fit. By the time he came home, the entire house reeked of bleach, the bath had never been whiter and I was high on a cocktail of bleach vapors and antihistamines. The kids were blasting the hastily downloaded Smurf song on the stereo, openly mocking me. When I told Cedric my Smurf story, he just chuckled. “Didn’t you read the label?” he said, then began his usual evening routine of striding up and down, straightening bedcovers, plumping up pillows, shutting cupboard doors, aligning magazines and books. My husband is lovely, but he’s a bit of a neat freak.

“The bottle had a bloody fish on it!” I protested. “I just assumed…”

But he’d already gone to empty the dishwasher. I retrieved my glasses from beneath the fiesta of papers, chocolate wrappers, biscuit crumbs, coffee cups, eye drops, school forms, hair elastics and other flotsam squatting my desk, bunged them on and smurfed into the kitchen to make dinner.

There’s a new pink Post-It on the pin-board above my computer. It reads: “Welcome to the age of literary success, sophistication and maturity. Don’t count your chickens without your glasses on.”

Thank you for the warm welcome. Yes, I’m a published author. Now, if only I could get the Smurf Song out of my head…

Francesca Prescott
"MUCHO CALIENTE! - Wish upon a Latino Superstar"
An effervescent romantic comedy, available now
http://www.francescaprescott.com/
Mucho Caliente! - BookStrand.com

Mucho Caliente! - Review

Disillusioned and recently divorced, Gemma Talbot heads to the Mediterranean resort island of Ibiza to start a new life. On the flight to the island, she meets Latino heart-throb and pop star, Emilio Caliente. Totally overawed by his mere presence, she somehow manages not to screw up the opportunity, and persuades him to accept a ride to the hotel.

On the car ride to the hotel he turns towards her and says, "Gemma, you are the most beautiful, most wonderful creature I've ever met. You're neither fat, nor smelly, and gee, your hair smells terrific. Will you join me in my room and have wild sex with me?" NO, that was her imagination, and when they arrive at the hotel, Emilio has to be elsewhere than in the company of an "older woman."

The reader wonders how the gauche Gemma will manage to pluck Emilio away from the Swedish beauties and East European nymphomaniacs. Perhaps she doesn't, but Gemma certainly tries hard enough, ably assisted by her BFF, Celeste, and her upper class pal, Laura.

In these pages, this accomplished author gives us some marvelous observations and insights into the female psyche and human behavior. One could say, almost Dickensian. For example: "I forego piling on a ton of makeup and opt for the paired down, natural, "hey guys, I'm not wearing any makeup" look, which on a good day wouldn't pose a problem. Today, however, I'm partial to paper bags." Furthermore, Ms. Prescott gives away some (actually, lots of) girl secrets, "Am I just searching for reassurance on the status of my pulling power?"

On the way to pursuing her goal, Gemma finds time to compare Emilio with her ex (guess who wins that one), and avoids the distraction of erstwhile boyfriend, Kevin. Not to mention heading off the Ibiza chapter of the Emilio Caliente fan-club.

Reading Mucho Caliente!, one finds oneself laughing out loud, or simply sniggering at Gemma's wacky antics. Ms Prescott's style reminded me of Helen Fielding (Bridget Jones's Diary), and she is literarily as skilled as the British author. In other words, Mucho Caliente! is both a rewarding and a hilarious read.

~ Bill Newman

I'M A ROCK STAR, TOO!

With my birthday on November 9th, and my romantic comedy, “MUCHO CALIENTE!”, released on November 12th, I thought next month couldn’t get any more exciting. I was wrong. On November 11th, I’ll be a rock star, too!

A rock star? Well, everything is relative. I won’t be smooching Britney at the MTV Awards, or bumping booties with Beyoncé at the Grammies anytime soon. My participation in Drew6’s fabulous new album, We Kiss, is limited to a twenty-two second monologue towards the end of their red-hot cover of Blondie’s Call Me, so it’s highly unlikely that Simon Cowell will whip out his mobile and take me up on my breathy, multilingual request. However, I’d be surprised if Drew’s testosterone drenched solicitation fell on deaf female ears. The lead singer of Drew6 sounds like Chris Isaak gone wild in leather trousers. Sexy? You bet! Powerful? Blimey! Ask the Swiss police…

A few years ago, my husband and I threw a party to celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary. Drew was scheduled to be touring Europe around that time, so I contacted him and asked him to perform live in our garden. Back then, we lived in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of a small village, and were confident that the only other living creatures likely to be kept awake by Drew’s powerful vocals were the cows in the fields surrounding our house. Consequently, we didn’t bother asking the local authorities for special, late-night permission to party.

We should have known better. The Swiss police are notoriously intense about enforcing national slumber after ten pm. They heard (or heard of…) Drew from miles away and descended on our party en masse at circa ten-oh-two to restore peace and quiet. Fortunately, the evening was salvaged by my husband’s diplomatic skills and a couple of expendable bottles of champagne. The policemen left, Drew lowered his decibels and we partied on for hours, eventually calling it a night when another party-pooper, aka common-sense, started yapping about having to get up early to take care of little children. The boogie-induced muscle pain and monumental headache I woke up with the next morning were soon forgotten, but my ten year wedding anniversary never will be. To this day, my children tell their friends that, once upon a time, an American rock star from Kansas City, Missouri, came to stay in their house and performed in their garden!

How did an Anglo-Italo-Swiss over-aged rock chick living in a sleepy village in the canton of Vaud meet a gorgeous young rock star from Kansas City? Why, in cyberspace, of course! I like to think that Drew and I were “introduced” (albeit very, very indirectly), by Gary Barlow, lead singer of the then defunct and now reformed (yay!) boy band, Take That. Drew admired Gary Barlow’s song-writing skills and Latino superstar Ricky Martin’s incomparable stage presence. He was also looking for ways to promote his own music in Europe. I was a housebound writer with a broken leg and soft spots for both Gary Barlow and Ricky Martin. A mutual acquaintance in Gary Barlow cyberspace introduced us, sparking a friendship that has proved both lasting and creatively stimulating. Drew read my short-stories and articles, liked my playful “voice” and encouraged me to move on to full-length fiction. I listened to his songs, enjoyed his smoky, silky voice and encouraged him to try his luck by performing in Europe. Months later, when Drew and I finally met, he didn’t just perform in my garden, but also in various venues in Ibiza, Geneva, Paris and London.

Drew’s career has now really taken off. He regularly performs in Kansas City, tours the United States with his band, and has played concerts with stars such as Maroon5, Rick Springfield, The Calling, Counting Crows, Ashley Simpson, Jordin Sparks and the Backstreet Boys. If Drew ever performs with Gary Barlow or Ricky Martin, I’ve instructed him to give me private telephone numbers, backstage passes, and mucho advance notice.

Meanwhile, I’d like to thank Drew for making me a rock star. My musical career will definitely be a flash in the pan, but at least I can say that I had one!

With love,
Francesca Prescott
October 2008

“MUCHO CALIENTE!” is an effervescent romantic comedy, available from BookStrand on November 12th, 2008
http://www.francescaprescott.com/

DREW6’s new album WE KISS, is available in stores and on I-Tunes on November 11th, 2008.
For more information on Drew6, please visit http://www.drew6.com/

My cover for "Mucho Caliente!"

Hi! This is my gorgeous new cover for my upcoming romantic comedy, "Mucho Caliente!", scheduled for release in November 2008. I would like to thank Tiffany(Silapa Jarun) for her help and patience in helping me post this cover, since it's been a team effort. Hey, Tiffany, look! I did it!
Lots of love,
Francesca Prescott

Review of "A Secret Treasure," by Lindsay Townsend

Lindsay Townsend’s romantic suspense, A Secret Treasure, makes for a fascinating, entertaining and interesting read. The Greek island of Rhodes comes alive in Lindsay’s clear and classic prose, and the historical detail is folded in with an impressive light hand, ensuring that the storyline never falters. The romance between Eve and Julio has the freshness of times gone-by and the dialogue is sprinkled with distinctive English humor. The atmosphere throughout the book is both heartwarming and filled with suspense, reminding me of Franco Zeffirelli’s wonderful 1999 film, “Tea with Mussolini.” I thoroughly enjoyed “A Secret Treasure.” Stories like this are a breath of fresh air, and I look forward to reading more work by this talented writer.

Francesca Prescott

IF YOU DON'T GO TO THE PARTY, YOU DON'T GET A BALLOON!

My niece Flaminia once said, “If you don’t go to the party, you don’t get a balloon.” She was only about seven or eight at the time (she’s ten now), and I doubt she realized how profound her words actually were. But her spontaneous words of wisdom reflect her personality. Flaminia is a clever, determined little girl who doesn’t just rise to challenges, she creates them. And when she goes to parties, she comes home with fistfuls of balloons.

I like balloons too. The trouble is: I’m a chicken crossed with a scaredy cat. Put me in a challenging, unfamiliar situation and I feel the fear. My half-Italian origins erupt in my armpits, my pulse risks a speed ticket, my bladder becomes super demanding. My instincts urge me to never say boo to a sparrow, let alone a goose. My list of favorite things read like that annoying song in The Sound of Music (which is now going to be stuck in my head all day… grrrr).

But life isn’t all whiskers on kittens and when the tough gets going, retail therapy doesn’t provide any answers. As my dressage teacher says (when Kwintus, my horse, has personal opinions that clash with mine), “Push him through it.” Five hundred kilos of equines opinions can be daunting, but when the argument ceases and harmony prevails, there’s no feeling like it.

“You should enter Kwintus in the competition this weekend,” said Pam, my dressage teacher’s daughter last Friday, shortly after having seen me enjoying a particularly harmonious equestrian moment. “He’s going really well. It would be a pity not to.”

My heart skipped the country and raced off along a German motorway (German motorways have no speed limits). My bladder threatened to pull the plug. What? Me? Compete? No! I suck! I don’t know the dressage program. And even if by some miracle I manage to learn it, I’ll get inside the arena and forget it. I’ll fall off. I’ll throw up in front of the judges. Besides, I’ve gained weight and my white jodhpurs won’t fit me. I need new ones (retail therapy!!!), but the shop closes in an hour and they probably won’t have my size anyway.

Pam raised an eyebrow and gave me one of her sly smiles. She’s not a chicken crossed with a scaredy cat. She’s one hundred percent lioness.


“Sure you can! Come on! Just learn the program and leave the rest up to Kwintus. He’s a pro. He’ll take care of you,” she said, striding off in her shiny boots.

My heartbeat stayed on the German autobahn. I was torn. I wanted to rise to the challenge, to show the world what a fabulous horse I have. The other half wanted to hide in a soft cozy place until the horsey weekend was over and it was safe to practice my flying changes incognito again.

But Kwintus nuzzled me. I looked into his kind, brown eyes, stroked his soft, cozy nose and decided he deserved to show off the smooth moves he’d been so generously sharing with me. With my heartbeat still powering towards Hamburg and my body as floppy as a soft toy, I staggered off to find Pam and stammered something about being up for it. Then I hopped into my car and rushed off to the horse equipment shop to buy new jodhpurs. They didn’t have my size.

Oh well! Never mind. That’s that, then! I cruised home, certain that I’d never get into my old ones. I’d just have to phone Pam and tell her I couldn’t ride the competition. Saved by excess blubber!

The old ones fit perfectly.

Panic set in again. I printed out a copy of the dressage program and started prancing around an imaginary arena in the garden while my husband looked on, shaking his head and laughing his cute little bottom off. I ignored him and continued to prance, stopping only when I was I’d been brainwashed to enter at A, halt at X, etc… I didn’t sleep well and was a basket case throughout Saturday. Heck, I couldn’t even breathe properly! All I could think about was how terrified I was about riding Kwint in front of the judges first thing Sunday morning.

But when I woke up Sunday morning, something inside me felt different. My heart had given up speeding and was gradually cruising home. I was ready to go to the party. And I really fancied a balloon…

“I can do this,” I repeated over and over to myself, driving towards the stables at the crack of dawn.

And I did. I held it together. I didn’t suck. I didn’t vomit. I didn’t fall off. And people actually cheered and clapped when I made my final salute. I dropped my reins and gave my horse a hug. I even gave him a kiss. He deserved it. And what do you know? We finished in third place, coming away with more than just a balloon.

I’m not going to wax lyrical on the moral of this story; it’s not exactly a psychological breakthrough! Nike said it all in their famous slogan: “ Just do it!”

All I’m saying is that some challenges are worth getting hot and flustered for. Winning my husband’s heart and raising a family together are obvious examples. Getting my first book, “Mucho Caliente!”, published is another example that springs to mind. I may be a chicken crossed with a scaredy cat but, increasingly, I realize I have a quiet resilience that can get me through tough moments and frustrating situations. Not only do I dare to dream, I also dare to do! It’s exhilarating, though no less terrifying. My half Italian origins will always erupt in my armpits. So what? I’ll just buy extra strength deodorant! My bladder will continue to make unreasonable demands. Pff! I’ll engage my pelvic floor! Dealing with my speed buff heart will be more of a challenge, but I’m pretty sure that, sooner or later, the German government will impose speed restrictions on its motorways. And when it does, my pulse won’t have any more reason to skip the border, and will instead cruise calmly ever after along our radar infested Swiss motorways. I hope so, because it would certainly take the edge off bringing balloons home from parties.

Take care,

Francesca Prescott

Hello

Hello!

I would like to introduce myself to everyone. My name is Francesca Prescott and I live in a small village in the French speaking part of Switzerland. My first novel, “Mucho Caliente!, is a romantic comedy set on the Spanish island of Ibiza that will be published by Bookstrand in November 2008.

““Mucho Caliente!”?” I hear the Spanish experts among you squawk. “What kind of Spanish is that?”

Yes, I know that my title is grammatically incorrect Spanish and that something super hot would be described as “muy caliente.” I’m nowhere near fluent in Spanish, but that I do know!

My book is called “Mucho Caliente!” because Gemma, the main character in my story, is going to feel a whole lot of heat when she meets Emilio Caliente, aka “el divino,” on the plane to Ibiza. She’ll get so hot she’ll be molten, dizzy, ditzy and dazed. Way hot!

Emilio Caliente is a Latino pop star. Actually, he’s pop music’s Latino sensation, the ultimate superstar. His concerts sell out in nanoseconds. He’s cardiac arrestingly gorgeous, lusted after by women all over the world. He’s officially 27, legally 29. His almond shaped eyes are the color of warm caramel and edged with thick black eyelashes so long they shade half his face. He tans to that incredible, incandescent, gingerbread-amber color. His dark brown, sun-streaked hair is alluringly disheveled. Even his breath smells of cinnamon…

Perfect? Well, he’s pretty damn cute, although he does have a couple of blackheads on his nose. And hairy toes, as Gemma quickly points out...

Basically, Emilio could have any supermodel in the world. Why then does he seem so interested in thirty-seven-year old, recently divorced Gemma? And why the heck does destiny insist on playing matchmaker when common sense is urging Gemma to stay well away from Emilio Caliente? The last thing Gemma needs in her quest for a creatively satisfying, financially independent, bohemian lifestyle on a Spanish island in the sun is a love affair with a pop music superstar eight years her junior. Not to mention that Emilio’s life is in turmoil, his latest single has bombed, his record company wants him to go electro, the press want to see him naked and his hellacious manager seems not only increasingly deranged, but also fixated on plotting Gemma’s downfall.

With all that in mind, would you dare wish upon a Latino superstar on a beautiful Spanish island in the sun?

More importantly, will Gemma?

“Mucho Caliente!” is a funny, effervescent love story. I sincerely hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Take care,

Lots of love,

Francesca