Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won't leave her alone until she gives them life on paper. Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke with extra ice in a styrofoam cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her super-hot hubby and collecting stray animals. A former professional actress with Broadway, film and T.V. credits, she now lives in the south with her family and too many animals to count.
Writing gives her peace and makes her whole, plus having a job where she can work in her underpants really appeals to her. You can check out Robyn's website at robynpeterman.com and also follow her on Twitter and Facebook. She loves to hear from her fans.
Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned Series)
Vampyres don’t exist. They absolutely do not exist.
At least I didn’t think they did ‘til I tried to quit smoking and ended up Undead. Who in the hell did I screw over in a former life that my getting healthy equates with dead?
Now I’m a Vampyre. Yes, we exist whether we want to or not. However, I have to admit, the perks aren’t bad. My girls no longer jiggle, my ass is higher than a kite and the latest Prada keeps finding its way to my wardrobe. On the downside, I’m stuck with an obscenely profane Guardian Angel who looks like Oprah and a Fairy Fighting Coach who’s teaching me to annihilate like the Terminator.
To complicate matters, my libido has increased to Vampyric proportions and my attraction to a hotter than Satan’s underpants killer rogue Vampyre is not only dangerous . . . it’s possibly deadly. For real dead. Permanent death isn’t on my agenda. Avoiding him is my only option. Of course, since he thinks I’m his, it’s easier said than done. Like THAT’S not enough to deal with, all the other Vampyres think I’m some sort of Chosen One.
Holy Hell, if I’m in charge of saving an entire race of blood suckers, the Undead are in for one hell of a ride.
What happens when an accountant decides to grab life by the horns and try something new? Apparently a pirate named Dave, a lot of pastel fleece, and blackmail--just to start with. . .
Visualize and succeed, Oprah said. I was sure as hell trying, even if my campaign to score a job as the local weather girl had ended in a restraining order. Okay, TV was not my strength. But a lack of talent has never stopped me before. Which is why I've embarked on a writing career. I mean, how hard can it be to come up with a sexy romance?
Leave it to me to wind up in a group of porno writing grannies who discuss sex toys and apple cobbler in the same breath. Also leave it to me to leak an outlandish plot idea to a bestselling author with the morals of a rabid squirrel. And only I could get arrested for a jewelry heist I didn't commit--by a hunky cop whose handcuffs just might tempt me to sign up for a life of crime. Maybe I've found my calling after all. . .