So, first things first: introduce yourself. Name, genre, a bit about what you write, and maybe 
share a little tidbit about yourself--something you wouldn’t tell your doctor but nothing you wouldn't tell your best friend's fifteen-year-old daughter.
As briefly or as verbosely as you wish, briefly dissertate your thoughts on archetype. What do "hero" and "heroine" mean to you? And what about villains? What archetypes frequently appear in your own work, which ones do you like seeing in others' work, and which ones drive you completely up the wall with rage?
The floor is now yours--tell us where we can find you online, your buy links, anything else you might want to include, and if you wish, an excerpt (limited to sweet romance please ^^;). Also, you may include up to 3 book covers.
Hello. I’m Indigo Skye, a writer and photographer living in the American Southwest. I write erotica, as well as literary fiction, poetry, non-fiction- whatever pleases my Muses most! Right now, I’m working on several novels, a book of short fiction and poetry, and a novella. I just started writing my first screenp
lay, and I’m very excited about that. A Luddite at heart, I pen all of my first drafts by hand… and I love to write in bed!
The concept of “hero” and “heroine” is one I like to play with in my fiction. I think it’s high time to re-define these roles. I prefer to create anti-heroes. I’ve always been drawn to the bad boy, the rebel, and my male characters reflect that. Brendan Delaney, the main character of Her Captive Muse, isn’t your typical Fabio fare. He’s not the type to rescue a damsel in distress and give her a happily-ever-after ending… which made him a lot of fun to write. His bad ideas and poor judgment get him into all sorts of interesting situations. When a character surprises me, I know he’ll keep my readers interested! Every day was a new adventure- I couldn’t wait to see what he was going to do next.
Rather than focusing on these staid archetypes, I focus on the individual characters that drive a story. I can’t stand the stereotypical characters that appear too often in romance novels- The Alpha Male, The Helpless Heroine. Please- this is the twenty-first century! My heroines are not helpless, virginal waifs waiting for Prince Charming to give their lives meaning and direction, but strong women seeking love –and lust- on their own terms.
Morgan Roan, the heroine of Her Captive Muse, is a perfect example. In some ways, she takes on the role of the villain/ anti-heroine as their relationship progresses. She’s controlling, egotistical, and arrogant. These traits helped to create the arc of the story, as their lust deepens into a dangerous obsession. Knowing my characters well is paramount to creating a great story. If I can get inside my characters’ heads, I can create a portrait of an individual with a story to tell- a character that jumps off the page, rather than waiting meekly for me to figure out a happy ending.
Happily ever after? Sorry, I’m just not that kind of girl.
--
Author Bio:
Indigo Skye is a writer and photographer living in the American Southwest. Her first novel, Her Captive Muse, was released by Noble Romance Publishers in January. Her work has been widely published online. Last fall, her short story “True Confession” was published in the anthology Uniform Behavior. A full list of her published works is available on her blog, Indigo Skye: Ink and Art- http://indigoskyeinkandart.blogspot.com.
Contact Information for Indigo Skye-
Email: indigoskyeinkandart@gmail.com
Blog: http://indigoskyeinkandart.blogspot.com
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/indigoinkandart
Buy Links for Her Captive Muse- https://www.nobleromance.com/ItemDisplay.aspx?i=235 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RYVKOU
Book Blurb-
When Brendan Delaney answered an ad for an artist's model, he was looking for an easy way to earn some extra cash. But Morgan Roan wanted more than just a model. Soon, Brendan finds himself caught in a web of deception and desire, lust and betrayal—her captive muse. What price pleasure?
Buy Link for Uniform Behavior-
http://www.amazon.com/Uniform-Behaviour-ebook/dp/B004DI7PQM/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&s=digital-text&qid=1299693197&sr=8-6
--
Chapter Two
Beautiful
Brendan rubbed his hands together to warm them. He sneaked an appraising look at Morgan's slender form as she led him to the kitchen.
He didn't have a chance in hell with her, so he looked anyway. She's so far out of my league, she's in a different time zone.
"You want a drink?" Morgan asked. She crossed the open-plan kitchen to the wet-bar and poured herself a glass of white wine.
"Scotch. Neat." She owed him a drink after today. Hell, maybe two or three. "Make it a double."
"You deserve it." Morgan poured a heroic portion into a heavy, cut-glass tumbler and brought it to him at the table. "Nice work." The swell of her breast brushed against Brendan's upper arm as she passed him the drink.
Did she do that on purpose? He felt a rush of heat at the unexpected contact and tried to ignore the way it made him feel. Probably just an accident. Don't get your hopes up.
Something spicy and smoky simmered in a Crockpot on the counter. He rose and crossed the room to peek under the lid.
"That smells great." Brendan's stomach growled. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten a real meal—something besides pizza and junk food—and couldn't recall. "You're a famous painter and a gourmet chef? I'm impressed."
Morgan laughed low. "I can't cook to save my life," she said. "Marie made this. She always leaves a hot dinner for me when I work late."
"Who's Marie—your girlfriend?" Brendan asked. He couldn't hide the tone of disappointment in his voice. Figures. She's gorgeous and funny, smart and talented—of course she's a lesbian.
Morgan shook her head no and laughed even harder. "Marie is my personal chef, not my girlfriend. Our relationship is strictly professional," Morgan said with an
amused look. "The first thing I did when I made it big was hire Marie. Sick of eating my own cooking." She grinned at Brendan. "I was living on ramen noodles when I was your age—broke all the time. When I had money, I spent it on booze and drugs—not groceries." She sipped her wine and watched him over the rim of her glass. "Now I can afford good food and good drugs."
"Good Scotch too." Brendan tossed back a swallow of his drink. Pay me! Pay me, pay me, pay me so I can get the fuck out of here and go score.
"Yes. Speaking of which—let me top you off." Morgan took his glass and filled it to the brim with the fiery elixir. Then—as if she'd read his mind—she excused herself to retrieve an expensive little Chanel bag from the next room. She rifled through her purse and pulled out three crisp, hundred-dollar bills. She leaned close to press the money into his hand.
What's this shit? He eyed the money, his suspicions rising. He'd worked four hours—and she'd paid him for six. Why?
"You made a mistake. This is too much." He held out the extra bill and tried to hand it back. "Way too much."
"You look hungry." Morgan sounded matter of fact. "Want some soup?"
He nodded, but watched her warily. Never trust found money. That's what his mom always said. Brendan wondered what Morgan had up her sleeve.
Morgan dished up a huge bowl of green chili chicken stew and handed him a spoon.
"You didn't answer my question." Brendan took a bite and looked up at her, waiting for a reply.
"Yes, I did. I said, 'You look hungry.' Was I wrong?" She tilted her head and pierced him with an intense gaze.
"I'm doin' okay." Her predatory blue eyes made him shift in his chair. She knows all my secrets.
"You look fucking strung out—like your last decent meal was weeks ago. I remember the way it feels—running on empty." She offered a distant smile. "Take the money. You need it a hell of a lot more than I do."
"I think you should take the extra cash and invest in a heater for your fucking studio." Brendan tried to hand the money back again.
She waved it away. "It's yours. I insist."
Brendan sighed and pocketed the cash. Something about the whole exchange made him feel dirty, but she was right. He was hungry—too hungry to care. He shrugged off his guilty conscience and attacked the stew with gusto. "Fine—I'll buy a heater. I almost froze my balls off today."
Morgan laughed. "Poor baby." She stroked his arm and gave him a warm smile. She watched him eat for a long moment. "Don't worry. You'll be nice and toasty next time. I'll make sure of it. Can you come back tomorrow at noon? I'd like a longer session, if you're up for it."
"I'll still be in bed." Brendan saw her frown and took another bite of the spicy chicken stew.
"One-thirty?"
"Make it three. I'm going out tonight—won't be home until late. Gotta make sure I get my beauty sleep." He chuckled and finished the soup.
Morgan reached for his bowl. Their fingertips touched for the briefest moment—just long enough for both to feel the spark of desire. Or, at least Brendan felt it. She probably didn't feel a thing.
"Seconds?" she asked.
"Please." He watched as she filled his bowl with soup and brought it to him at the table. She moved with the calm and studied grace of a ballet dancer. When she set the bowl before him, she let one hand linger on his shoulder for a moment. Brendan relished her nearness. He spooned up a bite, savoring the tender, smoky chicken. "Thank you. This is delicious."
"Come over whenever you're ready. I'll be in the studio all day." She ran her fingers through his hair. "You'll inspire my greatest painting yet. I can feel it. The work's developing so fast." Morgan gazed past him, a far-off look in her eyes.
She did that all the time. Got lost in her thoughts, in some other world where Brendan didn't exist—only Morgan's idea of him. He watched her blue eyes go cold and distant. It seemed as if Morgan was seeing only her vision of him, superimposed over the real Brendan eating a bowl of soup in her kitchen. It felt spooky—like being turned invisible against his will. Is this the way a bad poem feels when I erase it?
While she dwelled in some distant realm, Brendan took the opportunity to look at her. Really look at her. He couldn't bear to meet her strange, unseeing eyes, so he stared at her hands. Strong, capable hands with elegant, long fingers—a little rough—streaked with gold and ochre and cerulean. They are beautiful hands, artists' hands—imbued with a certain magic.
Brendan re-assessed her and discovered Morgan Roan was a beautiful woman. The revelation shocked him; he hadn't noticed her looks until now. He'd been more concerned with avoiding frostbite and staving off his hangover. After a solid meal and a big knock of Scotch, he saw the artist with a kinder eye.
Morgan was a cool, lethal blonde with indigo eyes and porcelain skin. He wanted to run his fingers through her silky, moon-milk blonde hair, which she wore up in a messy bun. What would it look like spread across a pillow? He had a sudden urge to write a poem about her, an itch he couldn't wait to scratch.
She took her hair down with a sigh of pleasure. Her face was beautiful—delicate and fierce—framed by long, pale hair streaked with amethyst and violet paint. She finished her glass of wine and went to the bar to pour another.
"You did well today, Brendan."
"You're not making it easy. I think I got frostbite of the prick."
Morgan laughed. Her snowy cheeks flushed rose pink. "Now, that would be a crying shame. I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you." She placed a slender hand on his
shoulder and leaned in close. She stroked his jaw with one cool finger and whispered in his ear. "Still cold?"
What the fuck? He pulled away and gave her a questioning look. "A little."
"Come into the library. There's a fire. Warmest room in the house."
Before Brendan could protest, Morgan was leading him through the house's labyrinth of corridors. He followed her into a cozy library with a roaring fire in the grate. She gestured for him to take a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs before the hearth. He sank down into the buttery suede and looked around. The room was alive with books. Morgan took a slim volume from one of the shelves near the fireplace and handed it to him. Brendan studied the cover—an old, hardbound copy of Alice in Wonderland.
"This was my favorite book when I was a little girl," she said with a smile.
"I'm too old for bedtime stories." Brendan started to hand the book back.
"Open it," she said. He rolled his eyes. What game is she playing at now?
Deciding to humor her, he opened the book. "Holy . . . ." Shit! The damn thing was hollowed out inside, and packed full of pot and rolling papers and pills and all kinds of other goodies. His mouth watered at the sight of white powder—balloons and glassine envelopes packed full of blow, H. Damn—Christmas came early this year.
"Roll us a joint, will you?" Morgan topped off their drinks.
"I'd love to." He surveyed the array of pills and powders with greedy eyes.
"Fabulous. I'm going to wash up. I won't be long." Morgan turned and walked out of the room, leaving him alone with her stash.
He couldn't believe she'd be stupid enough to trust him. It'd be so easy to clean her out and make a run for it. His hands shook, and sweat peppered his brow. Goddamn, I want to get high. Tap up a nice fat vein, cook it up right here in front of the fire. Fill a needle and shoot up right here in front of the fire.
Something inside Brendan wouldn't let him cut and run. I don't want to burn this bridge—not yet. He'd roll a joint and wait for Morgan's return.
When Morgan reappeared, Brendan saw she had taken the time to shower and change. She'd washed most of the paint out of her hair, but a few stubborn streaks of violet and rose still stained her pale locks. Clad in a scanty, blue sheath, she moved across the room with leonine grace. The silk clung to her slight curves, drawing his eyes to her perfect breasts. As Morgan brushed past him, Brendan smelled sandalwood and cedar. Musk. Sweet smoke. She lit the joint. Passed it to Brendan. Poured him another drink, playing hostess. She handed him the tumbler of Scotch and sat at his feet on the hearth rug, staring into the flames.
Brendan passed her the jay. She took a toke and leaned against him, resting her head against his thigh. They smoked in silence for a few moments. He relished in her proximity.
"You're beautiful, you know." Her voice was low and confidential, rich with sweet smoke. "Anybody ever tell you that? Not that you'd believe it."
"No. You're stoned." He laughed at the idea. Beautiful? I'm just a club rat—a fucking junkie. Nothing but a street kid with three hundred bucks in his pocket. Chump change to her—but more money than he'd seen in months. The fact she saw something she liked in his features only made him feel worse. He couldn't wait to go score some skank and get low.
Every time Brendan looked in the mirror, he hated himself more. Not just for what he'd allowed himself to become, but for who he used to be. A kid with big dreams. When he was ten years old, Brendan wanted to be a pitcher for the New York Yankees. By the time he was twelve, he'd decided a career as an astronaut was what he desired. When he was thirteen, he'd harbored dreams of becoming a big-time artist like Morgan or a famous writer. But by the time he was fifteen he was lost. Stealing cars. Fucking up. Screwing and smoking and snorting whatever he could get his hands on.
Beautiful? Hell—who's she kidding? I'm just a small-time hood with a big, fat monkey on my back.
--
Thanks so much for stopping by, Indigo! To follow the rest of the tour:
Confused? Well, how ‘bout I put it like this. When you walk down the street, do you notice that bum, sitting on the corner? Maybe. You slow down; notice the holes in his shirt, the acrid scent of body odour and the bitterness of cheap wine. Pity twinges in the back of your mind and you fish some change from your pocket. Dropping it into his empty, paper coffee cup you spare him a smile, then continue on your way. The feeling of having done something good stays with you for a bit. But your mind wonders to who you’re going to see at work, what you’re making for supper, the fact that your husband didn’t take out the trash. You’ve moved on. Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t work like that. Everything I do—every person I interact with, leaves an impression that can linger for hours. If I let it, my brain will stay in writer mode all the time. I can’t carry on a normal conversation because I’m not seeing things around me in the detached way a person has to if they’re going to transition from one activity to the next. My mind is attuned to every nuance, every tiny detail, none of it relevant to what I’m trying to accomplish at the moment. Vroom vroom. To tell you the truth, sometimes I’m jealous of the people who can go through their lives relatively unaffected by things around them. I imagine how easy it must be to focus on the here and now when you can turn the rest of the world off, how simple it would be to ride on cruise control for a little. I imagine every artist—from painters to dancers—feels this way sometimes. What would it be like to not feel everything with such intensity? Then I’m grateful. I love what I do and I wouldn’t want to be anyone else, or feel like anyone else. Besides, it could be worse. I could be a genius. Imagine your only mode of transportation being a stealth fighter. 
Yikes. And now that I’ve admitted to being something of a freak, let’s get to the topic de jour. Archetypes. Not sure what I can say about archetypes. I’d like to say I don’t use them, but that would be nonsense. Of course I use them. To construct a well developed character, you really must consider who they are. An alpha male with a heart of gold? A studly geek? A gangster with a hero complex? My heroes tend to be either jokers or jerks. Why? Well, I guess if I do a self-psychoanalysis, I can trace the attraction to that type of man back to high school. The guys I crushed on were either the cute class clown who disrupted the class and demanded all the attention, or the bad boy who was just plain mean to me. In many ways, I wasn’t your average teenage girl—I was reading college level before I hit seventh grade—but I didn’t escape the boy crazy stage. I can recall two crushes that became the center of my universe for a time. One joker, one jerk. I actually got up the nerve to give the tough guy my phone number (I won’t tell you how, I might use it as a plot bunny one day). Needless to say when he called—which obviously shocked the hell out of me—I made a fool of myself. As for the joker, well, I ended up dating one of his friends. Which meant I sat across from him every day in the cafeteria and pretended to be cool with being friends. Anyway, I guess when I write, my heroines live out my fantasies, take chances, and, since I’m in charge of the caste, she gets a man—or several—who will love her. The heroines in my stories—well, so far they’ve been nice girls. And nothing like me. This is where I take myself out of the story and give my dream boys what I imagine would be their dream girl. She’s sweet, funny, patient, unlikely to get violent when pissed off (although she might throw things—no one’s perfect). She looks good in everything she wears, even if she doesn’t think so, and a good man (or a bad boy) can’t help feel his protective urges kick up around her. Last, but not least, my villains. What can I say about them? Only this: I come up with some pretty twisted things to do to my main characters. The bad guys better be able to pull them off. Writing ménage clearly means more characters and that’s where things get real interesting. How many book have you read where you’ve favourite character wasn’t the hero? His best friend, his brother, his boss—you can’t help wishing the heroine had gotten with them instead. Ménage takes away some of those limits. The lucky girl can have whoever she wants. If the story’s polyamory, she gets to keep them. Works for me! J 
Deadly Captive: She might not remember who she is, but she’ll never forget what they’ve done. For more of Bianca Sommerland, visit: http://imnoangelauthorsblog.wordpress.com/ For the next stop in the tour, click here: http://sarahballance.wordpress.com/ 
