Cristiane Serruya (Author Interview)
Please tell us something unique about you we can’t learn from your bio.
I am a multiple-genre author. I’ve published a philosophical essay, contemporary romances, an erotic novella, my first kid’s story is coming out at the end of the year, my fist anthology next year, and…phew! I have a funny comedy in the oven. I would love to write Young Adult too, but I have not yet found the right tone.
There is not exactly a why I write in those genres, but more like I have being chosen by them. How crazy is that?
What’s your favorite part of writing?
The research! For example, as Love Painted in Red unfolded, I realized I didn’t want Tavish being a war hero and a veteran just as a background for his love story with Laetitia. I wanted him to be a believable veteran dealing with PTSD and the readers to feel his pain. I interviewed many veterans online. It was an enlightening and heartbreaking experience and it helped me make him he come out beautifully—or so I like to think—with his physical and psychological scars and yet full of life strength and vigor.
What’s the most exotic setting you’ve chosen for one of your stories and why did you choose it?
TRUST Series is my work with the most exotic places: Sophia, Ethan, and Alistair travel from London to “the end of the world”, in Ushuaia, Argentina, the mountains of Vietnam, the Maldives, Philippines, Brazil (not so exotic for me, considering I live here) and many other places. They are billionaires, so when they go on vacations they would choose the most exotic places in the world to visit and have fun. Also, it is a great way to share all I have seen of this world with my readers.
Which of your heroes would you most like to date and why?
Tavish Uilleam! He appeared on my first release, Entwined Fates. He grew so much that I had to write his story. A war hero, a billionaire hunk, a lonely Highlander, he was POW in the hands of the Taliban while serving as a doctor in RAF. After his return to civil life, the scars in his soul—and body—are such that despite being surrounded with beauty, he sees nothing but darkness.
Tavish is a brooding man, even sour sometimes, but he is generous, protective, and just needed the right woman to thaw his loving heart.
What stories do you have in the works right now?
The Diaries Series, from which From the Baroness’s Diary: The erotic escapades of Baron Beardley’s wife is the first installment, is a 20th century romantic erotica.
It started with a single diary entry I wrote and was supposed to be a bonus scene for Love Painted in Red paperback, where Laetitia, a painter, used Baron Beardley’s wife’s diaries to develop a series of erotic paintings. Yet, I realized I would be doing a disservice to my readers if I didn’t develop Lady Chloé Beardley’s own story.
About Love Painted in Red
Tavish MacCraig, thirty-three-year-old Highlander, forsook his medical and military career, after being a POW for 6 months in Afghanistan, to run his family’s internationally renowned art gallery in London, The Blue Dot. Despite being surrounded by wealth and beauty, Tavish’s days are bleak, his nights, living nightmares, and his heart, an empty shell. But when he meets Irish painter Laetitia Galen, a powerful and sizzling attraction ignites between them.
Laetitia, who fled hell on earth when she was sixteen, now works as a well-paid housekeeper in a forsaken country manor in Warwickshire and sells her paintings in an obscure gallery. To preserve her new life and recently found peace, she resists Tavish and The Blue Dot’s fantastic offer of an exclusive contract.
Laetitia becomes Tavish’s obsession; Tavish, Laetitia’s unattainable dream.
Meanwhile, a man with a burning grudge plots his long-awaited revenge, which could destroy them all over again.
Tavish and Laetitia will discover that falling in love is life’s greatest risk!
A romance made of loss, lust, and love.
“I trust you’ll find the food excellent,” he said, parking his car in front of a Lutyens-style main house, the epitome of a classic English country house.
After she had changed clothes and came to meet him in the studio, he had known she would capture the attention of all the men in Mallory Court. It was not that her dress was transparent, clingy, short, or even brand-new. Far from that. She was wearing a lilac turtleneck long-sleeve maxi dress with a large gray belt low on her hips and gray flat booties. The vintage outfit emphasized her youth and put his imagination on fire. He wanted to rip off her dress and devour her breasts.
He wasn’t quite sure what they had talked about or what had happened on the way to the hotel, as her sweet scent wrapped him in its flowery vine.
As he helped her out of the car, the warmth of his hands penetrated through her dress. She kept her hands on his shoulders when he didn’t let go of her waist immediately, striving to ignore how rigid and well formed his muscles were. Damn, Laetitia! Stop these thoughts. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Wee lasses tend to have a difficult time descending from my car in long dresses, unaided.” And man, I’ve developed an appreciation for wee lasses in long dresses.
She wanted to point out that everything would be wee when compared to him, but she just said again, “Thank you.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, lest he would pick her up in his arms and take her directly to a room. Focus on something else. “You have a lilting Gaelic accent. But you’re not Scottish, are you?”
Her accent was unusual: English upper-middle class, with a shadow of Irish Gaelic and a rich tinge of French.
When she shook her head, he asked, “Where are you from?”
“Ireland,” she said curtly. The wind stirred through the trees, crashing branches together and sending leaves to the ground. Laetitia stifled a shudder. Careful, or you’ll fall like these leaves.
As they walked into the hotel toward the art deco–inspired restaurant, he shortened his stride to match hers, which made him look languid like a prowling panther. “Have you been living here long?”
“Yeah,” she murmured.
Mysterious, eh? He raised an eyebrow. “Are you always so evasive?”
“Are you always so inquisitive?” she countered with a smile.
“Touché,” he said. Denying me answers will get you nowhere. I’ll probe until you tell me everything.
Before he could inquire further, she said, “And you are Scottish.”
“Half-English, half-Scottish. My mother was English. My father is a Highlander. I was raised between London and the Highlands.”
Her eyes wandered over his face, large shoulders, and broad chest. He carried himself with a confident poise that inspired trust and respect, if not fear. She could effortlessly imagine him wearing nothing but a kilt, with a sword strapped to his back, scars marring his body.