A warm welcome to author Mickie B. Ashling joining us today here at Love Bytes 🙂

 

I’d like to thank Love Bytes for the opportunity to share an exclusive excerpt of my latest release, Yesterday. This novel is a period piece set during the final months of the Pahlavi dynasty. The beautiful cover was created by multitalented author Catt Ford. There’s an opportunity to win a free e-copy of the novel, a signed paperback, or a gift certificate by entering contact information in Rafflecopter. I hope you enjoy this short excerpt.

About the Book

In June of 1978 Grady Ormond, eighteen-year-old son of diplomat Peter Ormond, accompanies his father to his new posting as US Ambassador to Pakistan. Neighboring Iran is on the brink of a civil war, with the monarchy in danger of being overthrown.

Grady will be leaving for New York City in late August to study cinematography and has been warned to keep his homosexual orientation tightly under wraps while on vacation. Repercussions in the predominantly Islamic region could be severe.

On their first night in Karachi, his father hosts a cocktail party to meet the local dignitaries. Grady is introduced to His Highness Prince Kamran Izadi, nephew of the Shah of Iran. Twenty-three-year-old Kamran has recently returned from the UK, where he spent eleven years, first as a student, and then as a financial analyst.

The attraction is immediate—unforeseen and dangerously powerful—but neither one dares to make a move. Odds are so stacked against them it’s futile to even entertain a friendship, but they do, and their world tilts precariously.

With his country in turmoil and Grady about to leave for college, Kamran makes a decision that will change their lives forever.

I’d always associated polo with the rich and famous, and sitting a few rows behind the shah of Iran and his entourage underscored my belief that the sport wasn’t meant for ordinary people like me. Naturally they had the seats of honor with an unencumbered view of the field. I didn’t recognize anyone in his party, other than the general, Kamran’s father. They were more than likely influential members of his cabinet or high-powered jet-setters indulging in an afternoon of fun. The reason they’d chosen Karachi instead of Tehran wasn’t that much of a mystery in light of the political turmoil on the shah’s home turf. I was sorry I hadn’t thought to bring along my camera so I could share this event with my father. He would certainly be interested and able to pick out one or two of the faces viewing the playing field.

There were no women in the group, which wasn’t a big surprise. From what I’d gleaned from Spencer, my primary source of information when Father was unavailable, the women of Islam were guarded like national treasures. The empress Farah didn’t usually attend polo matches unless her husband requested it, and considering the current state of affairs, I rather doubted he’d want her venturing too far from home.

In general, wives and daughters rarely made public appearances, and as Spencer had pointed out, the network of spies employed by the religious leaders pounced on any breach of tradition and routinely turned it against the Pahlavis. One of the major sticking points was hair. In Iran, hair was viewed as erotic. Therefore covering women from head to toe in a drab piece of cloth called a chador was a centuries-old practice. The only thing visible were the eyes. To Westerners, the custom of veiling was demeaning, and the shah’s father, Rezā Shāh, forced the unveiling of women in 1936 in an attempt to modernize. This was met with strong resistance, and in parts of the country where the religious held sway over the people, the practice continued.

At home, most women wore traditional clothes, and few men outside the familial circle were allowed in an Iranian’s home. I counted myself fortunate that Leyla and her companion had served us without the protective mantle. Perhaps it was due to her age, or Kamran allowed it. In any case, it was a special honor, and one I didn’t take lightly.

We were in Karachi, though, and at a club catering to locals and foreigners alike, so there was no shortage of female guests, but they were not part of the shah’s group. They were mostly European and a few locals dressed in colorful saris with armfuls of bangles clinking melodically. The atmosphere of this club was different from the few I’d seen in the UK. Here there was an old-fashioned formality to it, with liveried waiters attending to our every need. It was most likely modeled after the clubs in India, where the Brits lorded it over the masses during Queen Victoria’s heyday. All it took was a nod in the right direction or the crook of a finger, and a waiter appeared by your elbow like magic.

I sipped my Rose Collins, which was fast becoming my drink of choice, and observed the group of men hobnobbing with the ruler of Iran. The general, Kamran’s father, seemed mighty pleased now that his boy was tearing it up on the turf. Kam had managed to score a point, causing his father to break his composure and hoot with triumph. I didn’t play the game, but I could appreciate the difficulty of trying to get one tiny ball past thundering hooves and other riders hell-bent on preventing it from happening. It didn’t escape my attention that the general’s pride was at stake today, and I was thrilled that Kamran hadn’t let him down. It would go a long way to making the evening more pleasant.

During the traditional divot stomping at halftime, I joined a group of people wandering out to the field to “stomp” down the torn-up turf. It was a great way to meet other guests, and even players liked to walk the turf to keep limber while waiting for the minutes to tick by. As promised, Kamran joined me.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked graciously.

“Wonderful,” I assured him. “Congrats on your goal. Your father almost levitated with pride.”

He grinned, looking immensely pleased with himself. “It’s not often I can pull that off. You must be my lucky charm.”

Secretly thrilled by his compliment, I responded nonchalantly, “Glad I could help.”

“In more ways than you know,” he said softly.

I was hoping to get more answers when I finally got him to myself, but for then I’d have to make do with his cryptic remark.

Purchase Links

Dreamspinner Press eBook | Dreamspinner Press Paperback | All Romance eBooks | Amazon

Mickie B. Ashling is the pseudonym of a multifaceted woman who is a product of her upbringing in multiple cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West. A little bit of this and a lot of that have brought a unique touch to her literary voice she could never learn from textbooks.

By the time Mickie discovered her talent for writing, real life got in the way, and the business of raising four sons took priority. With the advent of e-publishing—and the inevitable emptying nest—dreams of becoming a published writer were resurrected and she’s never looked back.

She stumbled into the world of men who love men in 2002 and continues to draw inspiration from their ongoing struggle to find equality and happiness in this oftentimes skewed and intolerant world. Her award-winning novels have been called “gut wrenching, daring, and thought provoking.” She admits to being an angst queen and making her men work damn hard for their happy endings.

Mickie currently resides in a suburb outside Chicago.

Connect with Mickie

Email | Facebook | Twitter | Website | Blog | Goodreads & Ask the Author

Three winners will win an ebook copy of Yesterday, a signed print copy of Yesterday, or a Dreamspinner gift certificate. Contest open internationally. Must be 18 or older to enter.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Follow the Tour

Jan. 20 – Hearts On Fire

Jan. 21 – The Novel Approach

Jan. 22 – Diverse Reader

Jan. 22 – Multitaskingmommas

Jan. 25 – Charlie Cochet

Jan. 26 – On Top Down Under Book Reviews

Jan. 27 – Love Bytes

Jan. 28 – Prism Book Alliance

Jan. 29 – MM Good Book Reviews

Feb. 1 – Rainbow Gold Reviews

Feb. 2 – Sinfully