Strong is Sexy Heroine of the Week: Omega

Book: The Hostage
Author: Carolyn Wren
Heroine: Omega

Omega is a covert operative who features in cameos in books 1-3 of The Protector Series.  Book 4, The Hostage is her story.

She is a complex character.  A deadly agent who has an almost obsessive desire for privacy.  There is a reason for her work, and her secretive life.  She was herself a victim of a kidnapping some years before, and channelled her experiences into a need to help others.  I like Omega as a character because she does have an enormous amount of strength and determination, and a very dry witty personality.  She also has a trauma in her past, but this doesn't make her a victim.  She makes the decisions in her life.  Even after one of her past assignments, the hero of the story, tracks her down, she gives him a good run around before accepting him into any part of her life.  When another, more nasty person also finds out her secret identity, she tackles him head on without waiting for help, or back up, challenging him to a dangerous battle of wits...involving knives. 

There is a vulnerable side to her, and it is explored in this story.  It forms an integral part of the relationship of the book, and allows us to see behind the Covert operative to the person beneath.  I don't think this vulnerability decreases her strength of character.

The best way I can think of to describe Omega, and the book, is to quote the note my proof-reader put in the margin of my finalized MS. 

Now that’s a good book! A woman with strength and character who finds true love but never has to give up who she truly is. Excellent job.

This is part of the opening scene of The Hostage, which sets up her character and the story.  It contains one of my favourite quotes from the book. 

“Who are you?”

“An alternative to the fifty million in ransom your company apparently didn't want to pay, Mr. Northam.” 

North tried to open his eyes. Am I still dreaming? No, surely dreams didn’t come with this amount of pain. He’d smelt something, the fresh scent of clean skin. Not perfume, just the fragrance of a woman, a hint of warmth all men had evolved to detect since the caves. Then a voice, a low whisper in his ear, warm breath touched him, hot in the cold room. She’d spoken to him, the sound only a husky whisper more designed for the bedroom than this hellish place. He’d actually felt his body respond before his mind absorbed her words. He would have laughed if he’d had the energy. Tortured and about to die, a woman whispers in his ear and his first reaction is arousal.

I’m clearly insane, but I’ll die happy. North sucked in a painful breath. How the hell did I get on the ground? This was a different kind of agony, the agony of circulation returning and abused muscles showing displeasure at their treatment. He groaned, and someone put a hand over his mouth. North jerked, the pain of the sudden movement almost sending him back to the darkness.

The faint whisper came again. “I can give you ten minutes. After that we need to see if you can stand. Wait for my word. Move slowly.”

She’s real?

“Don’t try to talk and don’t rush your movements.”

Rush? He didn't think he could rush if his life depended on it. He realized with another jerk, it did. Forcing his muscles to move slowly in uncoordinated bursts, he tried to encourage his body to move in preparation for her instruction. He had no idea what was happening or who she was.

He tried to form audible words and keep his voice as soft as hers. “Where did you come from?”

The question was never answered. He heard a shout and the heavy thump of footsteps running.

“Close your eyes.”

“What?”

The door burst open, and she fired.

North hadn't understood the request until the first flash of the muzzle blinded him. He’d been in darkness for so long, the sudden brightness left spots before his one working eye. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

She kept shooting at those coming through the door, surprise on her side. His captors had thought him alone and restrained. It was over in a minute, the sudden silence made his ears ring.

North strained to hear her voice over the roar. “They’ll send reinforcements. We have to go now.”

Placing her shoulder under his arm, she helped him stand. The pain almost made him pass out again. He’d be damned if he gave into it now, not when freedom was so close. She led him out of the door, one arm around his waist, the other extended, gun in hand swinging right and left. God, she was tiny, not even reaching his shoulder. Her hair brushed against his chest as they walked, giving him a real clue to her diminutive stature. 

 “I think I can walk,” he told her.

“Good.” She released him. “Follow me.”

Four more guards, four more shots from her pistol. She stopped him in a hallway to reload, before they continued on. She seemed to know which way to go, and he stumbled after her, wiping sweat and blood out of his eyes with a shaky hand. Who was this tiny woman risking her life for his? It felt wrong. All his male instincts said it should be the other way around.

They barely got outside before his legs gave way. He collapsed, cursing his weakness under his breath while she half-dragged him to a large clump of bushes.

“Stay here,” she said and flowed back into the shadows.

He waited, anxiety and stress making the minutes seem like hours.

“We have to move.” Her silent approach sent a burst of adrenalin and relief through him.

The slight reprieve had given him time to recover. With limited strength, he followed her. She kept them concealed within the darkness and beneath the sparse foliage. He heard shouts and shots, but no one appeared before or behind them. They had gained perhaps fifty yards, when she pushed him into a shallow depression in the ground and held his head down. A few seconds later, he heard and felt an explosion.

“With luck,” she murmured, “the blast will confuse and frighten them into running.”

“What do we do now?”

She grabbed some loose foliage, pulling it over their bodies. “We wait.”

The ground was cold, the thin branches and leaves offering no relief from the chill of the night. North’s muscles twitched and ached, and he was feeling the multitudes of bruises, cuts, and scrapes. His whole face throbbed with a deep pounding rhythm, a sharp pain stabbed behind his injured eye, and his jaw ached so much he feared it was cracked. His shoulder muscles and tendons screamed at him. Still, he was better off than he’d been an hour ago. The adrenaline rush was over. His eyes drooped. Ridiculous. He wouldn't sleep, not under such circumstances was his last coherent thought.

The sky seemed lighter when he opened his eyes. His husky voiced champion spoke softly into a tiny hand held radio. She was sprawled across half of his body, still protecting him. Being saved by a woman still bothered him. Her body was warm and soft, where it touched him even through her sturdy black clothing. She appeared to have no problem with his nakedness, not that there was anything they could do about it. Frankly, it was the least of their problems.

Her face was shadowed in the pre-dawn light. North wanted to see her, wanted to put features to the throaty whisper of his rescuer. The brave, calm woman who’d saved his life.

“Who are you?”

“An alternative to the fifty million in ransom your company apparently didn't want to pay, Mr. Northam,” she said without looking at him, the longest sentence he’d heard her say.

She kept watch, her face in profile. He willed the dawn to arrive, so he could see her clearly, distracted by the light fall of footsteps sounded in the distance. He tensed, thinking she would tell him to move or fight. The order never came, she remained motionless. A few minutes later, she removed some of the foliage and leaned across his body to peer over the top of the shallow depression.

“Omega?” A deep male voice came from above. North had no idea how the figures had gotten so close, whilst making so little sound.

“Yes.” She climbed nimbly over his body and stood. “Mr. Northam, these men will see you safely home.”

A man wearing camouflage clothing, leaned into the depression to help North to his feet. A false dawn from the explosion fifty yards away provided a fiery backdrop to their surroundings.

“All clear?” his rescuer asked the soldier, tilting her head to the carnage that had once been North’s prison.

“Yes,” he replied, shifting a powerful looking rifle to his other shoulder.

She nodded and turned to walk away.

“Wait,” North said. She paused, turning only her head to look back at him, her face half bathed in darkness, and still unclear to him. “How do I...Look, I don't even know who you are. How do I thank you?”

“Not necessary.”

“It is to me.”

“Mr. Northam,” the soldier said, “we need to go.”

North took his gaze from her for a split second. When he looked back, she was gone. He scowled, peering into the gloom. “Wait.”

“Mr. Northam,” the man repeated firmly, “we need to go now.”

Another soldier came up and draped a long jacket over him. In the distance, North could hear a helicopter. Reluctantly he followed, scanning the countryside as he forced his battered body to walk.

This isn't over.

Blurb:
A covert operative so secretive, she’s known only as Omega…

Kidnapped, held in chains, beaten and without hope. Wealthy businessman James ‘North’ Northam believes he’s a dead man. Until a daring rescue by a woman who disappears before he can thank her. North is compelled by a powerful need to track down his mysterious saviour. The truth he discovers about her is both surprising and intriguing.

Omega has always kept her covert identity separate from her real life. Until James Northam invades her world, and her privacy. This determined, impossibly distracting man is getting under her skin. Her plan is to deny everything until he gives up and goes home.

The plan doesn't seem to be working.

And so begins a battle of wits between two very strong willed people.

Neither of them realise someone else from Omega’s past has tracked her down, for much more sinister reasons.

Are you an author with a strong heroine in your book? Want to see her featured? Find out how here.

From Reader, to Writer, to Author… Carolyn Wren Talks About The Diplomat's Daughter and Her Journey

Last week, I gave a friend the purchase link for my debut novel. She asked if it was for, “the whole lot.”

My first instinct was to laugh, then I realized in her mind it was a valid question.  She knew I had written a series of seven books, and sold the series to a publisher weeks ago and yet they are still not out?  What was taking so darn long?

It was then I knew I had made the transition from reader, to writer, to author. 

Three years ago, before I started writing, I lived in that world where books miraculously appeared.  Where authors created, people and stories. And publishing houses bought, printed and sold them. Now I know writing the book is the beginning of the journey, not the end.

When I sat down to write my first work I was clueless as to the process.  As a book-keeper for an international minerals company, my world revolved around numbers not words.  Until one day when I woke up with a scene so clear in my head it was imperative I write it down.  So I did, and within six months I had created a seven part Romantic Suspense series.  Had I taken writing courses? Read writing craft books? Researched the do’s and don’ts online? Nope.  I simply started writing and didn’t stop.

I had no thoughts of publishing, or fame and fortune.  Just the newly discovered joy of creating stories.  A year went past.  My seven books turned into eleven.  All sat on my desktop or in the hands of eager test readers.  What on earth did I do now?

A chance article in the newspaper, pointed me to a one day publishing seminar held at the local University.  This seemed like a good idea, so I went along.

That day goes down in my writing history, as one of the worst experiences ever.  This seminar should have been subtitled, “don’t even bother; you are all doomed to fail.”  Instead of an informative series of talks on the intricacies of the publishing world,  the eager, freshly minted writers in the audience were maligned, berated and even insulted for a full eight hours.

One lady, who raised the question of writing romance was cut down mid-sentence.  We are not here to discuss romance, she was told.  We are here to discuss legitimate writing.

Such worthy quotes still stay with me. “Without an agent your work will never even get looked at.” And. “Don’t even bother submitting your first manuscript.  No one will publish a debut author.”

The last comment made me curious.  How is one to relinquish the tag of debut author, if no house will publish your first book? I watched in anger and disbelief, as the moral in the room sunk lower and lower. At the end, we all filed out, defeated, heads bent, feet dragging.

To this day, I wonder how many authors went home and never wrote again, or even worse, deleted manuscripts sitting on laptops.  That thought makes me very sad, and very angry.

From a personal viewpoint I simply dismissed the day as a pointless waste of time and went back to my writing. A few months later I was reading a book by Nalini Singh and logged into her website to find out about other books in her series.  Whilst there, I read her post about the importance of finding a writing association, and about the valuable resources they offer. This lead to an online search, and the discovery of, Romance Writers of Australia. 

What a difference from the so called, ‘seminar’ of the previous year.  These wonderful people understood new writers, encouraged and chatted, praised and commiserated when needed.  And most importantly, did not say the word, ‘Romance’ in quiet guilty whispers. Now I started to learn what I was doing right, and what I was doing wrong.  And let me just say, that finding out what the term, ‘head hopping’ meant after writing eleven books, was a bit of a shocker! I remember looking at the thousands and thousands of words in my completed books folder and resigning myself to a lot of rewrites.

Only a few weeks after joining the, RWA I entered their annual competition for unpublished writers called, ‘The Emerald’.  To my complete and utter shock, I started to progress through the rounds.  I entered the international competition, ‘The Daphne Du Maurier' awards, and again the same thing happened.

At this point, I sat down and began to seriously contemplate my next step.  Could I actually do this? Could I be published one day? Was I brave enough to try? With the incredible love and support of my husband, I started to do research. 

Fast forward, to August 2012.  I won ‘The Emerald’, I got to the finals of the, ‘Daphne Du Maurier’ and I received a contract offer from, ‘Secret Cravings Publishing’.

And I was still mostly clueless… but I began to learn.

First lesson.  Manuscripts are not books.  Those pages and pages of words are not a book.  They are a draft, which with hard work, will become a book.

Second lesson.  Your editor is your boss.  She is not there to ruin your manuscript; she is there to turn your manuscript into a published book.

Third lesson.  Editing is a part of an author’s life, it is a necessity.  Being precious about that sentence you really like and want to keep, regardless of all the reasons why it should clearly go, does not help anyone.

In the weeks leading up to my very first edits, and the learning of the above lessons, I freely admit to being a mess of nerves.  What if my editor hates it? What if she changes every single word? What if it ends up being no longer my book?

I discovered something very interesting about myself.  I could worry myself into a small quivering wreck sitting in the corner.  Or I could take this invaluable information and use it to make myself a better writer.  It was the right choice. When the round 1 edits arrived, I looked at my manuscript logically and objectively.  Yes that’s right, that comment makes no sense in the context of the chapter.  No I don’t need all those extra explanations in the middle of that paragraph.  Yes that is head-hopping and needs to go.

I sliced through dialogue I considered pure Shakespeare when I wrote it.  Merrily adjusted sentences to allow for a clean flow and corrected foolish mistakes, carefully pointed out by someone looking at the story with a clear clean set of eyes.

Editors are not only necessary, they are essential.

But getting published isn’t all hard work.  There comes that joyous day when the cover art arrives.  When words become pictures! And the characters in your head are there for the world to see. What a day.  What an amazing fantastic day.  I have six more books due for release in 2013 and every one of them will be exciting.  But I suspect, seeing the cover art for my first book will always stay with me. 

Finally the big day arrives.  Final proofreading, writing the author bio, and the dedication. Then release day.

Seeing my name for the first time, on the cover of a book. My published book! Is another memory I will hold close.  All the hard work melts away.  The agonizing over the submission letter.  The time consuming and sometimes frustrating task of writing a synopsis that is concise, without skipping over the plot.  The waiting every day and obsessively checking emails to see if the publishing house has replied. Then when they do, the task of edits, corrections and revisions.

It is all worth it. 

I am no longer clueless.  Nor am I an expert.  I still need my editor and my publishers to guide me through.  But I know now that it takes hard work, time and effort to get a book published.

Now I am an author and proud of it.

So when my friend asked why only one book was coming out, even though I had written seven.  I smiled and told her, ‘all good things come to those who wait’.

***

Thank you, Ms. Wren. Loved having you. Readers, here's a blurb about Caroyln's book:

A covert operative. A life filled with secrets.

Jared Knight works with an elite group of agents trained to track down the worst criminals humanity has to offer. His career leaves no room for relationships.

On a dangerous assignment in Monaco he is captivated by a woman in a crowded ballroom. Disturbed by the uncharacteristic lapse, he is determined to forget her...

Five years later Jared offers Cecilia Benedict his protection when she becomes the object of an overzealous secret admirer. Unbeknown to Cecilia she is the woman who has haunted Jared’s thoughts. He can stay away no longer now her life is in danger.

Cecilia is intrigued by Jared’s serious manner and deep grey eyes. In the close confines they share she finds herself emotionally and physically drawn to him. An attraction grows...

But danger lurks in the shadows, threatening to destroy their relationship before it can even begin.