Welcome to Thirsty Thursday! Fiction Vixen is pleased to welcome our guest bartender, Elizabeth Bright, today!
Thirsty Thursday With Elizabeth Bright
In Twice as Wicked, Alice is hell bent on revenge, and she’ll stop at nothing to get it. But, like Shakepeare’s Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she doesn’t look scary: “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” The Femme Fatale Punch is just like that! The pink color makes it look sweet and innocent, but it packs a wallop. Even better? This is the perfect drink for a book club event or girls’ night in. Female friendships are a vital part of Alice’s story, so she would appreciate that!
1 pound strawberries, hulled and quartered (about 3 cups), plus more for garnish
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1/2 ounce lemon juice
8 ounces limoncello, chilled
2 bottles brut cava, chilled
1) Combine the measured strawberries, sugar, and lemon juice in a blender and blend until smooth. Strain through a fine-mesh strainer and discard the solids.
2) Pour the limoncello and strawberry purée into a punch bowl and stir until well combined. Slowly pour in the cava. Garnish individual glasses with strawberries, if desired.
Check out Twice as Wicked by Elizabeth Bright
Miss Alice Bursnell is determined to wreak revenge on Nathaniel Eastwood, Viscount Abingdon, for the seduction, ruin, and death of her beloved twin sister. But how to expose a seducer without falling prey herself? As she gets closer to Nathaniel, she finds she is in serious danger of following in her sister’s much-too-tempted footsteps. The man is nothing like the heartless rake she expected…and his kisses are truly divine. Could she be wrong about him?
When a mysterious and gorgeous woman confronts Nathaniel at a fancy ball, he suspects she has murder on her mind—his own. But the more he tries to determine who the deceptively innocent beauty is—and what she’s up to—the deeper he falls under her alluring spell. Nathaniel fears he’s in imminent danger of losing his life…or worse, his heart.
Excitement rippled through the ballroom like a wave, but no one seemed the least perturbed about the chandelier rippling above his head. They carried on with the dancing and the gossiping without a care in the world. Alice set her drink down and frowned at the ceiling. The chandelier was an elegant monstrosity of at least seven feet, perhaps even eight. It was tiered like a wedding cake, with each tier holding dozens of candles. And it was spinning dizzily on its axis.
And yet… None of the other chandeliers were spinning.
She shifted her gaze between the three chandeliers that graced the ballroom. Was it her imagination, or was this one hanging significantly lower?
It dropped another inch.
She rubbed her eyes and walked closer to the stairs.
“Look out!” she cried, darting up several steps.
The man-lion looked at her curiously and said nothing.
Yet another inch.
She hitched up her dress and barreled up the stairs. If the great oaf would not remove his person from imminent death, then, by God, she would move it for him.
By the time she reached the landing she had built up enough speed to act as a human cannon ball. Soft flesh collided with hard muscles, and her whole length from knee to chest pushed against him. He yielded, stumbling backward, taking her with him. The momentum sent them sliding across the slick marble foyer until they stopped in an abrupt tangle of limbs several feet away.
Panting heavily, she took a deep breath and inhaled a lungful of his scent—clean and spicy and male. It did very little to tame her breath or slow her rapid heartbeat. He lay still and silent beneath her, his arms locked about her waist in a rigid vise.
Why, why, why wasn’t he speaking? Had she knocked him senseless?
“I must say,” a smooth voice drawled, “what the devil?”
The face of Duke Wessex hovered above them. Alice tried to push away from the tangle of limbs to stand up, but the arms binding her did not loosen their grip. She might as well be wrapped in steel cords.
“Let go of me at once!” she commanded.
The man-lion stared up at her. He did not speak. Neither did he release her.
A strand of his red-gold mane stuck to her cheek and tickled her nose. She managed to pry one hand free and swatted his hair away from her face. He lifted an eyebrow and she glared in return. She hated him with the heat of a thousand burning suns—and yet, for the briefest moment, she regretted wearing gloves.
And then everything happened at once.
The chandelier fell like lightning and smashed like a thunderbolt, scattering shards of glass and wax through the air like rain. She felt herself rolled and pinned, shielded from the storm by his broad shoulders and strong back. She gripped the front of his shirt tightly in her fists, tucking herself in closer to him, and buried her face against his chest
Elizabeth Bright is a writer, attorney, and mother. After spending ten years in New Orleans (yes, she survived Hurricane Katrina), she relocated to Washington, D.C. to be closer to family. When she’s not writing, arguing, or mothering, she can be found hiking in the Shenandoah or rock climbing at Great Falls.
Visit Elizabeth Bright: Website