Speaking of heavenly, the sneak peek I'm sharing today was written about my favorite city--Paris. If money weren't an issue, I'd live there. But a small one-bedroom apartment in the City of Light, with a miniscule walk-thru kitchen, runs about the same as a three-bedroom rancher with garage here in the States.
I have two romantic suspense novels set in Paris, books one and two of the Red Hand Conspiracy. Today I'm sharing a snippet from book one, Mona Lisa's Room. By the way, the cover for this book just took first place in the Mystery/Adventure category of the EPICon event this weekend. The cover artist, Rae Monet, is fabulous.
This book has also won the HOLT Medallion Award of Merit in two categories: Best Romantic Suspense and Best Book by a Virginia Author. In this sneak peek Alison, an American high school art teacher, has unwittingly foiled a bombing attempt at the Louvre ...
Alison was unceremoniously hauled to Paris police headquarters, the Prefecture de Police, and interrogated for nearly three hours by various detective teams, each more stern-faced than the last. Visions of being locked away forever in a French dungeon flashed in front of her like a neon “No Exit” sign. She had zero rights in this country. No passport. No one to help her. If they were to grant her one phone call, whom would she call? The American Consulate. Surely they would help.
When the door to the interrogation room opened and two men walked in, the testosterone level rose by a factor of five. If one were to categorize the first man, middle-aged with graying temples and silver-framed glasses riding low on his nose, as good-looking, one would have to call the younger man striking. Or, as Gwen, her free-spirited sister, would say, “Oh my God, he’s make-my-panties-damp gorgeous.”
Although the young man wasn’t overly tall, he was excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on the man’s skin. Alyson’s body responded which surprised her.
She judged him to be around thirty, with the firm and muscled, yet slender build of many European men. He had an olive complexion and short, wavy black hair styled like that of a GQ cover model. His eyes were dark and angry. What’s his problem? I’m the one held here against my will, hungry and thirsty. And, dammit, I have to pee.
The older man sat while Mr. Macho Male prowled the room like a tightly-reigned panther. “Ms. Moore, I’m Field Supervisor Henri Moreau. I head the French task force on counterterrorism. The irritated man behind me is my second in command, Niko Reynard.”
The young man deigned to spare her a nod in greeting. Oh, she knew the type. She nodded once in return with a dose of her own attitude. After all, she hadn’t been a teacher all these years without perfecting a piercing glare. One of his eyebrows quirked in response. She raised her chin and held eye contact with him for a few seconds. Touché. Okay, so she was being bitchy, but after all she’d been through, frankly she didn’t care.
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