Wednesday Writerly Wisdom

We all know romances command the biggest portion of book sales. That's why so many of us write them. Well, that and we love the genre so much. But what if? What if you could write and sell any kind of books you wanted? What would you write?

I'd write spy and political intrigue novels like Ian Flemming's 007 or the Bourne series. Imagine! Me: Ian Vonnie. Do I hear a snicker out there?

I'd also write books about the Lost Generation in Paris after World War I until the Nazi's marched down Champs Elysee. Perhaps beyond the end of that war, as well. Set in the City of Love, of course there would be romance. Let's not forget underground jazz clubs, literature, and art--and the arguments of philosophy at sidewalk cafes, like Deux Maggots. I'd need a French name, wouldn't I? How about Von DeVeau?

I'd write a series of private investigators or a special government black ops band of elderly women. Think about it. Starsky and Hutch in girdles and false teeth. The government covert name could be "Gray Bitches."

No one pays attention to senior ladies. Think of all the mayhem they could create. Old women meandering slowly down the street with canes. Invisible to most everyone who has no idea these two old broads hold fourth degree black belts in karate and black belts in kung-fu. Are certified markswomen and wear throwing stars for earrings. I could write the series under the pen name of Ima Phool. Too over the top? See, that's what happens when my mind runs amuck. 

But writing the books I'd like would require building a new brand. What few people who know me, know me as a romance writer of contemporary and paranormal romances. I'd have to start over with a new identity and zero fan base. I don't know that I have the energy. So, I'll keep writing what I know and enjoy. Although I would seriously love working on the above projects. But, then, who would buy them?

My writerly wisdom? Understand why you're in the business. Are you writing to make money? Write for the market. Are you writing to satisfy your inner need? Then write your passion. Sometimes you can do both. Sometimes you can't. Be sure you know where you're going and why.

Friday Friends

I've got a dashing visitor from the past on Vintage Vonnie today. More than four years ago, he'd been very important in my life. His name is Niko Reynard, hero of a Romantic Suspense released under the name of Mona Lisa's Room. His first meeting with Alyson, the heroine went like this...

 When the door to the interrogation room opened and two men walked in, the testosterone level rose by a factor of five. Even though the first man, middle-aged with graying temples and silver-framed glasses riding low on his nose, was handsome in his own right, it was the second male who commanded her attention—and her fascination.

He was striking. Or, as Brooke, her free-spirited sister, would say, “Oh my God, he’s make-my-panties-damp gorgeous.”

While the young man wasn’t blatantly tall, he was excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on his 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 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 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 and a corner of his mouth quivered for an instant as if he were a heartbeat away from laughing at her. She hiked 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 today, frankly she didn’t give a shit.

This book was the first of three under the series title "The Red Hand Conspiracy." All were set mainly in Paris, my favorite city. Writing them was a blast, like walking back in time, retaking a vacation, if you will.

The series never sold well. Yet, the crazy thing is the books hold the highest ratings of all my books at Goodreads and Amazon. Go figure! Mona Lisa's Room won the HOLT Medallion of Merit for Best Romantic Suspense. But for some reason, it just didn't sell.

Now that I have the rights back for the series, I'm planning to self-publish them. So my Street Team and I have been examining things; looking for what could have caused its failure. Was it the titles? In addition to Mona Lisa's Room, I had Rain is a Love Song and the final book, only two-third's written, called Jazzbeat of Surrender. Can we all agree I suck at titles? Is it no wonder my publishers give me a list of titles and say, "Here are the names of the books you're going to write"? 

Was it the covers? I'd loved them. Each had elements germane to the story within, but since they belong to my previous publisher I'm no longer allowed to use them. Gosh, I hoped it wasn't the writing; not with all the 5-stars they garnered from the few who'd taken a chance on buying them. Perhaps the publisher's lack of distribution? Or my scarcely known name at the time? Not that I'm so well known now. ACK! We could go round and round on all the possible "whys", couldn't we. 

Obviously, I have a lot to do to prepare this series for the Indie market where no one knows me at all.

I've changed the title of book one to--

NIKO

Love and The Red Hand Conspiracy, Book One

I'm having a new cover designed with a picture of Niko on the front along with the bloody handprint, the macabre calling card of an International band of terrorists who call themselves The Red Hand. In each stand-alone book, a segment of The Red Hand is eliminated at the end of the story. By the end of book three, the reader learns the identity of The Architect, the shadowy, demonic leader of this band of deadly radicals.

Book two will be named for its hero: JEAN-LUC. BASTIEN is book three's hero.

I'm part way through NIKO, improving my prose and laying strong, yet hidden hints for identity of The Architect so when he appears, the reader will think I'm not surprised rather than No, freaking way!

The book is longer than I like so I'm trying to tighten the writing and delete some things yet still retain the charm, the suspense, and the passion of the original story.

Dressed, Alyson stood beside the bed as if frozen to the spot. Her face was pale, her blue eyes wide with fright. Being scared was one thing, but being immobilized with terror would not help her. She had to be able to move, to run, if necessary. He had to make her angry, hoping to tap into her passion. What could he say to piss her off again?

“Well, Mrs. Moore, you no longer resemble a sloppy American.” Fact was she looked good in that low-cut sundress. Damned good. While he’d always been a leg man, he had a healthy appreciation for the breast portion of the female anatomy, and her breasts were quite eye-catching. The wide skirt that emphasized her trim waist skimmed shapely calves. The woman was trouble in a sexy little package.

His calling her Mrs. was evidently like a cold slap to her face. She gave the desired response. “Let me give you a lesson in life, Niko. Never call a woman who endured twelve years of a cold marriage to a cheating husband by the title Mrs.” She grabbed her hellacious ugly baby-shit-colored purse and slung it over her shoulder.

He fought back a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

She fisted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Lesson number two. Never call a woman, who is one day shy of turning forty, ma’am. My first name, Alyson, will do nicely.”

He retrieved her carry-on from the bed and opened the door a crack. After checking the hallway and finding it empty, he glanced back over his shoulder, winked, and purposely lowered his voice to a sensual purr. “Anything else you’d like to teach me, Aly?”

Niko is watching me very closely as I edit and update, don't think he isn't. He's second in command of the French Counterterrorism Unit. Mr. Alpha is used to giving orders. And I'm not the best at following them. We've knocked heads before and I suppose we'll be eyeball to eyeball, yelling at each other again. I can't wait for the fun to begin!

Monday Musings and Mumblings

Calvin and I love traveling internationally. How wonderful to experience other cultures. I'm an architectural freak, so seeing different building styles intrigues me. So does studying history and eating new foods. Calvin loves outdoor cafes and watching people hurry by. If he can have a cup of espresso to sip and a WiFi connection for his iPad, he's in heaven. Simple pleasures for simple people. Two humans who would do no harm.

So you can imagine our heartache over the bombings in Paris, our favorite city, and Brussels, someplace we'd thought of visiting during the hot summer here in Virginia. Calvin, my news hound, has informed me of every new revelation in the investigation as I pound out word count to meet my upcoming deadline.

One of my sons called to say--not ask, but say--you two aren't traveling anywhere internationally in the foreseeable future. Kids. Once they pass the age of forty, they think they can order me around. Imagine!!!

Imagine also, people who believe their "higher being" tells them to kill and maim nonbelievers.

Walk away from nonbelievers, I get.

Avoid, sure.

Engage in a nonviolent civil discourse face-to-face and NOT on social media, by all means.

But violence? My God doesn't demand it. Mine is a God of love. So I get my bloomers in a twist when goons with guns and attitudes larger than their IQ's seek out those they perceive as enemies and harm in the name of a god ... any god. To me, it's an excuse to kill. Like the long-held feud of generations past--the Hatfields and McCoys--the beginnings of this hate is said to stem back to the Crusades. But, folks, sometimes we need to lay hate aside and pray for goodness.

Just as all Christians aren't completely good. We can't judge all Muslims by bands of radicals. Good and bad reside on both sides. Evil resides in this unprovoked indiscriminate murder. It's not about religion; it's about absolute power.

So, no, we won't be traveling abroad for awhile. I'll miss it. Calvin will especially miss Berlin where his only child, his son lives. Danger seems to lurk everywhere. Here and abroad. Our world is quickly becoming an unsafe place filled mainly with people who would rather spread love and goodwill than harm and hate. Yet we are crippled with fear by a few. Sad and troublesome.

Be safe.

Sometimes We Need to Pull Back Projects by Vonnie Davis

I was an excited, wet-behind-the-ears old broad when I signed my first publishing contract with The Wild Rose Press on November 16, 2011. The contract was for Storm's Interlude, the third book I'd managed to finish. The first two? I'd long since deleted them from my computer. It seems agents, nor editors like stories written in twelve points of view...or with a heroine so bitchy even the dog hated her. Oh, the lessons I've learned along the way, I could write a book about how to write a book.

But The Wild Rose Press was good to me. There's no other way to put it. They took a no-name writer and published her book, one that won several awards, by the way. At their writers' retreat in Asheville in 2012, Rhonda Penders, one of the owners of the press, gave me some wise advice. "Write two 'shorts' for every 'long'." I didn't think much of it at the time. I was all about writing books, not novellas. But I am smart enough to try the opinion of someone who knows more about an industry than I do. So, when Stacy, an editor, laid out her Honky Tonk Hearts series, I wondered if I could write short. I took an online class on "Writing the Sensual Novella." 

Still I wondered. Then, one night Win rode into our bedroom on his Harley, took off his helmet and asked me to tell his story. He was a veteran from the War in Iraq, with PTSD, an amputated leg below his knee and some hearing loss. Would romance readers enjoy reading about such a man? Those Violet Eyes, my best seller at TWRP, was born.

I began writing more novellas, enjoying the process and seeing their worth.

Even so, I kept writing novels, especially about my favorite city--Paris. I set a series there. A series that, for some reason, never caught on. And, loving Paris the way I do, it hurt. I promoted them the best way I knew how, yet the sales just didn't happen and thus the reviews. Ten for one and eleven for the other. So the books sank into a quagmire of nothingness.

My agent and I talked. We decided to ask for the rights back for them. Maybe in my spare time, after my paranormal Scottish series for LoveSwept at Random House and my firemen's wild heat series for HarperImpulse are all published, I can rework those three books. Make them shine a little more. 

While my novellas remain at Wild Rose Press, my books are in my hands now, no longer for sale. When I hit a rough patch in my current WIP, I'll zip over and read one of those books, correct the errors and breathe some life into it. Or maybe I'll realize they, too, need deleted. It's all a learning process, isn't it?

  

A Glimpse of Paris #romanticsuspense #SPeekSunday

I can't believe an entire week has passed since I posted my last Sneak Peek. Perhaps it's because I've been battling the same chapter. Writing, deleting, writing, banging head on keyboard, deleting, re-writing the previous chapter in hopes the chapter from hell that follows will eventually become a heavenly chapter to read.

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.

BUY LINK: http://amzn.com/B00A553HLY

 

TO READ MORE GREAT SNEAK PEEKS TODAY, CLICK ON THIS LINK--

 

http://sneak-peek-sunday.blogspot.com/

Things I DID see in Paris by Vonnie Davis

I've already shared things I didn't see while in Paris. So, it's only fair I show some of what I did see and, of course, with my odd take on life, strange things caught my eye. As I've said so often, Paris is a feast for the senses.

CAFE TABLES ~ They're everywhere! Some are so small they barely hold two cups of coffee or two glasses of wine. The one pictured is one of the larger café tables at a sidewalk café at the corner of our street. This was our first cappuccino after our arrival. My journal is there, waiting for me to fill with thoughts and impressions.

TINY ELEVATORS ~ We rented a small apartment this time around instead of staying at a hotel. Much of Europe is known for small elevators installed in centuries old buildings. Here's the elevator in "our" apartment building on rue Bertholett. By counting the tiles on the floor, the elevator was 1.5 feet wide by 2 feet deep. We carried our luggage up in multiple trips. When I pushed our largest suitcase into the elevator, there was no room left for me to stand. So I sat on it, pulled my knees to my chest and reached for the button. Folks, I hadn't been in that position since giving birth to my youngest child. As the elevator slowly ascended, I prayed no poor schmuck would be waiting at the other end and get an eyeful of American ass. Calvin and I both tried squeezing into it once and I quipped, "Is that your flashlight or are you glad to see me?" We'd been shopping for some groceries and were holding the bags over our heads at the time. The door to the elevator is here.

 

SCARVES ~ I saw them on men and women everywhere. The French have a love affair with scarves, wrapping them artfully around their necks. Just to blend, I bought a few and practiced my scarf swing.

 

 

OPEN WINDOWS ~ Lots of open windows with no screens. And why not? There are no flies or bugs to buzz in. Don't ask me why. There just aren't.

 

COUPLES KISSING ~ The French are not afraid of PDA's (public displays of affection). Kissing--long, involved kissing--is done on the sidewalks, in the cafes and in the parks. We watched this couple in a little park across the Seine from the Notre Dame Cathedral while we sat on a bench, chatting with two women from Alberta, Canada.

COUPLES ARGUING ~ Oddly enough, I have a photo of another young couple arguing, taken on the same corner when we were there five years ago. Tears running down this girl's cheeks snagged the attention of this romance writer, my creative mind writing various scenarios of what made her cry.

MULTIPLE JAPANESE NUPTUALS ~ There were six Japanese couples married in front of the Louvre on a Sunday afternoon. I don't know why they chose that spot, but their exuberance and happiness charmed me. I stopped and watched their last minute preparations, at a distance, of course.

GORGEOUS ARCHITECTURE ~ I've always been a nut for pretty buildings. I found this one along the Champs Elysee.

 

 

ONE OF THE LOCATIONS FOR MY FUTURE BOOK ~ This plaque marks the location of the original Shakespeare and Company run by Sylvia Beach from 1920 until the Nazi's approached Paris. This narrow shop, painted red now, was the happening place for writers, poets, artists and musicians of The Lost Generation. I have an American jazz musician, a saxophone player, who meets a lovely French writer in this shop...ohhhh, the possibilities....

 

 

Things you won't see in Paris

We've recently returned from two weeks in Paris. We saw lots and lots of sights, but there were things we didn't see too.

BAGGY PANTS

Frenchmen wear their pants fitted over their mighty fine behinds. Even students at the Sorbonne wear their pants at or near the waistline.

 

SWEATCLOTHES WORN IN PUBLIC

The French are too fashion conscious for this.

 

SHUDDER...OR THIS.





WHITE SNEAKERS

I found out the hard way on my first trip to Paris, that white sneakers label you as American, making you the perfect target for beggars. Black or brown sneakers do not.

 



 

BREAD IN PLASTIC BAGS

It's a culture shock to see breads, rolls and pastries unwrapped both in the stores and in the hands of Parisians as they carry their groceries home.

 

 

SHOPPING MALLS

There are a few large department stores like Galleries Lafayette or Carrefour, but most shop at neighborhood stores that deal with one brand or item. A wine store or cheese store or butcher shoppe or stationary/paper store. We did find a supermarket that had little plastic carts one dragged like a suitcase. The grocery store had four aisles the length of my living room and two cash registers.

 

 

Galleries Lafayette is a large department store in what was once an opera house. It's gorgeous, crowded and an all day shopping experience. Here's the top of the building's stained glass window. There is a McDonalds on the fourth floor and a restaurant on the sixth.

 

PICKUP TRUCKS

At $8.00 a gallon for gas, drivers chose the smaller vehicles or motorbikes.

 

 

PARKING LOTS

 

 

Land is scarce and never used for parking lots. Instead, you're more likely to see sights like this...

 

 

or even this...

 

 

PAPER CUPS

The French always drink coffee from ceramic cups. The less trash, the better.

 

 

ALL YOU CAN EAT BUFFETS

 

 

Until next time...

HUGS y'all!!!

 

Some Cultural Differences

We have rules governing sidewalks here in America. We tend to hold them sacred. They are for pedestrians, whether on foot or in a wheelchair, and their dogs. We tend to smile at tykes riding their tricycles, but frown on grown-ups on bicycles and teens on roller blades or skateboards on our cement walkways. I'm beginning to think our sanctity of sidewalks is an American mindset.

From the time our taxi driver pulled away from the curb at Charles De Gaulle airport until he made a sweeping U-turn in front of our apartment on rue Bertholet in the Latin Quarter, we'd been on the sidewalk four times. Not that I wasn't counting or saying a few prayers. We weren't the only ones either. Other cars, horns blaring to jar pedestrians out of the way, and motor bikes, buzzing through traffic like bumblebees on steroids, also made several detours onto the sidewalks. Pedestrians didn't react with outrage, but did scurry out of the way.

 

 

Traffic in Paris is not for the faint of heart. For one, there are no lines painted on most of the streets, or rues. I mean, really, why bother when no one cares what lane they're in? At one point during our initial taxi ride, four cars braked sharply, their noses angled inward to vie for a certain spot. There we sat, hood to hood, eyes locked in challenge, horns blaring and hands gesturing to the "Parisian God of Traffic".

Even so, as we drove--gee, that's too lame of a word. As we ping-ponged through traffic, we saw the Eiffel tower standing majestically when we crossed the Seine. As always, I marveled at the beauty of the architecture. Has there ever been a city as pretty as Paris? We passed Calvin's favorite writing café on Boulevard Saint Germain, when he was here on sabbatical for a year in 1968. Like a child with his nose pressed to the glass, he craned to study every angle, murmuring, "I remember...I remember." We also passed the Hotel Madison where I'd set a couple scenes in my MONA LISA'S ROOM. Although I'd never been inside, their website provided enough photos for me to add some accurate description.

In the past, we'd used AAA's to make our overseas reservations. Parisian hotel rooms are often small. This time, we wanted a different experience, a more Parisian experience. Plus, now that we're both diabetic, we thought we'd like to cook some of our meals to keep our glucose readings in tolerance. After checking several online rental agencies, we settled on Vacation in Paris LLC, located in New Jersey. We liked the idea of speaking with representatives here in the States. Plus, we were impressed by what we'd read after googling their company. Folks, they've been a dream to work with. Not only did our apartment keys arrive at our home a month before we left for our trip, but the rental company also emailed us a wonderfully informative packet with detailed apartment information, tourist tips and safety hints--things a nervous traveler would greatly appreciate knowing. I know we did. And when we stepped into our little Paris flat, we both breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was as pictured on Vacation in Paris' website. We had no surprises.
All of their pictures were accurate.

We're on the third floor American, second floor European. Here's a picture I took of our living room while I was at the dining room table, writing this blog. By the books on the shelves in both the living room and bedroom, the owner is English speaking. He or she likes Stephen King and Danielle Steele and is an adventurous cook by the number of cookbooks displayed. We brought along copies of our books to leave as gifts.

How lovely that in Paris, your seat at a café table is secured for as long as you wish. In America, you are typically besieged by the wait staff until you move on. We tend to look on a meal as another item in our daily "to do" list. The French look on meal time or a respite for coffee or wine as a time to be savored--slowly. A time to share experiences and express one's beliefs. I watch as animated eyebrows or the jerk of the head or the negligent shrug voice more eloquently than words their underlying emotional meanings. Watching is an education in human communication. There is no frenzy, no glancing at the wristwatch or inhaling of food. There is only the enjoyment of the moment and whomever you happen to be sharing it with.

Until the next time, you'll find us wandering the streets of Paris with no destination in mind, stopping for a cup of whatever to watch humanity stream by. I'll be journaling my every impression, sight and smell of my second journey to the City of Light. I'll share more with you the next time around

Mona Lisa's Room: Paris...Pandemonium...Passion

Imagine going through a difficult divorce. A divorce that prompts you to do some things you've always dreamed of--things for yourself, like having lazic surgery to ditch the glasses, changing your hair color or getting a tattoo. And taking a trip to Pairs to visit museums and sketch scenes of the city.

As an art teacher, you've always dreamed of seeing the Mona Lisa. So on your second day in Paris, you head for the Louvre. While there you unwittingly foil a bombing attempt by a terrorist INTERPOL believes dead. Your sketch identifies him and he's out for revenge. Suddenly your dream trip turns into pandemonium and you're put under the protection of a younger French government agent.

Of course there's more than one terrorist in this gang and they keep coming after you. Meanwhile your protector gets under your skin and the degree of the passion heats up. You might end up in a scene like this...

“What is it?” Alyson peered up and down the street.

“Don’t look. Smile at me. Talk and act normal.” Niko wrapped his arm around her waist and nudged her up the street.

“But…” Did he see someone? Did he see Dembri?

“I’m going to kiss you so I have an excuse to look behind us.”

“Oh no. No, I don’t think so. Look, I’ve put up with your constant touching, but I’ll not be kissed on a public street.”

“Don’t be self-conscious. In Paris, we kiss in public. It’s the Parisian way.”

“For heaven’s sake! Make it quick then.” She shook her arms to relax them because she was anything but relaxed. She was about to be kissed for the first time in years. Did she remember how? Stop being silly. Kissing is simple. Two pair of lips touch. Kiss done. With her head tilted back, she whispered, “Okay, I’m ready.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Niko’s lips. He encircled her in his arms and stepped in so their thighs touched. Her stomach fluttered. Her breathing hitched. He lowered his head. “Hang on, Aly.” With his dark brown eyes open, he placed his lips on hers and pulled her body against his. She kept her eyes open, too, figuring it would lessen the kiss’ effects.

Niko kissed her, gentle sips at first, soft and sensual. Someone made a moaning noise, and she feared it might have been her. My God what a pair of lips! Her toes curled in her new Pradas. She wrapped her hands around the lapels of his jacket. Then his lips locked on hers and with his tongue invading her mouth, he turned her to look over her shoulder, all the while wreaking havoc on her system.

This was the first time she’d been in a man’s arms in years. The first time she had tongue from a guy since college and said guy was more interested in looking behind her for some hoodlum than in the kiss. Just her damn luck.

When Niko ended the mind-blowing kiss, he pulled her closer, if that were possible, and whispered in her ear. “We’re being followed. Hold my hand and run.”

Run? Melting came to mind, but running? How could she run when he kissed her until the bones in her legs turned to jelly? Plus, she was wearing new high heels, for heaven’s sake. His arms squeezed her for an instant. “Now.”

He grabbed her hand, and they took off. They dodged throngs of pedestrians and at one point, Niko hurtled over a poodle, its protective owner shouting in French outrage, calling him a fool. “Fou! Fou! Mon chien, mon chien!”

Alyson had done her fair share of running, especially after her break up with Chaz, the stranger she was married to all those years. Running was a stress reliever; so were the StairMaster and martial arts. Still, those activities were done in sneakers or barefooted, not high heels. Stilettos, no less. Oh, and the thong. Let’s not forget the damn thong chafing her in places she didn’t want to think about. She’d kill Gwen when she got home.

“Faster, Aly!”

“You put me in three-inch heels and expect me to run fast? You bossy Frenchman with a foot fetish.” She stumbled, and he caught her.

“Typical woman. Kiss her once and she figures she has the right to bitch at you.” Niko’s head turned, evidently scanning the area as they ran.

She tried jerking her arm free of his ironclad grasp. “So help me, God, if that terrorist doesn’t kill you, I will.”

He pulled her around two uniformed nannies pushing toddlers in strollers. “Promises. Promises.”

“Yeah, well look how nice my hips sway now, nutso, running in these damned heels.”

 

Niko quickly glanced up and down the wide tree-lined street and evidently seeing a slight break in traffic, ordered, “To the other side. Now.” They bolted across the four-lane boulevard and its well-manicured median. Two motorbikes rumbled past, nearly hitting them. Horns blared as several Renaults and Smart Cars barreled down the street. Niko shoved her out of the way and she fell, her hands and knees scraping on the asphalt. Brakes screeched and there was a dull thud behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder just as Niko rolled across the hood of a silver car. He never broke stride. “Run, dammit!”

She struggled to get up, her heel caught in the hem of her skirt. Niko set her on her feet again. A delivery truck swerved toward them as if to run them down. In a blur of movement, Niko drew his weapon. He dove and rolled clear of the truck’s path, shooting the driver between the eyes. Glass shattered. Passersby screamed. The truck jumped the curb, striking a tree. Sounds of metal crunching and a tree branch cracking obliterated, for a few horrible seconds, the pedestrians’ reactions.

Still on the move, Niko barked orders at the observers. A man nodded and reached for his cell phone. “Quick. In here. While we’re hidden by the truck.” Niko wrapped his hand around her arm and tugged.

Alyson trembled, the back of her hand covering her mouth and her eyes glued to the man slumped over the steering wheel of the truck not five feet away. Blood flowed from his forehead. Her stomach twisted. She was going to be sick. Niko’s grip on her arm tightened. “Move it, Aly. We’re still being followed.”

MONA LISA'S ROOM won the HOLT Medallion Award of Excellence for Best Romantic Suspense and Best Book by  a Virginia author.

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