Please Welcome My Guest...

Please welcome back Vonnie Davis.  Vonnie is an award winning romance author whose books will make you laugh, cry, and feel every emotion in between.

Thanks for having me today, Katherine. I’ve come to talk about one of my favorite institutions—Parisian cafés—and to spark some interest in my recently released book, MONA LISA’S ROOM.

Café life in Paris is alive and well. They’re everywhere, nearly two thousand of them. As Calvin and I walked the streets of the City of Light, I couldn’t get over the number of cafés. Every other building had a café, or so it seemed.

Some were large, their seating areas flanked with potted greenery. Umbrellas shaded customers from the sun.

 Others seemed perched on the edge of sidewalks in places I’d never think to put one.

Cafés have a long and rich tradition. The first one opened in 1686 where gentlemen of fashion drank coffee, the exotic beverage vogue in France at that time. The mild Parisian weather allowed for outdoor enjoyment of this drink and both friendly and fierce conversation. Soon, wine and stronger spirits were added to the fare, as were sandwiches and frites (fries). Add the fact that many apartments were too small in which to entertain, and the popularity of cafés grew. Artists, writers, philosophers and students discussed and argued the state of the art world and the human condition and politics at Parisian cafés.

While there I never drank coffee or soda from a paper cup. Never. Also, sodas in Paris are served warm. When you ask for ice, the waiter’s nose wrinkles as if he smells something sour. “Ah, American.” Then, he’ll plunk one cube into your glass.

One of our favorite cafés was at the entrance to the Metro nearest our hotel. It was here, I observed French showmanship at its best. I’d ordered a Coke. The waiter came back with an old-style Coke bottle on his tray, along with a glass, a bottle opener and a clean white bar towel. Setting the tray on the table, he laid the towel across his shoulder. Then he placed the unopened Coke bottle on his shoulder, holding it in place by tilting his head onto the bottle. With a snap of his wrist, he used the opener to remove the cap. He held my glass in one hand and leaned over, the bottle still safely secured between his shoulder and neck, to slowly pour the soda into my glass. Ah, the French, they have a way about them.

The hero in my romantic suspense, MONA LISA’S ROOM, has a way about him, too. Niko has taken Alyson to a shoe store so she can buy high heels. He insists her casual mode of dress labels her as American. He wants her to blend in with Parisian women, so she’s not so easily spotted by the terrorists. He’s told the store owner, he’ll try the shoes on his “friend.”

Niko perched on the stool at Alyson’s feet, opened the first box and deftly flicked back the tissue paper on a pair of black kidskin pumps with skinny gold looking heels. “It’s rumored Da Vinci invented the high heel.” He removed her Birckenstocks and placed her bare foot on his thigh. Warmth from his muscled leg flowed up hers, causing her foot to give an involuntary wiggle.

His gaze lifted to hers and locked. Slowly he slid his hand from her heel up her leg to cup her calf. Thank God she shaved her legs that morning. “Stop.” The rawness of her voice surprised her. His touch made her very aware of her body, and her body was very aware of him. She couldn’t count the years since she was touched in such a manner—if ever.

Still, it was nice to know she could respond to a man’s touch. Thanks to her ex-husband’s avoidance, she thought herself sexually dead, certainly sexually unappealing.

“High heels do wonders for a woman’s figure, Aly. They make the legs look long and shapely, lift the bottom and make the hips sway.” His hands moved in a descriptive manner while he talked. “They make a woman look sexy and confident. Men’s eyes naturally pivot to a woman in stilettos.” Niko shrugged. “We can’t help it. We are men, after all. Weakened by women.”

Alyson stared at him. Men made weak by women? She’d never heard such talk, especially from a male, a very virile male if looks meant anything. He was gorgeous, arrogant as all get out, but gorgeous just the same.

Niko slipped the shoes onto her feet, stood and extended his hand. “Stand. See how you like the feel.” His gaze focused on hers again and for a second or two, when she looked into his eyes, her world stopped.

She vetoed the four-inch stilettos Niko favored in five painful, toe-pinching steps. Good Lord, a girl could get nosebleeds in those things.

Ten minutes later, Alyson wobbled in front of the cashier ready to pay for the black kidskin three-inch Pradas she wore. As soon as she saw the bow at the back of the heel, she fell in love with the shoes. Gwen called her a “bow freak.” When Niko reached for his wallet, she elbowed him. “Look, as long as they take Visa, I’ll pay for my own shoes.”

“Please, allow me.”

“Absolutely not. I planned on having an expensive birthday meal at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant tomorrow. With all that’s happened today, that plan is ruined, too. So I’m rationalizing since I won’t be paying for my birthday meal, I can pay this ungodly amount for the shoes.”

Niko placed his hand over hers. “I don’t mind. Let me treat you since I goaded you into buying them.”

“Really, that’s not necessary. Even my husband…er…ex-husband never bought me things. I’ve always paid my own way.”

He leaned an elbow on the glass counter and looked at her. “You’re kidding me. He never bought you little surprises? Little treats? A woman like you should be spoiled, treasured—” his voice lowered as he slowly trailed a finger up her arm  “—loved often and well.” Merciful heavens, he was trying to seduce her in a shoe store. Gwen would squeal in delight when she told her about this.

“Down, buster. American women are different than French women. We’re not so easily seduced by glib words or smooth moves.”

His eyebrow arched and his demeanor turned insolent. “You think I’m trying to seduce you?”

Typical male. He touched her almost nonstop since they stepped into Minelli’s. Now that she called him on it, he wanted to deny everything. “I think you’re toying with me, seeing if you can make an old, lonely American woman quiver at your feet.”

“First of all, you’re not old. Second, if you’re lonely, that’s your fault. Third, if I wanted to make you quiver—” he leaned in, his lips against her ear  “—I damn well could.”

Blurb:

Gwen,

You won't believe this email. I'm sitting in a French safe house, eating caviar and drinking champagne with a handsome government agent, Niko Reynard. He's wearing nothing but silk pajama bottoms and mega doses of sex appeal. I'm in big trouble, little sister. He's kissed me several times and given me a foot massage that nearly caused spontaneous combustion. I'm feeling strangely virginal compared to the sexual prowess this thirty-year-old man exudes.

When I came to Paris for a bit of adventure, I never imagined I'd foil a bombing attempt, karate-kick two men, and run from terrorists while wearing a new pair of stilettos. I've met a German musician, a gay poet from Australia, and the most delightful older French woman.

Don't worry. I'm safe--the jury's still out on yummy Niko, though. The more champagne I drink, the less reserved I feel. What an unforgettable fortieth birthday!

Alyson

View the Book Trailer: http://bit.ly/MonaTrailer

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS (digital) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisaDigital

THE WILD ROSE PRESS (paperback) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisasRoom

AMAZON (paperback) -- http://amzn.to/QQZGyD

AMAZON (eBook) -- http://bit.ly/MonaLisasRoomeBook

FIND ME ONLINE AT http://www.vonniedavis.com

BLOGGING AT http://www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com

Please Welcome My Guest...

Please welcome my guest, Vonnie Davis.  Vonnie is an award winning romance author and a fellow author in the Love Letters series published by The Wild Rose Press.

Katherine, thanks for having me here as a guest and allowing me to talk about my part in The Wild Rose Press’s Love Letters series—TUMBLEWEED LETTERS. Within the first three pages, a letter must arrive that changes one of the character’s life forever, bringing love and the happy-ever-ever ending we all love.

I’d read the first couple stories from the series and loved the history included in each one. To add to the appeal of writing and submitting something for the series were all the romantic possibilities. Where would one find a letter? If it arrived by normal mail delivery, who could it be from? Would the letter initially bring happiness or sadness? And, if I were to write something for this series, what era would I chose?

After a lot of research, my focus settled on Deadwood, Dakota Territory in 1879. Now my grown sons would smirk and tell you I chose this era because it’s when I grew up. How those two wisenheimers lived to adulthood, I’ll never know. I chose it because I love cowboys, plain and simple.

Slowly, facts coalesced into a storyline. The Molly McGuires. A smallpox epidemic. Whites encroaching onto Indian Reservations to build towns. Calamity Jane’s friendship with a brothel madam. All the while I was doing research, a little boy came to me at night to throw temper tantrums in my sleep. In telling Sophie and Cam’s story, I also gave Eli his. I hope you’ll give TUMBLEWEED LETTERS a try.

BLURB:

When rancher and single father Cam McBride finds a letter tucked in a strip of cloth tied to a tumbleweed, he is captivated by the mysterious author. Finding a second tumbleweed letter further pulls him under the lonely writer's spell. He needs a mother for his little boy and a wife to warm his bed. Could this mysterious woman fill his needs?

Sophie Flannigan is alone, scared, and on the run from a rogue Pinkerton agent. She spends her days as a scrub lady at Madame Dora's brothel and her nights writing notes to the four winds. Her life holds little hope until a small boy lays claim to her and his handsome father proposes an advantageous arrangement.

Can these three benefit from a marriage of convenience, or will a determined Pinkerton agent destroy their fragile, newly formed bond?

EXCERPT:

Cam McBride fought to keep his horse under control. “Steady, now. Steady, Samson.” He reined the chestnut to the left away from the rolling tumbleweed. “Just another wind witch.” Leaning forward, he patted his mount’s neck. Leather creaked, and Samson snorted. “I know those tumbleweeds spook you.”

Eli turned slightly in front of him, and Cam’s palm automatically went to the child’s waist for support. “Drink, Daddy.” His son pointed to the roaring creek beyond the golden, swaying Aspens.

“Okay. Drink.” He dismounted and lifted his two-year old from his perch behind the saddlehorn.  “Stay, now. Don’t go running off.”

“Stay,” Eli repeated with a nod, his wheat-colored hair fluttering in the breeze.

Cam led his horse to the creek. He removed his canteen and pulled a metal cup from his saddlebags.

“No, Daddy, drink.” Eli pointed to the creek and did his I-want-what-I-want jig, kicking up a little dust in the process. “Cold drink.” He crossed his little arms and stuck out his lower lip.

They’d been riding the range since sun-up, slowly herding his small drove of cattle to lower ground in preparation for winter. No doubt the cranky boy needed a nap. “Okay, you get your way. I’m too tired to argue.” He stepped into the high grass along the bank, squatted and leaned forward, extending the tin cup to catch fresh water gurgling over a mound of rocks in the stream. Cam leaned back on his hunkers. “Here’s your drink.”

Eli trotted over and grabbed the offered cup. “Dank-you,” he chirped in a sing-song voice.

“You’re welcome, Son.” He ruffled the boy’s curls and listened to the child’s gulping and breathing echo within the metal cup. His Amanda would be pleased he was teaching her son manners. She’d always set great store by them, growing up in the South the way she had. No doubt his beloved was smiling from heaven at his awkward attempts to raise their boy alone.

The offending tumbleweed that spooked Samson moments earlier snagged his attention. A sliver of color dangled within it. He took his son’s hand and walked him away from the stream toward the tumbleweed caught between a couple scrub pines.

He stooped to untangle a piece of blue calico. Maybe Eli would enjoy playing with it. As he untied the knotted material, paper crackled. What’s this?

Cam unfolded the remnant of calico. A piece of newspaper was tucked inside. Wasn’t that odd? As he turned the torn paper over, slanted writing along the margins caught his eye. Before he began reading, he gave Eli the scrap of calico.

“To the four winds, I hate it here. I miss Pennsylvania. I miss my home with my things about me. I miss my students and my husband, hooligan that he was. My friends told me nothing good would come from marrying him, but love only sees what it wants. Now I am alone, on the run and without funds. I barely earn my keep. I have no hope of happiness and no one to talk to, except you—the four winds.”

 “Mine.” Eli held out the blue strip of fabric so it fluttered in the breeze.

“That’s right, son.” Cam turned the scrap of newspaper over in hopes of reading more. Nothing, but an ad for winter coats at Munter and Lillanthal’s in Deadwood. The paper’s name, Black Hills Pioneer, was printed in the corner. No more handwriting and no signature. So a lonely, unhappy woman wrote a note to nobody and secreted it within the folds of fabric and tied it to a tumbleweed? He ran a hand across the back of his neck. If that wasn’t the strangest thing.

BUY LINKS:

THE WILD ROSE PRESS -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLetters

AMAZON -- http://bit.ly/TumbleweedLettersDavis

 You can find me online at http://www.vonniedavis.com