How to Seduce a Fireman by Vonnie Davis

I'm very excited to be able to share this fabulous story with you all!

How to Seduce a Fireman

by

Vonnie Davis

The heat is on… 

Book 1 in the ‘Wild Heat’ series – the hottest new fireman trilogy of the fall!

Cassie Wolford has crushed on fireman Quinn Gallagher ever since he moved to Clearwater three years ago. There’s just one problem: he’s always made it clear dating is out of the question. But once a Wolford sets their sights on someone, that person doesn’t stand a chance! Cassie decides it’s time for Quinn to get a dose of his own medicine… and sets out to show him what he’s missing! 

Quinn knows only too well what Cassie’s up to but he can’t give her what she wants. He isn’t good for anyone, much less someone as sweet as his angel. Fighting her off hurts like hell, but giving her false hope of a happy ever after would be damn cruel. That’s why he has to leave Clearwater. 

Unfortunately, someone from his past has different ideas and when Cassie’s life is threatened this former CIA operative is staying put, prepared to crawl through hell and back to keep her safe. And it looks like he might just have to. 

EXCERPT:

Quinn Gallagher was dead meat.

Cassie Wolford marched to the side door of Fire and Marine Rescue Unit Thirty-two in Clearwater, Florida. She swiped the entry pass she’d purloined a year or so ago from her oldest brother and yanked the handle when the light in the security lock turned green. Propping her hip against the door, she maneuvered the large box containing the remainder of her birthday cake through the doorway. Quinn better have a damn good excuse for being a no show at my party last night. 

She’d asked him twice if he was coming and, both times, he’d used that wicked smile on her before claiming he wouldn’t miss her twenty-first birthday for the world. So unless he was inside hobbling on crutches with two broken legs or wore a body cast from face to feet, he was about to get his jaw jacked. I don’t care if he does have a body built for sin and I want to be his number one sinner. 

With both of her brothers serving as firemen in this top-notch unit, Cassie knew her way around the building. She crossed the threshold into the firemen’s living quarters, slapped the cake on the large dining room table and pivoted toward conversation floating in from the TV area amid the battle sounds of a warrior game on Wii.

Masculine laughter, deep and sensual, slithered straight to her core before spreading out to spark all her nerve endings. Quinn Gallagher did that to her, no matter if it was his laughter, his voice, or his eyes that fluctuated between blue and grey. Why Quinn? Why not a guy who is as crazy for me as I am for him? But no, I have to fall hard for Mr. I-Could-Give-a-Shit.

One quick glance in his direction, and she sucked air. Quinn, in his typically jovial manner, was recanting a story to her youngest brother, Jace, and a new fireman she’d yet to meet. All Quinn wore was a white towel slung low around his narrow hips. Water drops lazily forged a trail down his tanned and toned body. Moisture dripped from his freshly shampooed dark hair, trailed over his perpetual five-o’clock shadow and plopped onto his collarbone, splatted onto his hardened pecs and washboard stomach, before skiing the hills and valleys over every ridge of his abs. Oh, to be a droplet of water. 

AVAILABLE TODAY!

Amazon

Barnes and Noble  

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Vonnie Davis is an award-winning, international author who writes contemporary, historical and paranormal romance, often with strong elements of suspense. She likens herself to a croissant: warm, crusty, wrinkled, a tad flaky—and best served with strong coffee.

Visit her WEBSITE at: http://www.vonniedavis.com/ 

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Character Quickie: Einstein Senta Augustus Sinclair

20 quickie facts about Einstein Senta Augustus Sinclair: 

Birthday? Not sure. I consider it the day my mistress, Becca Sinclair, brought me home two years ago.
Favorite color? Tan…the color of doggie treats.
Nickname? Bad Dog.
What breed are you? I’m a purebred German shepherd.
Have you been neutered? (Slaps paw over eyes) Yes, it was the worst experience of my life! (Shows one dark eye) Psych! Fooled ya! I was totally out of it, so it was no biggie.
City of residence? Clearwater Beach, Florida
If you were a jelly bean flavor, what flavor would you be? Pepperoni
Occupation? Taking care of Becca.
Hobbies? Getting in her underwear drawer and stealing her thongs.
Favorite song? “Who Let the Dogs Out”
Name one item in your freezer right now? Doggie ice cream treats.
Your greatest fear? Traffic. It can be a bitch.
Most treasured possession? My mistress. She knows how to take care of a dog—love, food, water, exercise, daily grooming—did I mention love?
Special talent? Getting Wolf’s attention by giving him a pair of Becca’s thongs.
Cat or dog? Huh? You’re asking me that? Wolf’s got a cat. (growls deep in throat) Fluffy. (pardon me while I get the taste of the critter’s name out of my mouth. Leans down and licks balls).
Pet peeve? People who don’t love their pets the way I’ve been loved.
Unforgettable moment? The day Wolf carried Becca into our house after she’d broken her nose. I knew then he’d be our alpha.
Dry or canned food? Dry, with canned as a treat.
Favorite guilty pleasure? Pepperoni off Wolf’s pizza. Becca pretends not to notice when he slips me a slice or four.
If you could ask your author one question, what would it be? If she’s going to write a sequel with Cassie and Quinn, will I be in it too?

Einstein is a secondary character in Vonnie Davis's humorous new release, SANTA WORE LEATHERS

Santa Wore Leathers is available now:
AMAZON ~ http://bit.ly/SantaLeathers
BARNES and NOBLE ~ http://bit.ly/1846Aau

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Writer Wednesday: Vonnie Davis

Thanks for having me here today, Sarah. Someone recently asked me how I’d describe myself. I think I’m like a freshly baked French croissant: warm, crusty, wrinkled and flaky. Best served with strong coffee. My writing is often flaky, too. You know how I love to laugh, how I enjoy infusing humor into my stories. The world is too full of sadness, misery and snarky people. I adore kindness and laughter. While my characters aren’t always kind, they do have their humorous moments.

Writing humor isn’t always easy. What strikes me as hilarious might fly right over your head. I have an off-the-wall sense of humor that isn’t shared by everyone and that’s okay. We don’t all want to be alike, do we? I mean, imagine a world full of Vonnie Davis clones. Yikes!

So I have to use a light hand at writing humor. Sometimes, in editing, I tone it down a couple notches. I grew up in the era of slapstick comedy, so some scenes play out in my head like a comedy routine. Take my heroine’s carrying in a large box of ready-to-assemble bookshelves in my Christmas novella, Santa Wore Leathers.

She untied the rope securing her trunk lid over the long box and contemplated the best way to remove the carton and get it inside to her living room. How difficult could it be? She wrapped an arm around the box and pulled, hoping to hug it to her side.
It barely budged. Crap!

Shoving the sleeves of her sweatshirt to her elbows, she put every ounce of strength into the job. She tugged and pulled enough of the carton out of the trunk to allow gravity to upend it onto the street. Then she straightened, shifted her shoulders and used her sleeve to swipe the perspiration from her forehead.

She bent at the knees, put her shoulder to it and lifted the heavy item on an exhale and a loud grunt. Becca staggered under the weight across her shoulder. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The unmanageable carton weaved her back and forth. For a few seconds, all she could do was stagger.

She made it up the step of the curb to the sidewalk, nearly dropping to her knees with the effort. Thigh muscles quivering with the strain of the weight, she gritted her teeth. “Come on, Becca, you can do this.”

Thank goodness the walkway was only twelve feet long. She tried not to think of the three steps to her porch. Maybe she could drag or push the box up the steps—if she reached them under all this weight.

A loud rumble roared down the street, and her stomach clenched at the familiar sound. Wolf’s Harley eased to the curb.

“Becca! Don’t. I’ll carry that in for you.”

She pivoted to tell him she didn’t need or want his help. The sudden movement threw her load off balance. Arms clasped around the box, she fell backwards and her spine slammed on the hard ground. Air whooshed from her lungs on impact. A loud pop sounded as the box thudded across her face. Pain exploded in her nose and head.

“Becca! My God.” A set of thick male knees pushed into her side. “Here, let me get this off you.” Wolf shoved the box away as if it were no heavier than a bag of tinsel. “Give me a chance to get this helmet off.” Leather rustled and squeaked.

Wet warmth flowed over her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart, looks like your nose is broken.” Strong fingers moved from the bridge of her nose to its tip. The pain made her eyes cross. “Hold on. Let me get my first-aid kit.”

His heat disappeared and running footfalls sounded on his porch. Slowly the spinning stopped, and she blinked to bring the world back into focus. Was her face smashed? She gingerly fingered her forehead, nose and cheeks and grimaced when she pulled back a blood-covered hand.

Einstein was barking like crazy from inside her town house. Bless his canine heart, he knew she needed him.

Wolf settled on his knees beside her again. “Some people bleed more than others when their noses break. Don’t be alarmed.” His voice was calm and authoritative as he snapped on latex gloves. Cool alcohol wipes were gently pressed across her face.

“Ith my noth broken?” My God, was that her voice? Why was she speaking with a lisp?

He shined a light in her eyes. “Good retina response.” Chocolate eyes lowered to within inches of hers, minty breath swept across her face and a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were trying not to smile. “And, yes, sweetheart, your noth is broken. I’ll do my best to set it so it’s still pretty and straight.”

“Thet it? No!”

Einstein’s barking and whining increased. No doubt he sensed her anxiety.

Wolf gave a nonchalant shrug. “Set might be an extreme word. I’m just going to make sure it’s straight.”

“Are you two at it again?” Mrs. Minelli’s orthopedic shoes came into view. “Oh no! She’s bleeding! Shall I call an ambulance? I can press the button on my senior alert necklace.” She held out a medical medallion strung on a silver chain around her neck. Today, her sweatshirt bore a Christmas tree design with lights that somehow twinkled on and off.

“Thanks, Mrs. Minelli, but I’ve got it covered. I’ll stop the bleeding and carry her inside.”

“What happened?” The elderly woman tapped his side with her cane. “Did you belt her’ cause she wouldn’t get frisky with you?”

Wolf’s hands stilled and he exhaled an audible sigh fluttering the hair at Becca’s temple. His tension was palpable. Under his breath, he muttered, “God, just give me some frickin’ patience here.” Then he aimed his thousand watt smile at the older lady and told her what had happened.

“Well, okay then. I was just going to hitch a ride with Mrs. Bernstein to water aerobics. We broads need to keep our girlish figures. Becca, darlin’, I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Her words trailed after the tottering old woman, her cane tapping as she meandered down the sidewalk.

Wolf’s fingertips firmly pressed into her nose and more stars exploded behind her eyes.

“Don’t touch my broken noth.” She batted away his hands.

“Do you want to be called ‘witch’s beak’ for the rest of your life?”

“Witheth beak? Ith it that bad?” What would her coworkers at the paper think? Still, did this yay-hoo know what he was doing? “If my noth needth thet, I want a profethenal to thet it.”

He tore open a paper packet and removed two gauze cylinders. “I had advanced corpsman training in the Navy before I was recommended for the SEALs. Believe me, I’ve handled worse than a broken nose.”

Wolf shoved the gauze up her nostrils.

More fireworks exploded in her head.

“Ow! You big thithead. You hurt me on purpoth.” Her one hand tightened in a fist. If he hurt her again, she was going to belt him.

Those brown eyes of his held humor. “Thithead? We hardly know each other well enough for such intimacies.” He smiled and tilted his head. “Although, I am getting pretty familiar with your taste in underwear. Einstein left a pair of purple thongs beside my ladder the day I fell off and leopard print thongs at my back door yesterday.”

“Oh, no,” she groaned. She’d never had trouble with her dog running off until this man moved in next door. She could see why a woman might chase after Wolf—an enticing blend of macho, good looks and an unexpected measure of gentleness—but why was her dog so damned attracted to him? And just why was her dog so suddenly set on stealing her underwear?

“What did you do with my thongs? You never brought them back.”

“Tied them to the handle grips of my Harley.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“You what!” She would kill him.

His head leaned back as deep laughter erupted. “Don’t get riled, sweetheart.” His eyes bore humor and something akin to affection.  

That damn box must have broken my mind.

“Thop calling me ‘threatheart.’”

“Can't.” His fingers were more gentle on her face now. “It's part of my plan. Maybe if I keep calling you sweetheart, you'll start getting sweet on me.”

“Cold day in hell, buthter.”  

BLURB FOR SANTA WORE LEATHERS:

There’s only one thing on Becca Sinclair’s Christmas list this holiday season – her very own column in the local paper. And if she can build a huge blog following, her wish just might come true.

Enter Dan “Wolf” Wolford aka the man-whore next door and the new star of Becca’s popular, post-divorce blog about men. A Navy SEAL turned commander of the Florida Marine Rescue Unit, Wolf’s the very definition of the word alpha – and with an endless rotation of women on his doorstep, this hunk on a Harley has Becca and her female followers all hot and bothered!

All Becca wants for Christmas is her newspaper column, right? But when she finds herself the target of Wolf’s irresistible attentions, her snarky comebacks become less and less convincing and, suddenly, she’s not so sure anymore…

BUY LINKS:

AMAZON ~ http://bit.ly/SantaLeathers
BARNES and NOBLE ~ http://bit.ly/1846Aau

Please visit me at my blog: http://www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com
Or follow me on Facebook: Vonnie Davis.
I tweet under @VonnieWrites, if you care to follow me in the twitterverse.



Psst, Sarah here. Before you go I thought I would share with you one more photo Vonnie sent me. This one is how she imagines Wolf, hero of SANTA WORE LEATHERS, to look. And because I', all about sharing...well, here he is. You're welcome. ;)

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Welcome Vonnie Davis!!

Please help me welcome the lovely, talented Vonnie Davis. Vonnie is a dear friend of mine whom I met through our mutual publisher, and she's here to talk about her new release, RAIN IS A LOVE SONG.


Sarah, I’ve been looking forward to my visit on your blog for several weeks to talk about my romantic suspense trilogy. Each book starts in Paris, my favorite city in the universe. We’re going back for a few weeks in September and I cannot wait. I’ll be doing more research there and also in Berlin for a book I want to write. Or rather a book I really don’t care to write, but the characters simply won’t leave me alone.

Travel anywhere in today’s society carries its own set of risks—lost luggage, airplane malfunctions, pick-pockets, food poisoning and dangerous, devious people like terrorists. In this series, each book has its own romantic couple while the same band of terrorists wreaks their own brand of havoc. The terrorists are known by their macabre calling card—a handprint of the victim’s blood—The Red Hand.

I’d like to share a scene from book two of this series—RAIN IS A LOVE SONG. Today and tomorrow, this book will be a FREE download on Amazon.

Jean-Luc is an agent for the French counterterrorism unit. Gwen is an American visiting her sister in Paris. Jean-Luc works with the sister’s husband. Every visit Gwen makes to Paris, Jean-Luc asks her out. They argue, yet the attraction grows stronger.

This scene has them hurrying to the scene of a Metro bombing. Gwen is a trained crime scene photographer who’s just found out she’s been temporarily assigned to the counterterrorism unit.

Work under him, indeed. Typical bossy man. She’d help, but on her terms. After all, helping this annoying man would make Rhiannon safer. Her gaze slid to his muscled thighs under his black slacks, and her fingers started itching. The dark blue dress shirt only accented his dark features. He was one fine specimen, no matter how annoying. She glanced out the side window as his car sped along the Parisian streets. Hadn’t she promised herself she’d temper her attitude toward him? She exhaled a long, slow breath and forced herself to unwind.

A month. Thirty days of working with Jean-Luc. How could she stand it? Would she be able to keep her hands to herself? Could she fight the attraction? If she focused solely on business, she might stand half a chance.

“I saw on the television that the explosion was at the Metro stop near the Arc de Triomphe. The newscaster said four people were killed and many more injured.”

Jean-Luc’s jaw clenched. He snapped off the radio. “Yes, the reports are correct. Henri is at headquarters fielding the media’s many questions. He’s good with public relations. André and Bernard are on their way to the scene. First responders, of course, were there within minutes.”

“What kind of bomb did they use? How did they get it on the Metro?” Although there were security cameras mounted everywhere, there were no bag checkers. People were free to carry on whatever they liked. During her previous trips, there were mothers with strollers, dragging carry-ons instead of diaper bags. Shoppers had bags. Most young adults used backpacks.

Jean-Luc changed lanes again and turned onto a bridge, or pont as the French called them. “I’ll have more accurate news on the type of incendiary device once we get there and I see things for myself. Niko and I were part of the investigation team in London after the Metro explosion in oh-eight.”

“Is that when you both worked for Interpol?”

“Yes. You asked about the bombing site. The Metro stop for the Arc de Triomphe and Champs Elysées is the Charles-de-Gaulle Etoile sortie, or exit. It’s always very crowded. They chose their target well if they were aiming for maximum damage.” His phone rang and he took the call.

While he spoke in rapid-fire French, she loaded a new roll of film in her camera and taped her recorder under her top. She clipped the microphone to her neckline.

Jean-Luc approached the Arc de Triomphe and stopped at a barricade set up around the area. He buzzed his window down and extended his badge, ordering the policeman to grant him access. Once the barrier was moved aside, he zipped his car beside others parked in a haphazard fashion.

“Let’s go. Stick close by in case something else happens. We have to be prepared for anything, is that clear?”

Although she had the urge to throw him some attitude, she also knew now wasn’t the time. People had died. Others were injured and horrified. She’d do what she could to help. “Tell me what you want done, and I’ll do it.” She opened the door and got out, slinging her bag over her shoulder and hanging her cameras around her neck.

Jean-Luc grabbed a bag from his trunk and, taking her hand, started jogging toward the cordoned-off Metro entrance.” I want you to take pictures of anything you see, no matter how insignificant. You’ve got good instincts, so use them. A word of warning. We don’t know if there are more bombs planted somewhere, although first respondents have searched the area.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m serious. I want Rhiannon to grow up with a mother. Understand?” They reached the concrete steps leading down to the Metro. “I’m not hearing what I want to hear.” He squeezed her hand in silent command for her response.

“You’ll have my cooperation. I promise. I’ll be careful.”

The doors at the bottom of the steps gaped open. One hung askew where it had been blown off several of its hinges—or yanked off as frightened passengers stampeded from the interior. Officers stopped them both and then flagged them onward as soon as they saw Jean-Luc’s badge.

A bank of turnstiles blocked their entry. He placed a hand on the post of one and jumped over the turnstile. Turning, he grabbed Gwen around the waist and lifted her over. They hurried toward the interior.

The normally pristine white tiles on the walls lining the many corridors were streaked with soot. Jean-Luc kept his hand on the small of her back as he hurried her through the maze of corridors. The escalator to the lower level wasn’t moving. Piles of debris carpeted the lower steps as they ran down them. She started taking pictures.

Her companion halted for a second, surveyed the scene ahead of them and cursed. On a tile next to the entrance to a loading area was a bloody handprint. She snapped several shots of it from different angles, hoping the multiple views of the handprint might give a clue as to the height of the person who left it. If the terrorist were short, then the heel of the handprint would be heavier in concentration of blood than the fingers. She panned the area, her shutter whirring as she shot pictures of everything in rapid succession.

Jean-Luc wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Let’s move on.”

They ran down the final set of steps, illuminated only by emergency lighting, and turned.

She wasn’t prepared.

Her eyes couldn’t take it all in at once. “Dear God,” she breathed.

Skeletons of white and green passenger cars sat on end, jackknifed against each other. Windows were blown out. Mangled steel polluted the loading area. Rubble of rail cars and body parts littered both sides of the tracks. Pools of blood streamed toward cracks in the concrete. Many of the gold and orange tiles on the walls of the station were blown off. Gaping holes marred the arched ceiling that was once white. Fluorescent light fixtures dangled. She shuddered and swallowed bile. I had no idea it would be so ghastly.

Huge emergency floodlights were powered by snakes of coiled cords. Firemen tugged on fire hoses, spraying down the wreckage. Shadows, moving and immobile, were everywhere. Her eyes darted from silhouette to silhouette and her skin crawled. She’d have nightmares about this. I don’t want to be here.

In the eerie silence, a controlled kind of pandemonium ensued. Medical personnel treated those less seriously injured. Gwen assumed those severely hurt had already been evacuated. Other passengers, not yet released, huddled, hugged and cried in hysteria. A few waded through the debris in silent shock, their eyes wide and vacant. Smoke blanketed the dim area. An unholy stench hung heavy in the air. She reached in her shoulder bag for a tissue to cover her nose. Her stomach lurched. I’m going to be sick.

Jean-Luc’s arm wrapped around her waist and turned her against his solid chest. “Are you okay?” His narrowed eyes surveyed the scene around them while his arm pressed her to him. He was fracturing himself for her benefit. Part of him was the comforting male; another was the expertly trained agent—no doubt observing, evaluating and developing his investigation tactics.

“Have you ever seen anything so terrible?”

He kissed her hair, almost in an absent-minded gesture. “Yes, in London.” His hand rubbed up and down her back. “Take a deep breath, sweetheart. We have work to do.”

Learn more about Vonnie and her writing at her website:

http://www.vonniedavis.com

Don't forget to pick up your FREE copy of RAIN IS A LOVE SONG!

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Back Where You Belong by Vonnie Davis

Have you ever met someone with whom you instantly connect? Within minutes you feel as if you’ve known this person all your life. Other times, you can’t warm up to someone, no matter how hard you try. And occasionally you meet a person who turns you into someone who can say the silliest things—a real foot-in-mouth character.

But what if this person is a man and you’re a woman? What if something about his demeanor makes you act out of character? What makes that happen? Hormones? Pheromones? Reaction to testosterone? I’ve taken such a scenario as the beginning to my novella—Back Where You Belong.

So allow me to share the opening of my story…

What the hell? 

Tyler Desmond whirled away from the shot he was about to make at the pool table to grasp for whatever caused the sudden, stinging pain at the back of his neck. When his fingers closed around a dart, he yanked the offending object out, searching through the crowd in the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk for the bastard who dared throw one at him.

His cousin Billy Wayne leaned in close as if to examine the dart’s point of entry. “Damn, that’s gotta hurt.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed on the culprit. The object of his wrath stood about eight feet away, her face glowing red like embers in a branding fire and eyes mushrooming when his gaze zeroed in on hers.

He handed his cue stick to Billy Wayne and growled, “Not as much as one female’s about to. You can be damn sure of that.”

Three women, her friends no doubt, scurried back to their table, leaving her to face him alone. He slowly sauntered toward her, gathering his words as he approached. He’d cut many men to size with his acidic tongue. This woman would be no different.

 Nervous hands clasped and unclasped and then fiddled with curly blonde hair. Then, as if to prepare herself for their inevitable confrontation, she squared her shoulders.

Good move, lady. You’re going to need a dose of courage for I plan on giving you a verbal thrashing you’ll never forget. 

He extended his hand, the offending dart lying in his palm. “I believe you lost this…in my neck.”

“Crap, yes, I did.” She plucked it from his hand. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”

He placed his hands on his hips and glared into her blue eyes. “Really? Then who the hell were you aiming for?”

The woman had the audacity to giggle. “I…I wasn’t aiming for anyone. You see, Carrie Jo”–she jerked her thumb toward the table of women behind her–“bumped against my elbow just as I was shooting. She was horsing around, calling me ‘Dart Demon.’”

His gaze ricocheted toward the gaggle of women, all nodding and smiling. Two did a finger wave. He scowled as a dull ache settled behind his eyeballs. When Dart Demon leaned toward him, he got a whiff of her perfume and fought to ignore its beguiling, flowery scent.

“Just between us,” she began, her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, “she’s had too much to drink. Good thing I’m the designated driver tonight.” Her hand rose in a swearing gesture. “Honest. Nothing stronger than diet soda. See, Carrie Jo and her boyfriend are fighting again. They’re just not suited for each other.” Her blonde head shook once. “Ever notice how opposites attract? It’s the strangest thing, isn’t it?”

She pursed her lips, giving him no time to reply before she charged ahead like his prize Brahman bull. Evidently the woman didn’t need to breathe to talk.

“He likes rap music and she likes country. He likes to play video games while she runs marathons and works out. He’s a slob and she’s a neat freak. Yet, they can’t keep their hands off each other. The chemistry’s there, but not the compatibility. Know what I mean?”

Tyler inhaled and opened his mouth, ready to start his tirade. But before one angry word could roll off his tongue, she commenced her nonsensical rambling again.

“That’s not why we’re here though. We’re here to celebrate. I sold an article to a magazine. My first!” A smile, brighter than a hill country sunrise spread and niggled at one of his faint, long-forgotten memories.

“Isn’t that just too wild?” She pressed a hand to full breasts that strained a T-shirt imprinted with: I’m the strong, silent type. 

Silent? Are you freakin’ kidding me? 

“People keep telling me I have writing talent, but I’m not so sure. I guess you could say I have a lot of self-doubt.” Her blue-eyed gaze locked on his as she pursed those pink lips again. “I’m just not good with words, you know?”

Right, and I’m not good with raising cattle. The dull ache in his head ratcheted up a notch.

“I’m prattling, aren’t I? I am.” Those blonde curls bobbed again, and he wondered if they were as soft as they looked. “I prattle when I get nervous. Normally I’m quiet.” Nervous hands rose and fell. “Most days you can’t get a word out of me.”

Just my damn lucky day then, isn’t it? 

While shooting pool at the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk, rancher Tyler Desmond takes an errant dart in the neck. Ready to retaliate, he’s instead captivated by the blonde who threw it. Tyler isn’t interested in opening his heart, so why does he kiss the verbal buzz saw? Just to shut her up? 
As a teenager, Lacy LaRoche had a secret crush on Tyler. When the dart brings them face-to-face, all she can do is chatter—until he kisses her. But Lacy didn’t come back to Texas to fall in love. She’s hiding another secret: her roommate surreptitiously videotaped Lacy undressing and posted it on the internet. 

When Tyler’s daughter is bullied at school, Lacy must reveal the truth and face the emotional damage of cyberbullying. Over-protective of his daughter—and his heart—Tyler must learn to trust again. Can two scarred hearts find their way back to where they belong? 

This is a free download until Saturday, April 6th!!
Run, don't walk, to Amazon and snatch up this fantastic story!

GET YOUR COPY NOW

And make sure you check out Vonnie's WEBSITE to learn more about her and her writing!

www.vonniedavis.com

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Blog of the Year Award

Woot! I was nominated a second time! I now have 2 stars! 

I am thrilled to have received this award from the very talented and totally awesome Vonnie Davis. Thank you my friend, for bestowing me with this honor and for your kind words. I can't tell you how much your words meant to me.

Readers, if you've never checked out Vonnie's blog, you should. http://vintagevonnie.blogspot.com/ Vonnie is a talented, generous writer who also has one of my favorite qualities in people - she's funny!

This award is unlike other awards that you can only add to your blog once. This award can be updated with additional stars. For every time your blog is nominated, you get to add an additional star.

There are a total of “6” stars to collect. Which means that you can check out your favorite blogs—and even if they have already been given the award by someone else—you can still make your opinion count and pass it on to them again and help them (or me) reach the maximum of “6” stars.

The rules of the award are simple:

1. Select the blogs you think deserve the 2012 Blog of the Year Award.

2. Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen—there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required and present them with this award.

3. Please include a link back to this page: Blog of the Year Award. http://thethoughtpalette.co.uk/our-rewards/blog-of-the-year-award/ and include these rules in your post. (Please don’t alter the rules or the badge!)

4. Let the blogs(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the rules with them.

5. You can now join our Facebook page – click the link here. ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award (http://www.facebook.com/groups/BlogoftheYear/) and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience.

Here are the blogs I've chosen to receive this award:

Amie Louellen:  Amie Louellen and I met because we're both published with The Wild Rose Press, and bonded because we're both a little bit crazy. A fantastic friend and writer, I don't know where I'd be without Amie right there to shore me back up when I'm feeling down. She writes comedic romance, which I've always secretly wished I could pull off, and is one of the most supportive writers I know.

AJ Nuest:  What can I say about AJ Nuest...honestly, whenever I picture AJ, I see her in a cheerleading outfit. No, not because she runs around in one, LOL, but because she is probably the biggest cheerleader that the other TWRP authors have. She's always happy and supportive - the bright, sunny spot in the publishing world.

Vonnie Davis:  The rules state I'm allowed to return the favor so I'm going to. Vonnie Davis stated that I'm the author she wants to be when she grows up, well, she's the person I want to be when I grow up. Positive, supportive, generous, funny, an awesome grandma...I could go on and on. Vonnie goes out of her way to make authors feel great about themselves and their writing, and I'm betting that she does the same with the non-authors in her world. One of these days I'll have the pleasure of meeting with Vonnie in person - I look forward to it!

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Friday Quickie

25 quickie facts about Vonnie Davis:

Birthday? May 27th
Favorite color? Lavender
Favorite animal? Giraffe
Siblings? One of each
Favorite drink? Coffee…no Margarita…well, coffee
If you were a jelly bean flavor, what flavor would you be? Grape
Favorite author? Jill Shalvis
Favorite dish? China…okay, Lobster
Ice cream flavor? Caramel swirl
Favorite Season? Spring
Plotter or Pantser? Pantser
Hobbies? Drawing floorplans for houses
Dream vacation? Back to Paris
Favorite TV show? History Detectives
Musical preference? Classical
Pet peeve? People who talk loudly on cell phones
Favorite place to write? Bob Evans…seriously, we go in, they lead us to our favorite booth and hook me up to an IV of coffee.
Favorite song? “Oh, what a night”
Odd family fact? My grandfather, 8 generations removed, was one of George Washington’s private guards.
Unforgettable moment? My first day of college; I was 45.
Favorite Superhero? James Bond…I’d like to double O his seven. *saucy wink*
Spicy or not? Are we talking food? Not … Romances, most def!
Cat or dog? Cat
Favorite candy bar? Reeses Peanut Butter Cups
Favorite guilty pleasure? Shoes


Summarize your book Twitter style – 140 characters or less:

#HotRomance #ContemporaryCowboy #BeautifulNurse #SizzlingAttraction #EmotionalRead #UnforgettableCharacters @Storm’s Interlude

BUY LINK

To learn more about Vonnie and her writing, check out her blog:

http://www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com

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Wrestling & Writing with Vonnie Davis

Sarah, I’ve been waiting for today, eager to be a guest on your blog. Thanks for having me. To celebrate my visit here, I’m giving away a copy of Storm’s Interlude to one lucky commenter who fulfills the requirement listed below, so read on.

I come from a long line of wrestlers. I chuckle as I write that, but it’s true. My brother, nephew and my two sons all wrestled. Mike, my youngest, went to college on a wrestling scholarship and now coaches elementary age kids. His son also wrestles both for his school and on the Maryland Junior Terps exhibition team (grandma bragging alert needed here).

Consequently my rump has spent more hours on hard gymnasium bleachers than it cares to remember. Yes, I am a Wrestler Mom and proud of it! **wink** I’ve also read a gazillion romance novels as I’ve sat on those bleachers waiting for my son to wrestle. And my son still recalls how there was always a Snickers and a Mars bar tucked into his gym bag and a note of encouragement slipped between the laces of his wrestling shoes. Odd the little things kids remember.

Needless to say I love the sport.

Last night while rewriting some scenes, trying to make them less jerky and more fluid, I was also watching the PIAA Collegiate Wrestling Scholarships. One of my favorite commercials came on—author and screenwriter John Irving, ex-national wrestling champ, comparing writing to wrestling. Makes sense, doesn’t it? How often have we wrestled with our plots, our characters, our endings? For me, too often.



John Irving says you have to earn the ending. One earns it by learning the craft and then rewriting and rewriting.

How often have you read a book and marveled at how well the story flowed, how the descriptive imagery created a mental picture or how quickly you came to care about the characters? Drawing the reader in is not easy, yet it’s something I strive for, as do all writers.

Our characters have to be flawed, just as we all are, and yet likable. Three main tools for doing that are deep point of view, internal dialog and zippy verbal dialog.


Here’s a scene from a novella I have coming out June 27th, Those Violet Eyes.


Win is a veteran, having lost part of his leg and hearing in Iraq. He’s come back to Texas to heal, find a piece of his soul and open a ranch for children with amputee limbs. Evie can’t wait to get out of Texas and works as a waitress at a honky tonk to earn “get away” money. Win has just started working there part-time as a cook. Kiera, who helps Gus run the honky tonk, tells Evie to go back to the kitchen to introduce herself to the new cook.




~*~

Evie charged through the swinging door to the kitchen and skidded to a stop. It couldn’t be. Although his back was toward her, there was no mistaking the height and broad muscled shoulders. This mystery nephew of Gus’s was the guy who’d remarked on her eyes. Her stomach did a little twitchy dance, nerves no doubt.

She ran her suddenly damp palms over her short skirt and cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Win?”

No answer.

She took a couple steps closer and noticed he was washing vegetables under a spray of water. “Win?”

No reply.

Evie rolled her eyes and stepped behind him, tapping him on the back. The metal strainer clattered in the sink and a blur of motion barely registered before steely hands gripped her forearms. Oh my God! In a flurry of movement, he snatched her off the floor and backed her against the stainless steel counter. Cold wet hands viced her arms. Her eyes snapped wide and the air whooshed from her lungs when his body slammed into hers.

Win’s eyes were narrowed, his breathing rapid through a clenched jaw and a vein bulged in his forehead. “Don’t do that.”

The man was every inch the warrior, every hard tensed inch. He held her mid-air, so close they were nearly eyeball to eyeball. As his gaze traveled over her face and awareness evidently crept in as to the sex of his attacker, several inches of his frame hardened even more.

Evie swallowed. Oh, good Lord.

He glared and his nostrils flared.

“I…I’m sorry, Win. I called your name, but…but you didn’t answer. I was only trying to get your attention.” Her lips twitched at the humor in the situation—hadn’t Keira told her the man lost part of his hearing? Evidently she’d startled him. Poor soul. She felt a portion of herself return. A portion she’d hidden for so long; that light-hearted part of her soul that teased and cajoled. “Honest, I wasn’t trying to attack you.” She placed an open palm on his defined pecs and patted. “You’re safe with me, big guy.” Just to rattle him some more, she winked.

Win’s hazel eyes flashed for a second, then he slowly leaned in and whispered in her ear, “You’re not safe with me.”

A shiver galloped pell-mell through her. He smelled of pine soap and musk. His short, spiky, straw-colored hair tickled her neck when he lowered his head a fraction. Warm lips barely grazed her skin, igniting a sensual fire in her system. Her eyebrows furrowed in question. Had he just kissed her below the ear? It was so brief, so feather light her mind wasn’t sure. Her nipples, though, piped up in confirmation. Hell yeah, he kissed you! Me next, me next!

My debut book, Storm’s Interlude, was nominated Book of the Year at Long and Short Reviews. It is available at The Wild Rose Press and Amazon.

Buy links: TWRP ~ http://bit.ly/zBsUyl
Amazon ~ http://amzn.to/wWibTe

To enter the drawing for a copy of Storm’s Interlude, hop over to my blog and sign-up to follow and also leave a brief comment with your email address at the bottom of the post “Keep Your Fingers Crossed.” I’ll need your email address to notify you should you win. Good luck! http://www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com

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Spotlight On...Vonnie Davis

I'm so excited to have the fabulous Vonnie Davis with me at the keyboard today. Vonnie not only shares with us an emotional excerpt from her book Storm's Interlude, but she's agreed to give a copy of the book to one lucky commenter. 

Welcome, Vonnie! What surprised you the most when you became a published author?

The reviews. When I received my first one, my heart beat so hard and heat infused my body like a super hot flash. My eyes quickly skimmed over it, looking for words like junk, boring, inept, horrible. But the reviewer liked it, and I was thrilled. The second positive review was an even bigger shock, and so on. I guess I didn’t expect anyone to enjoy what I’d written. Aren’t we usually our own worst critics? I know I am.

I'm definitely my worst critic. Tell us about Storm’s Interlude and where we can find it.

Nurse Rachel Dennison comes to Texas determined to prepare her new patient for a second round of chemo. What she isn’t counting on is her patient’s twin brother, Storm Masterson.

Despite her initial attraction, Storm has two things Rachel can’t abide: a domineering personality and a fiancée. Half Native American, with the ability to have "vision dreams," Storm dreams about Rachel for three nights before her arrival. Both are unprepared for the firestorm of emotions their first encounter ignites.

Ultimately, it is Rachel’s past—and abusive, maniacal ex-boyfriend—that threatens to keep them apart…and Storm’s dreams that bring them together again.

Buy Links for The Wild Rose Press

For Amazon


What is the most emotional scene you had to write in this piece?

The scene I refer to as “the closet scene.” Rachel opens her closet to find her maniacal ex-boyfriend standing there. Writing violence is not my thing, but I forced myself to do it. I had to, Sarah.

In doing my research about domestic violence I noticed only six states have a felony statute on strangulation, a terrifying crime that research has shown affects about one of every five battered women. SIX states! Can you believe it?

Only six?  That's heartbreaking.

Not only that, but many emergency room personnel and first responders don’t recognize red eyes as a sign of strangulation. They often figure the woman has red eyes from crying. Strangulation forces blood into the white of the eyes and also damages the wind pipe and vocal chords, altering the victim’s voice for months.

It infuriates me that legislators don’t see non-lethal strangulation assaults as one of the “red flags” of deadly family violence. The more I read about this, the angrier I got. So, for all the victims of such abuse I had to incorporated strangulation and its long-lasting effects into my story—and I cried as I pulled all those emotions from my soul to write that scene. I had to avenge battered women, you see. Had to.

Excerpt:

When Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding out for a Hero” floated from her stereo speakers, Rachel turned up the volume to enjoy the effects of the drums in the song. Pretending she was pounding the drums with imaginary drumsticks, she turned to open the closet door to choose something to wear to dinner —and gasped a silent scream.
Phillip stood before her.
Silent.
Ominous.
Menacing.
Her mind tried to accept what her eyes saw—and couldn’t. She wanted to scream, but fear, cruel and strong, jumped up and grabbed her by the throat, squeezing and blocking air to her lungs. A squeak escaped, but before it morphed into a scream, Phillip had one hand over her mouth and the other viced her windpipe. She hit, scratched and kicked; futile attempts for he easily overpowered her. “Surprised to see me, bitch?” he hissed in her ear. “Didn’t I tell you I’d come for you?”
In the midst of their struggles, they fell to the floor. She rolled over in an attempt to escape. “Storm!” Damn those drums! No one could hear her over them. Phillip grabbed her ankle and twisted it. Pain ripped up her leg like a buzz saw. He was going to dislocate her knee. She rolled over, easing the pain. He struck her face. Another scream escaped seconds before he covered her mouth again. He punched her stomach, momentarily knocking the air from her.
With one hand over her mouth and his other clamped around her arm, he yanked her from the floor and tossed her onto the bed, where he held her down with brute force. She tried to break free, but his hold was too strong. Could anyone hear their grappling over Bonnie Tyler singing and all those pounding drums? If only she hadn’t turned up the volume.
She struggled to escape, struggled to live. He sat on top of her, his eyes full of maniacal rage. She pushed and hit. “You’ve become a fighter, I see. I wasn’t expecting that. I’ll show you what happens when a woman fights back.” He circled his iron-like fingers around her throat and slowly began to choke her. He reached into his back pocket for a roll of electrical tape, bit off a strip and pressed it to her mouth. She’d seen this expression of madness before and knew what was coming.
How would anyone hear the beating she was about to receive over the volume of the music? Why hadn’t she played Brahms or Mozart? His hold over her windpipe tightened. He punched her in the eye, and she saw a shooting shower of stars. His second blow landed on her jaw. Her lip split. Blood trickled down her chin. Through his beating, her mind raced, trying to come to grips with the shock of finding him in her closet. How had he gotten inside the ranch house? Didn’t anyone search her room?


Wow, what a powerful scene, Vonnie. I can see why that would be difficult for you to write. Whew, I hope that bas...ahem, Phillip...get's his in the end.


Cast the movie. Who would you choose to play your hero and heroine?

I don’t know. I’m so out of touch with young actors. I do have pictures I used as visuals as I wrote.




I LOVE visuals. And holy cow what a visual! Helllooooo, Storm!

And this beauty must be Rachel. 


Very nice, Vonnie. Thanks for sharing.




What comes first, plot or characters?

I get a germ of an idea for a plot and then ask myself what kind of characters would bring it to life. I tend to create my characters from the inside out. I ask myself what my character’s points of pain are. We all have them: Past experiences that push our buttons. Using myself as an example, don’t treat me as if I’m stupid. Why? I stuttered as a child and was regarded by many as being non-intelligent. I had to work extra hard to get stellar grades to show my teachers I was not mentally-challenged…just tongue-challenged. **grins** Storm’s point of pain is his mother abandoning him when he was younger. Rachel’s points of pain are her past abuse with an ex-boyfriend. Once I get those things nailed down, I decide on education levels, how they earn their living and finally how they look.

What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

If I’m not writing, I’m reading. Why life revolves around words.

What’s one thing readers would be surprised to learn about you?

I used to write plays for a non-profit theatre group and I’m also a trained draftsman, or would that be draftswoman?

That's so cool! What’s next for you?

I have a short story under contract with The Wild Rose Press for their Honky Tonk Hearts series—Those Violet Eyes. I’m expecting edits soon for Mona Lisa’s Room, the first book in a trilogy. I’m frantically writing the trilogy’s second book, Rain is a Love Song. This is requiring great effort on my part, because I have two short stories bouncing around in my head, getting louder and demanding my time. I want to stop this project and work on the short stories for a couple days. But since my agent has Rain on her reading schedule for the week of December 19th, I must keep writing it. She does a strict edit of my books. Just when I think I’m getting stronger as a writer, she sends me back a manuscript marked up with a gazillion edits…sigh…so much for my ego.

Where can we find you on the web?

www.vonniedavis.com
www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com


Is there anything you’d like to ask our readers?

Yes, lots, but I’ll try to control myself. What types of stories pull at your heartstrings? Which do you enjoy more? A book that makes you laugh or one that makes you cry?

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Spread the Word Contest Winners!

 
First let me thank all of you for participating in the Spread the Word contest. I was overwhelmed by the positive response!

I also want to thank all of the authors who donated books to the prize package. I couldn't have done this without you!

Okay...let's get to the fun stuff, shall we?

Prize Package #1 - Print

AFTER MIDNIGHT by Sarah Grimm
NOT WITHOUT RISK by Sarah Grimm
SHARP POINTS OF A TRIANGLE by Rachel Brimble
THE PHANTOM LADY OF PARIS by Calvin Davis
STORM'S INTERLUDE by Vonnie Davis
BRODIE'S BRIDE by Amie Louellen
SHORELINE by Jennifer Loy
MISTLETOE RULES by Stacey Joy Netzel
JEZEBEL'S WISH by AJ Nuest
THE ART OF FANG SHUI by Sandra Sookoo

The winner of Prize package #1 is...Calisa Rhose!
Congratulations, Calisa! I'll be emailing you soon to get your address.

Prize Package #2 - eBook

AFTER MIDNIGHT by Sarah Grimm
MIDNIGHT CONQUEST by Arial Burnz
HEARTS IN DARKNESS by Laura Kaye
DITCHED AGAIN by Stacey Joy Netzel
JEZEBEL'S WISH by AJ Nuest
DEMONS AND STILETTOS by Sandra SooKoo

The winner of Prize Package #2 is..._Yay_ !
Congratulations _Yay_ I'll DM you for you email address.

Prize Package #3 - eBook

NOT WITHOUT RISK by Sarah Grimm
HERE'S BLOOD IN YOUR EYE by Kami Cummings (erotic pen name for Arial Burnz)
TEMPTING ADAM by Jill James
BRODIE'S BRIDE by Amie Louellen
GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY by Donna Marie Rogers

The winner of Prize Package #3 is...Isabella Macotte!
Congratulations, Isabella, I'll contact you via email soon.

Last, but not least, taking my cue from Laura Kaye who did such a fabulous job with her shoutout to authors during her last contest, I thought I would share with you the authors who donated books to this one. 

Rachel Brimble

Calvin Davis

Vonnie Davis

Amie Louellen

Jennifer Loy

Stacey Joy Netzel

AJ Nuest

Sandra Sookoo

Arial Burnz

Laura Kaye

Kami Cummins

Jill James

Donna Marie Rogers

Thanks for helping me Spread the Word! Happy Reading!

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Welcome Guest Blogger Vonnie Davis

Help my welcome my very special guest, Wild Rose Press author Vonnie Davis. Welcome Vonnie!

~*~

When Two Writers Marry

I met my husband on match dot com. Calvin sashayed into my mailbox on a jazzbeat and a smile. Three months later, we met at a Starbucks. He was holding a bouquet of red roses and beaming a dazzling smile—and I was smitten.

We had a lot of similarities—both English majors and lovers of Shakespeare, old books, goofy comedies and sentimental movies. We both adored and took pride in our respective grown children. We also possessed differences. There was a sixteen-year span between our ages. Calvin is black; I have that pasty white German skin. He is tall and thin; I am short and …he is tall and thin.

But we shared a dream: to write. Calvin, already retired from teaching, was actively working on his dream. I was frozen in my dream state and had been for many, many years. Excuses, I had a million of them.

We were married a year to the date from that first email. I moved from south-central PA to the DC metro area with my new husband. Calvin wrote daily while I found places for my things in his already crammed house where he’d lived for over thirty years.

Adjusting to married life again was not a smooth transition. I’d been on my own for twelve years—independent and used to doing things my way. I was also used to working and having my own money. Calvin wanted me home with him, his philosophy being I’d worked outside of the home long enough. If he was retired, I should retire, too. And, so, at the age of fifty-five, I left the corporate world. Sounds like a dream come true, ladies, but I had some serious adjustments to make. I missed the girls at the office, their chatter and the sharing of our lives.

Then the unthinkable happened: Calvin insisted I write. “Enough with the excuses,” he said. “Write. I want you to have your dream, too, while I work on mine.”

The day I showed him the first chapter of my first book was a dark day, folks. A dark day, indeed. Calvin, his forehead furrowed, his eyes squinted and a #2 pencil gripped in his hand, crossed out paragraph after beautiful paragraph. On page seventeen, he proudly announced, “Ah, here, HERE is the beginning of your book.”

I snatched the chapter from his hands and retreated to my writing room. This red-haired German was in “major snit mode.” Or, mad as hell.

I’ve grown a lot since that day two years ago. And Calvin, bless his heart, has learned to be more gentle with his critiques. We are a writing couple. We both write everyday in our own private spots. He in the den with both the TV and stereo playing and me in the quiet living room reclined on my recliner with my laptop.

His third book, a love story, not a romance, was released two weeks before my first romance.

Although we have the same agent, we have different publishers. Smart man that he is, Calvin readily admits my pub is superior, especially after meeting Rhonda and RJ at TWRP writers retreat in May.

Calvin has cheered me every step of the way toward achieving my dream. He is my cheerleader, my supporter, my hero. His carefully worded phrase regarding my first sex scene was “spot-on”—it did read like assembly instructions for a bookcase. Can you spell rewrites?

Nurse Rachel Dennison comes to Texas determined to prepare her new patient for a second round of chemo. What she isn’t counting on is her patient’s twin brother, Storm Masterson. Despite her initial attraction, Storm has two things Rachel can’t abide: a domineering personality and a fiancée. Half Native American, with the ability to have "vision dreams," Storm dreams about Rachel for three nights before her arrival. Both are unprepared for the firestorm of emotions their first chance encounter ignites. Ultimately, it is Rachel’s past—an abusive, maniacal ex-boyfriend—that threatens to keep them apart…and Storm’s dreams that bring them together again.

Chapter One

Someone swaggered out of the moonlit night toward Rachel. Exhausted from a long day of driving, she braked and blinked. Either she was hallucinating or her sugar levels had plummeted. Maybe that accounted for the male mirage, albeit a very magnificent male mirage, trekking toward her. She peered once more into the hot July night at the image illuminated by her headlights. Sure enough, there he was, cresting the hill on foot—a naked man wearing nothing but a black cowboy hat, a pair of boots and a go-to-hell sneer.

Well, well, things really did grow bigger in Texas. The man quickly covered his package with his black Stetson. Rachel sighed. The show was evidently over. Should she stand up in her Beetle convertible and applaud? Give a couple cat calls? Wolf whistles? Maybe not.

She turned down the music on the car’s CD player. Sounds of crickets and a lonely bullfrog in the distance created a nighttime symphony in the stillness of this isolated stretch of country road. Lightning bugs darted back and forth, blinking a display of neon yellow glow.

The naked man strode toward her car, and Rachel’s heart rate kicked up. Common sense told her to step on the gas, yet what woman wanted to drive away from such a riveting sight? Still, life had taught her to be careful. She reached into her handbag and extracted her chrome revolver. Before he reached her car, she quickly slid her gun under the folds of her skirt.

Just let him try anything funny—I know how to take care of myself.

Both of his large hands clasped his hat to his groin. His face bore annoyance and a touch of chagrin. “I need a ride.” By his bearing and commanding tone of voice, she guessed the man was used to giving orders and having them followed.

Her eyes took a slow journey across his face. Even in the moonlight, she could see traces of Native heritage. His shoulder-length ebony hair, too long for her tastes, glistened against his bronzed skin. Proud arrogant eyes sparked anger.

Because Rachel believed in indulging herself, she allowed her eyes to travel over his broad shoulders, muscular chest and tight abdominal muscles. She saw a thin trail of dark hair starting below his navel, knowing full well where it ended, and fought back a groan. Her eyes slid back up to lock on his. “You need a pair of pants, too.” Knowing her voice hummed with desire, she cleared her throat, hoping the naked man hadn’t noticed.

He looked up at the sky for a beat. “Just my freakin’ luck! A birthday party gone bad, and now I’m bein’ ogled by some horny kid with damnable blue eyes.”

What the heck was wrong with her eyes? She quickly glanced in her rearview mirror and saw nothing amiss. She narrowed those “damnable blue eyes” and sneered. “Look, buster, I’m not the one prancing around Texas naked as a jaybird. I’ll have you know I’m hardly a kid.” She glanced down at the black cowboy hat. “And, furthermore, stop hiding behind that big ol’ Stetson. From what I saw, a French beret would do the job.”

There, let the arrogant fool stew on that while he strutted back to whatever rock he crawled out from under. She slammed her car in gear and sped off.

She swore she wouldn’t look in her rearview mirror. Nope, she would not look. Like a magnet emitting a powerful homing signal, her eyes slowly slid to the glass surface. He was standing where she’d left him,… Gee, ladies, I’d love to share more, but I’ve already used up my word count quota…**wink-wink**

You can find Vonnie here:

Website: www.vonniedavis.com

Blog: www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com

Calvin's Website: www.calvindavisbooks.com

Calvin's Blog: www.calscosmos.blogspot.com

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