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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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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Welcome Guest Blogger Vonnie Davis

How many books do you have under your bed or on a shelf or on discs? I’m not talking about your TBR pile, I’m talking about your OMG CBIWT (can’t believe I wrote that) pile. My first efforts at writing books reside on my computer. They’re simple works, really.

By simple I mean…ah…well, let me put it this way. Have you ever seen someone on TV, a newscaster on location for example, talking seriously about a topic and in the background are two loons jumping up and down, arms waving like windmills and mouths forming the words, “Hi Mom!” Those idiots are my first couple books. Every time I turn on the computer, those documents pop-up and wave, “Hi Mom!” I groan and click on something else, choosing to ignore those ill fated stories.

Why don’t I simply delete them? Believe me, I’ve thought about it many times. I mean, what good are they? My female characters aren’t the most likable. There’s more head hopping in them than bed hopping at my ex-husband’s house. Oops, sorry. My claws came out there for a moment. Bad claws. Bad claws. They contain many weaknesses of craft—craft I’ve worked hard to learn over the last couple years.

Their existence on my computer reminds me of where I started. And every time I feel I’m all that and a bag of chips as a writer, I go back and reread the first few paragraphs of those stories. I thought I was all that when I wrote them, too. Now they exist as my humbling tool, my attitude adjusters. They remind me I need to keep learning, striving and improving. Those stories are flawed. Even now my craft is flawed, but it’s getting stronger.

Not because I’m a great writer, but because I pay attention to what other new writers are doing. They are my benchmark. I notice their unique voices, the compelling power of their characters and the seamless way they weave their stories…and I smile in wonderment. Envy, too, if I am to be honest.

They say the learning curve of a writer is continual. I hope mine is. As writers we must keep learning, especially as industry standards change and evolve.

My first book comes out July 15th. The process taught me a lot. Mainly it taught me I can work, make every effort and achieve. Isn’t that a wonderful feeling when you do? A dream achieved is a miraculous thing, a wondrous thing, an OMG WTW (where’s the wine) thing. That heady momentum drives us to try harder, to learn more and to exceed our expectations.

Here’s an excerpt from Storm’s Interlude coming out in July from The Wild Rose Press:

After several minutes, Storm asked if she was getting the feel of her horse. She nodded. “Think you can keep up with us?” His white teeth shone in the moonlight. He tugged on the brim of his hat and kneed Lightning who took off like a bullet.

“Let’s go, Kelsey! The race is on.” She leaned over the Appaloosa’s head and enjoyed the exhilaration of the wind blowing through her long hair as her mount ate up the ground. To her credit, Kelsey did her best to catch up to Lightning as the black stallion galloped across the range and then up a hill.

Storm reined his mount to a halt when they reached the top of the rise. Several large live oaks and cottonwoods dotted the landscape. Storm was laughing, obviously pleased with the ride. He leaned down and patted his horse, murmuring praises to Lightning, who nodded and snorted in response.

Rachel was laughing, too. She hadn’t enjoyed herself that much in ages. Oh, the freedom of riding a horse; she’d forgotten the exhilaration of the ride.

Storm took his hat off and resettled it on his head. “Pretty good riding for a Mississippi Mouse.”

She felt her smile slide off her face as if it were ice cream melting off the cone. Was she really so mousy? First Phillip. Now Storm. Her stomach twisted and sank. She bit her lower lip and looked away. First, the sad thoughts of her selling her home depressed her, and now this. Her emotions were too close to the surface tonight; they had been since their earlier conversation about Drew.

Storm brought his horse around so it was facing the opposite direction from Kelsey, which put him side by side with Rachel. “What’s wrong?”

She raised and lowered a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Just coming back to reality, I suppose. I was feeling rather attractive earlier tonight in my new clothes and ‘ho-red’ heels. Your remark about my being mousy brought me back to earth.”

Storm muttered an oath. “I never said you were mousy. Good God, woman, you have to know you’re a knockout.”

“It’s okay. It’s something I’ve heard plenty of times before from a guy I used to date. You only reinforced his opinion.” Didn’t she feel like the fool? What possessed her to confide in this man?

He stared at her for a moment and then reached out to place his hands on her waist. “Come here.”

“What?” She felt a sense of panic. What was he going to do?

“Slip your feet out of the stirrups. Come on, now.” For reasons she couldn’t explain, she did as he asked. He lifted her from her saddle and settled her in front of him. Lightning danced to one side a couple steps, and Storm calmed him with a few words. His strong arms held her against him as she sat sideways on the horse. “Who was this yahoo who said you were mousy?”

He brushed her hair from her forehead and peered into her eyes. Oh Lord, she was in big trouble. If she hadn’t made a big enough fool of herself earlier, her reaction to him just now was practically virginal, which she was not. Yet the force of his blatant sexiness made her feel inexperienced. “Tell me, now.” His voice was gentle, yet commanding.

She looked away and sighed. “I recently broke up with a man who insisted I was plain and mousy. It’s no big deal.”

Storm’s one arm was around her back, supporting her. His other hand went to her neck and pulled her face closer. “The man was twenty times a fool if he didn’t appreciate what he had, who he had. I’ve always had a hankerin’ for mice, myself. Had several as pets when I was growing up. Believe me, I meant no disrespect by calling you a Mississippi Mouse. On the contrary.”

His dark eyes glistened in the moonlight and his gaze dropped to her lips. “You pull at me, Rachel. God help me, I can’t resist one more taste.” His lips touched hers and fireworks went off. A groan escaped. He turned her so they were chest to chest and his arms banded around her, holding her tight. His tongue flicked at her lips. “Open for me, mouse.”

“No, I’ll die if I do.” She’d known men before, but this one was too powerful, too magnetic, too…hypnotic.

“I’ll die if you don’t.” He captured her lips again and kissed her slowly, so slow she felt the earth rotate or her heart turn over, she couldn’t tell which. His hand went to her breast and covered it. Her nipple rose up to make acquaintance with his palm. He groaned and pulled her closer. How could anything so wrong—kissing an engaged man—feel so wonderful? Wonderful didn’t begin to describe how she felt in the security of his arms. Mercy, this man knew his way around a pair of lips.

Vonnie Davis is the author of historical romance and romantic suspense. Her debut novel, Storm's Interlude, releases on June 15 from The Wild Rose Press. 

If you'd like to know more about Vonnie or her writing, visit her blog. http://www.vintagevonnie.blogspot.com

To see the book trailer for Storm’s Interlude, go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvzCgLEgTL0

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