Today, welcome back Vonnie Davis as she talks about creating dream worlds and takes us to Paris where her latest romantic suspense, Mona Lisa’s Room, is set.
By the way— I LOVE your cover!
So without further ado (hey, that’s even a French word, I think) here’s Vonnie…..
Writing in any sub-genre of romance means the author must create a literary dream world. For paranormal and futuristic romance writers, it involves a more intricate level of creativity. For those of us who write contemporary and suspense-filled stories, we use our creativity in different ways to create our literary dream.
As writers, we seek to pull the reader into our dream-world so completely that they experience everything our characters do. Feel every emotion. See every sight. Hear every sound. Smell every odor. Enjoy every kiss. Sigh. Oh, yeah, now we’re talkin’…
So, we begin to take ordinary things and places and weave them into our literary dream in a way we hope will make them memorable. We use ordinary people and give them extraordinary talents or skills or thought processes. We re-create what is already created. We bend reality to the needs of our stories. We are dream-weavers, crafting our literary dream world for the enjoyment of readers.
Paris is my favorite city, and I wanted to share this jewel along the Seine with my readers…and, please God, let there be readers. I wanted to tell a story of a repressed American who’s gone to Paris as part of reinventing herself. She’s been beaten down by life, as we all are from time-to-time. Her ex-husband was a cold fish who convinced her she wasn’t desirable. Enter Alyson Moore.
While in the Louvre, studying the Mona Lisa, this high school art teacher unwittingly foils a terrorist’s bombing attack. She sketches a picture of the man who left the bomb. A terrorist Interpol suspected was dead. Now they know he’s not. His cover’s been blown, and he’s out for revenge. He wants Alyson dead.
Suspecting this might be the case, Niko Reynard of the French counter-terrorism unit is assigned to protect her. Niko is a touchy-feely kind of guy. A typical Frenchman with a healthy dose of arrogance programmed in his DNA. He dislikes Alyson’s casual American dress and wants her to blend in with other Parisian women. So he takes her shoe shopping, insisting she buy high heels like most Parisian women wear. He talks about stilettos having a way of making a woman’s hips sway. Oh, yeah, we know what this guy is thinking, don’t we?
“What is it?” Alyson peered up and down the street.
“Don’t look. Smile at me. Talk and act normal.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and nudged her up the street.
“But…” Did he see someone? Did he see Dembri?
“I’m going to kiss you so I have an excuse to look behind us.”
“Oh no. No, I don’t think so. Look, I’ve put up with your constant touching, but I’ll not be kissed on a public street.”
“Don’t be self-conscious. In Paris, we kiss in public. It’s the Parisian way.”
“For heaven’s sake! Make it quick then.” She shook her arms to relax them because she was anything but relaxed. She was about to be kissed for the first time in years. Did she remember how? Stop being silly. Kissing is simple. Two pair of lips touch. Kiss done. With her head tilted back, she whispered, “Okay, I’m ready.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Niko’s lips. He encircled her in his arms and stepped in so their thighs touched. Her stomach fluttered. Her breathing hitched. He lowered his head. “Hang on, Aly.” With his dark brown eyes open, he placed his lips on hers and pulled her body against his. She kept her eyes open, too, figuring it would lessen the kiss’ effects.
Niko kissed her, gentle sips at first, soft and sensual. Someone made a moaning noise, and she feared it might have been her. My God what a pair of lips! Her toes curled in her new Pradas. She wrapped her hands around the lapels of his jacket. Then his lips locked on hers and with his tongue invading her mouth, he turned her to look over her shoulder, all the while wreaking havoc on her system.
This was the first time she’d been in a man’s arms in years. The first time she had tongue from a guy since college and said guy was more interested in looking behind her for some hoodlum than in the kiss. Just her damn luck.
When Niko ended the mind-blowing kiss, he pulled her closer, if that were possible, and whispered in her ear. “We’re being followed. Hold my hand and run.”
Run? Melting came to mind, but running? How could she run when he kissed her until the bones in her legs turned to jelly? Plus, she was wearing new high heels, for heaven’s sake. His arms squeezed her for an instant. “Now.”
He grabbed her hand, and they took off. They dodged throngs of pedestrians and at one point, Niko hurtled over a poodle, its protective owner shouting in French outrage, calling him a fool. “Fou! Fou! Mon chien, mon chien!”
Alyson had done her fair share of running, especially after her break up with Chaz, the stranger she was married to all those years. Running was a stress reliever; so were the StairMaster and martial arts. Still, those activities were done in sneakers or barefooted, not high heels. Stilettos, no less. Oh, and the thong. Let’s not forget the damn thong chafing her in places she didn’t want to think about. She’d kill Gwen when she got home.
“You put me in three-inch heels and expect me to run fast? You bossy Frenchman with a foot fetish.” She stumbled, and he caught her.
“Typical woman. Kiss her once and she figures she has the right to bitch at you.” Niko’s head turned, evidently scanning the area as they ran.
She tried jerking her arm free of his ironclad grasp. “So help me, God, if that terrorist doesn’t kill you, I will.”
He pulled her around two uniformed nannies pushing toddlers in strollers. “Promises. Promises.”
“Yeah, well look how nice my hips sway now, nutso, running in these damned heels.”
Niko quickly glanced up and down the wide tree-lined street and evidently seeing a slight break in traffic, ordered, “To the other side. Now.” They bolted across the four-lane boulevard and its well-manicured median. Two motorbikes rumbled past, nearly hitting them. Horns blared as several Renaults and Smart Cars barreled down the street. Niko shoved her out of the way and she fell, her hands and knees scraping on the asphalt. Brakes screeched and there was a dull thud behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder just as Niko rolled across the hood of a silver car. He never broke stride. “Run, dammit!”
She struggled to get up, her heel caught in the hem of her skirt. Niko set her on her feet again. A delivery truck swerved toward them as if to run them down. In a blur of movement, Niko drew his weapon. He dove and rolled clear of the truck’s path, shooting the driver between the eyes. Glass shattered. Passersby screamed. The truck jumped the curb, striking a tree. Sounds of metal crunching and a tree branch cracking obliterated, for a few horrible seconds, the pedestrians’ reactions.
Still on the move, Niko barked orders at the observers. A man nodded and reached for his cell phone. “Quick. In here. While we’re hidden by the truck.” Niko wrapped his hand around her arm and tugged.
Alyson trembled, the back of her hand covering her mouth and her eyes glued to the man slumped over the steering wheel of the truck not five feet away. Blood flowed from his forehead. Her stomach twisted. She was going to be sick. Niko’s grip on her arm tightened. “Move it, Aly. We’re still being followed.”
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!
View the Book Trailer: http://bit.ly/MonaTrailer
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