Wow! #ebooks for #free or #cheap by Vonnie Davis

Okay, hands up. Who doesn't love a good sale? I certainly do. There's just something satisfying about saving ten cents on a pound of chicken or eighteen dollars on a sweater. Books are no different. Yesterday, I read an ad about Bookbuh, claiming to be THE new hot spot for readers. A book bargain bonanza. https://tinyurl.com/yam6fzez

Signing up is easy; just give then your email and chose four or five genres you love to read. You'll get a daily email with a list of free or deeply reduced ebooks for a day or a week.

One lady claims she's gotten more books for free from this site than she'll ever read. OUCH! Not what a writer likes to hear.

On the other hand, books put on sale there for a day or more make authors money due to volume sold. It also helps us build a reader base YAY!

A few of my books have been put on Bookbub by the publisher. One book with Harper Collins sold over 2500 copies on the day it was featured on sale. This was a book in a series of four. All benefited from that one book's sale day. That is to say, my rankings shot up on all of them over the next month.

When Random House places one of my books on Bookbub, that book will shoot to the top one-hundred and higher rankings on Amazon and the top twenty or higher on Barnes & Noble. My books typically sit in the 100,000 to 350,000 rankings. So this boost, even for a few days, is a boon for me.

But how hard is it for an independent author to place his/her book on Bookbub? First, you have to come up with the money. Calvin's checked into it for me and costs run between $400 to $800. per day, depending on the genre. For example, the romantic suspense I thought about trying to get listed would cost us roughly $500.

The numbers of reviews play into your chance of getting a spot, too. Not for a publisher, it seems, because my book with Harper Collins barely had 30 reviews. The last time I tried to get one of my independent books on Bookbub, I was told it didn't have enough reviews. But I was never told what the minimum was. How come, I wonder.

So, I'm slowly trying to get more reviews of Book One of my Paris Intrigue series in hopes of one day getting it on Bookbub.

AMAZON BUY LINK: http://a.co/3zrBkVT

CHAPTER ONE

 A grim-faced guard stepped in front of Alyson Moore when she raised her camera to take a picture. “Madame, in the Louvre, we do not photograph the Mona Lisa.” His lips fashioned a thin line of disapproval.

 Alyson’s eyes scanned the crowd, for even as the security guard admonished her, scores of other tourists, their arms upraised, used cell phones to snap photos. “Am I the only one trying to take a picture here?” Without waiting for a reply, she pocketed her camera, and the snippy, tight-assed guard moved on.

She shouldered her way through the early morning crowd in the Salon Carrẻ to get a closer look at the painting encased in bullet-proof glass. Seeing Da Vinci’s masterpiece was a dream come true. No one, not even an overzealous guard, would spoil her time with Mona.

Once the museum opened its doors at nine sharp, and Alyson passed through security, she hurried to see this woman of mystery. The throngs of people already crowding the gallery surprised her.

She slipped between two men and stepped closer to the leading lady of the gallery. Alyson’s nose twitched from the sweet and sour blitz of assorted perfumes and various degrees of hygiene. Murmurings of adulation echoed off the gallery walls as if the Mona Lisa were a five-hundred-year-old rock star. How had one painting achieved such stardom?

If the ever-present guard wouldn’t allow photographs, she’d sketch some of Mona’s fans standing, spellbound by her enigmatic smile. When she finally tugged her large sketchpad free from the tight confines of her yellow leather bag, other items fell and scattered.

Alyson crouched to retrieve pieces of charcoal, just as the man standing next to her bent to place a black backpack, the style European men were so fond of carrying, on the marble tile floor.

Their eyes locked.

“Excuse me, you’re standing on my things.” Alyson pointed to his shoe. The man, face damp with perspiration, scowled, raised his foot and snatched her navy scarf, hotel keycard and passport, crushing them into a ball. He stuffed the wadded scarf into her outstretched hand and stood.

Alyson reached, fingering for the last charcoal pencil that rolled beyond her reach. She straightened and realized the man in the dark green t-shirt was walking away. The tattoo of a scorpion on the back of his neck. “Sir? Sir, you’ve forgotten your bag. Monsieur?”

He didn’t respond.

She called after him again.

The man disappeared into the crowd.

The museum guard approached. “Is there a problem, Madame?”

“Yes, that man left his backpack here.” Alyson indicated the black canvas bag on the floor. “He set it down at the same time I dropped some things.” She held out her navy scarf to show the guard and suddenly it hit her that her scarf was empty. She shook it out to make sure. “My hotel key and passport!” Pulling apart the sides of her shoulder bag, she rummaged through its contents, hoping against hope she’d shoved them inside without thinking. Still, with her passport the same shade as her scarf, she assumed it was wrapped in the scarf’s folds.

“I don’t believe this. He took my keycard and passport. Why would he take my things and leave his bag behind?”

The guard’s eyes widened for a second. “Madame, you are sure the man left this bag?” He pressed a button and spoke into a speaker attached to the lapel of his uniforme, a scowling gaze intent on Alyson.

“Yes. He…he was setting it on the floor at the same time I squatted to retrieve my fallen items. I asked him to move his foot since he was standing on them.” Alyson groaned as realization sunk in. She was in a foreign country with no passport. Oh, hell!

The guard cautiously unzipped the backpack. Yellow wires. The man stepped back,  depressed the communications button again, and spoke rapid-fire French. Pandemonium erupted. Armed guards rushed toward the abandoned black bag. Once the word “bomb” was uttered, visitors screamed as they stampeded from Mona Lisa’s room.

Suddenly, Alyson stood in the eerie deafening silence with only the pounding of her heart and the cocking of guns reverberating in her ears—she and the black bag containing explosives surrounded by eight armed guards.

Holy effing shit!

WWW.VONNIEDAVIS.COM

A Greyhound Tale

Roughly a month ago, I got a message from my nephew. He told me my sister was becoming more frail and wanted to see me. Could we come to Pennsylvania for her eighty-fifth birthday? Pauline is sixteen years older than I and I can't recall us ever having a cross word between us.

We've led two different lifestyles. She was a fulltime homemaker, who ran the sweeper between the mattress and box springs and canned her own fruit. I worked outside of the home, survived a divorce, and named all my dust bunnies. Even so, we were always affectionate.

Calvin and I thought of ways to reach her. Flying was out. Our local airport only flies south. We could go to Charlotte, North Carolina to Miami, Florida and then north to DC and hitch a commuter plane to Hagerstown, Maryland. We checked out Amtrak. We could easily take it to DC, rent a car, and drive out of the Capitol, heading north. The last time I drove through Washington, DC, we ended up almost in Ocean City, Maryland while I'd aged five years.

"I could drive the whole way," I suggested to Calvin. I thought his shaking head would tumble off his shoulders.


Calvin looked at me as if he'd discovered the solution to world peace. "You know what? I haven't ridden a bus in years. Let's see if we can take a bus up there. I rode it all the time to Hampton University. It's a relaxing way to travel."

I swear my sweet husband's memory has faded. There was nothing relaxing about our trip to Pennsylvania. But getting to see my sister and brother was great.

Left to Right: Me, my brother Ray, and Pauline. I'm the baby.

We had a great little family reunion. Plus, I got to see both of my sons and grandkids. A very pleasant trip. Then we got on the bus to head for home. At the terminal in Baltimore, a new driver got on.

I knew we were in trouble when she'd driven three blocks from the terminal, stopped, and yelled, "Okay, listen up, y'all. This is a new route for me. Is DC north or south of Baltimore?" She reached into a bag of fried chicken setting on her window ledge and pulled out a drumstick. "Which way do I go?"

Someone yelled directions and she aimed the bus toward DC while she chewed on her chicken. "See, I'm from South Carolina, but the company moved me up here to run this route." Honestly, the driver talked faster than the bus drove.

"Okay," she waved her chicken bone over her head. "I'm coming up on DC. Who has a phone with a GPS. Help me find the terminal." We gave her directions which she claimed were wrong. In the meantime, we circled the Washington Monument three times. Zipped the wrong way up a one way street. Horns honking. People yelling.

She flagged a city bus down as leaned out the window. "Hey! Can you tell me where the Greyhound terminal is?" She followed the other bus driver's directions and drove by the station twice while claiming the man was wrong. At one point she aimed the bus toward the White House, hell bent for leather,  while security guards ran toward us, waving their arms. They gave her the same directions that the city bus driver had.

She finally pulled into the back of the station--the wrong way. And when workers yelled and waved, she waved the chicken bone she'd been sucking on at them. "Get the hell out of my way. I've been praying on Jesus to find me the way here! I'm not backing up now."

Heavens, so had we!

Some trips just go haywire. Like Zoey Morningstar's trip to Paris for the birth of her sister's first child. Her daughter's kidnapping and rescue. A murder in the sex district. A bombing in the Metro. Going undercover with a handsome French Counterrorism Agent to find the terrorists who tried to kidnap her daughter. Passion. Her trip was to include none of those things, but like ours it had its own twists and turns. Only much more dangerous and sexy.

 BUY LINKS:  http://a.co/eQhxT9h          

It's That Time of Year Again by Vonnie Davis

It's almost the middle of May. I couldn't put if off any longer. That rite of passage into Spring, the one that includes a pedicure was long overdue. It was badly needed to ready my toes for summer sandals and flip flops. I know by experience it's not a quick in and out visit to the mani-pedi shop.

No, after months of thick stockings and boots or fuzzy bedroom slippers, my toenails required some heavy-duty attention. A flimsy fingernail file or standard toenail clippers just wouldn't do the job. Not with my toenails.

It was a tad embarrassing. The nail technician's gaze bounced from my feet to my face and back to my feet again. He raised his thin arms heavenward and left them drop to his sides while he screamed curses in a foreign language. Two co-workers scurried over to his side, their shocked expressions ricocheting from my toes to my nail technician's pinched face. You know the look. Like when someone's sucked two lemons dry.

He marched to a storage cabinet. His elbows jerked erratically before pulling out his special manicure tools for horses, elephants, and Vonnie Davis's feet.

Then he and his two helpers set to work on my toenails. Each wore two masks. Sparks flew. Dust covered my hair. My face. Finally, the job was done. They soaked my feel and followed that with bottles of polish. My nails are now fit to show off.

Now, like Alyson, the heroine in NIKO: Licensed to Kill, I was ready for summer heels. I don't plan on running in mine, though, especially when they're brand new . . .

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 expensive new high heels. 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 Robbie, 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, damp thanks to him. She couldn’t ignore the damn thong chafing her in places she didn’t want to think about. She’d kill Zoey when she got back home.

“Faster, Aly!”

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

“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 sprinted.

She tried jerking her arm free of his tight 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, asshat, running in these damned heels.”

Niko quickly glanced up and down the wide tree-lined street and with a slight break in traffic, ordered, “To the other side. Now!”

They bolted across the six-lane boulevard and its well-manicured median. Two motorbikes rumbled past, nearly hitting them. Horns blared as several Renaults and Audis 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 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. Niko’s hands wrapped around her waist and set her on her feet again. “Go!”

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’ shrieks.

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 puke on the spot. Niko’s grip on her arm tightened. “Move it, Aly! We’re still being followed.”

 “But…but…” She looked over her shoulder at the steam rising from the damaged radiator as she jogged. Dear God, she was running with a murderer. He killed some poor nameless truck driver with one well-aimed shot. For God’s sake, why?

The bell over a door jingled as Niko nudged her into a small shop crammed with framed art prints and old books. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing. He was one of the terrorists. Mohammed Bazel. Same organization as Dembri. Hide in here. I’ll be back.”

Alyson’s stomach clenched, her heart in her throat, as she tried to catch her breath. Would this nightmare ever end? “Wha…what will you do?” Would he kill again? He made an instantaneous identification and in a split-second killed a man.

What if he’d been wrong? What if…

“Monsieur, me dire pourquoi?” They both spun to find a diminutive woman with a horrified expression on her face. She gestured at Niko’s gun.

Niko flashed his badge and evidently asked the lady if she had another exit. She pointed to a faded red curtain hanging over a doorway. “Aly, stay here until I call you. I have to get the other guy.” He bolted from the back of the shop.

Police sirens pierced the air. Screams and loud talking added to the uproar outside. At this moment, Paris didn’t seem so charming. Suddenly, Paris seemed very cold and full of evil menacing shadows. She wrapped her arms around herself, digging deep for calm to stop the trembling and keep her shit together.

“Vous avet un problem, jeune dame?” The silver-haired lady fingered a strand of pearls at the neckline of her navy and white suit. In the midst of this hellish situation, Alyson felt a moment of shoe-sisterhood when she noticed the woman wore navy stilettos on her tiny feet. The elderly woman’s smile was tremulous, wary. Poor thing, we charge into her quiet shop like Bonnie and Clyde with a gun drawn. She probably thinks we’re going to rob her.

“A problem? Yes! A man, a terrorist is after me! Ah…French…I must speak French. I’m sorry. Excusez moi.” She put her fingertips to her temples willing her brain to work. At this moment, she could barely think in English, much less pull her limited French from her scrambled, terror-filled mind.

She gave a quick glance outside the shop window as blue police vans and an ambulance parked around the delivery truck. A man had been killed because of her. “Ah…the Mona Lisa…”

The woman grabbed Alyson’s hand. “You are her? The American who saved the Mona Lisa? The woman raved about in the news? You saved our tresor, our treasure? Oui?” She breezed kisses on both of Alyson’s cheeks and smiled. “Come. I hide you. Marie-Claire will keep you safe.”

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When Your Grandson Asks About Your Homework ... by Vonnie Davis

Last month I posted about all I had going on in my writing world. Well, I've made some progress on my list. Believe me, it's not necessary to applaud.  What I've done are small steps we all do during the course of our career.

I've contracted Mr. OH under the name Renae DeVeau and our own Alicia will be my editor. Pray for her, folks. It's my first erotic.

I self-published NIKO: Licensed to Kill on April 25th. JEAN-LUC: Once is Never Enough releases on June 13th. I still have BASTIAN: The Spy Who Loves Me to finish. I'm two-thirds through, maybe more. I'm hoping to release it the end of August or the first half of September.

That only leaves A STRANGER'S DARE, a Kindle World's novella, a novel--A GOLDEN CHARM, and two bear shifter books to finish. Oh...and...two more Kindle World's novellas I've been asked to write. A cowboy romance set in Texas--yee-haa!--WHAT BELONGS TO RYDER. My street team chose the heroic cowboy's name--Ryder Kolins.

The third Kindle World's project is a paranormal tied into my shifters. Title for it is BEARY SASSY. Pink-haired Effie plays a matchmaking role in this story.

See how much progress I've made? Three things done and two things added. That's good. Right?

So I'm doing my Friday texting time with Ryan at MIT. "How's the writing going, G-ma? Are you finished with the one for Amazon?"

"I'm over halfway done."

"That's all?" (I cringed. There's nothing like getting fussed at by your grandson.) "I've got all my required work completed for my Internship on the 2020 Mars Land Rover. I gave a report to representatives from NASA. What I'm doing now is extra." (Show off.)

"That's awesome, sweet boy." My nickname for him since he was an infant.

"G-ma, you really should have more of this project completed. I notice you spend a lot of time on Facebook and Twitter." I could sense the censure in his text. (And how would smarty pants know if he wasn't on Facebook and Twitter, himself, I ask you?)

"You know I hate a smart a$$ scientist."

"Hahaha. See if you can't do better next week." (So much for the Final Exams care package I was going to send him. I'll eat the chocolate, energy bars, and homemade trail mix myself!)

Me thinks I've been put on notice and I'll need the nourishment.