Week 8 of the Best Ever Summer Reading Blog Tour. Winners of last week's post are still to be announced. But don't forget that if you comment your name will be put forward not only for the Grand Finale Prize of a $50 Amazon Gift Token, but also for this week's prize.
And this week's prize is kindly donated by Sharon Poppen. (See all the prizes and participants here.
Today I'm so pleased to welcome popular author Christine London.
Christine: So I am imagining I could be you for a moment and recite my favorite bits in Christine London novels. Well, I don't claim to have that acuity or prescience. In fact this is not too far from water boarding for an author to have to choose 'favorite' moments, especially when she has over a dozen books cluttering her mental workings, but goes:
Soul In His Eyes
The hottest Scottish actor in Hollywood suffers from what most would guess as unimaginable—loneliness. An unlikely fan living half a world away grabs his attention with her acuity and ability to see into his heart. Little does she know he will save her when tragedy strikes. Erik and Christine, together, build a love of which most can only dream.
"May I have this dance?" he asked, hand outstretched.
She curved her fingers around his as he pulled her close, arm
around her waist, cheek meeting cheek. His beard felt softly
ticklish against her skin.
"You've no idea how much I've wanted you here, Erik. Tell
me more. You've so much ahead of you."
He drew his face back to look at her. His eyes searched hers as
a bow caressing the strings of a Stradivarius. "Lately, my career
has taken back seat to my personal life."
"Tell me." She said, breathless.
"Try as I might, my dear, I've not been able to concentrate on
my work as I should. It's you who've been much on my mind." The
luminescent green of his eyes shone down at her.
"But I'm okay. Really, Erik. My health is improving, the kids
are back at college, Kristie has been my therapist and mother. I'm
feeling much more stable." Her stomach tightened with regret at
causing him worry.
"I know it's been difficult for you, Christine." He lowered his
cheek to hers. His scent of pine and outdoors was mingled with a
faint tang of maleness, like the deep note of a reverberant chord.
The next song in a King Cole segment began. Erik sang the lyric.
…."You linger like a haunting refrain and I find you spinnin'
round in my brain like the bubbles in a glass of champagne." He
paused. "I wish I could take all your grief from you, Christine…all
your pain," he whispered into the shell of her ear.
"You can't imagine how your just being here helps," her voice
softly subterranean like the undertones of a cello. "You are
enough." She raised her head to engage his eyes.
"I'm lost, woman." He gazed at her, leaning close, mouth
slightly open, eyes drinking her in. She put her lips to his, running
the sensitive edges along his. He kissed her so lightly, it might
have been the breath of a whisper at the corner of her mouth,
continuing down her neck, running his hands through her hair then
returning his eyes to hers.
Sinclair MacTavish ruled the world of motorcycle mechanics, able to repair anything under the Four Corner’s sun. But when a cynical road weary Brit crashes through the door of her garage, she’s in for more than just another cantankerous client. He just may be the challenge of her life.
Our hero Kyle has his first taste of Navajo sensibilities as he arrives in Kayenta, Arizona on the threshold of the spiritual Monument Valley. Little does he know the breakdown of his Harley Heritage Classic will change his life, and that of one tough female motorcycle mechanic, forever...
“Nice bike, buddy.” The booming voice yanked Kyle from his thoughts. Swiveling his head round to see, he held tight to the petrol nozzle hooked into the tank below the handlebars.
“Thanks, but it’s not mine. I hired it in Los Angeleez.”
The massive Native American man that loomed over Kyle grinned, displaying three gold teeth amidst the otherwise impressive rows of white. “You’re a Brit, aren’t you?” he said, raising a speculative brow.
Kyle peered up into his red-bronzed face. “Yeah. From England, actually.”
The torn off sleeves of the sweatshirt the Indian wore displayed equally impressive biceps and forearms corded with veins. He reached for the silver-studded black leather of the side-mounted saddlebag. “Nothin’ cheap about this sucker. Class start to finish.” He snorted derisively. “Wishin’ I could afford me one of these.” He lumbered around the rear of the bike,looking over the motorcycle with an air of shrewd evaluation. “You’ve got you eighty spoke
laced wheels, new radical paint job, chrome rear master cylinder set, fender struts, six shooter rear axle cover, screamin’ eagle muffler splash downs….” He tore his eyes away from the mechanics to acknowledged Kyle for a brief moment. “Dang, you even got you chrome slotted hand levers.”
“It’s a fine piece of machinery, all right.” Kyle conceded.
“Bet you got the ladies crawlin’ all over you every time you stop for a cup a coffee…ridin’up with one of these babies under you. Those Harley Davidson boys oughta call ‘em the silver leg spreaders.”
Kyle grunted. “I’m sure they would if—”
“Come on, dude. You being such a pretty boy and all with that highfalutin’ English accent of yours?” The Indian raked his eyes up and down the length of Kyle’s six foot two frame replete with snug jeans, leather chaps, boots and jacket opened down the front exposing the white second skin of a T-shirt he wore beneath. “You probably even smell like a pretty boy.”
Peeling the wraparound frames of his sunglasses from his face, Kyle shot an expression of annoyed animosity at the silken haired giant. “And you, my friend look like Crazy Horse ready to jump out of that mountain. But you don’t see me getting out chisel and hammer.”
The Indian chuckled, a surprisingly low rumble like the distant thunder of an approaching storm. He swung his arm upward, large hand landing on Kyle’s shoulder. “You be careful, man.You open your mouth to the wrong dude…especially if he’s got his buddies with him…You might just end up with that pretty face planted in the dirt and no Hog to be bringin’ back to the
“Thanks for your concern, Cochise, but I can take care of myself.” Kyle clamped onto the Indian’s wrist and lowered it from his shoulder. “Now shake my hand and we’ll call it a day.”
“Hey, I ain’t no Apache. If you’re gonna be throwin’ around Native names, you’d best at least choose a Navajo brother.” He scowled at Kyle, aggression in his eyes. Five seconds later, his face split into a grin. “Next brother you run across might not be in such a good mood.”
Kyle nodded and turned toward his bike. Tossing the keys into the air, he extended a hand to catch them. A moment later the sound of metal clinking against the pavement sent a brick plunging into his gut. He’d dropped the fucking things.
He bent over, retrieving the keys and slid them with a sentiment of internal sheepishness, into the ignition. Accelerating a bit too fast in a demonstration of male self-flagellation, he flew
over the curb and out into the street, leaning so far to the left as to scrape the running boards on the pavement. Comfortable cruiser it was. Sportster…not.
Wobbling a bit in recovery, he blasted down the road, front tire lifting for a moment before he caught hold of himself and backed off the petrol. Lunging forward in sudden deceleration, his brain functions hesitated in consternation. “What the…” he yelled, pulling over to the shoulder.
You can find Christine:
London Blog: http://christinelondon.blogspot.com/