Blog Archives

Paris and me and my fave Pâtisserie for #PastryDay

View this post on Instagram

Paris and #pastryday

A post shared by Jina Bacarr (@jinabacarr) on

Once in Paris the Left Bank was my home

to manger on pastry I didn’t have far to roam

running downstairs so fast in a huff

to the pâtisserie for my pastry puff

and to flirt with the handsome monsieur who took my breath away

ah, mais oui, yes, I remember him still to this day

============

So yummy — Parisian pastry is the best!

 

Ride, Baby, ride…my excellent Paris adventure for #MotorcycleRideDay

ride_baby_ride

His name was Romain and I was in Paris on a summer break from college when he nearly ran me over with his motorcycle. Okay, it was my fault since I was ogling this gorgeous hunk of masculinity in his ripped T-shirt and tight jeans and I got too close to the curb and stumbled into the street.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, knowing he wasn’t to blame, but taking it on the chin anyway.

Brooding dark eyes with unruly dark hair gave him an outlaw look. Sitting astride his big motorcycle, he glared at me, his strongly arched brows furrowed as if he were sizing me up. I felt naked under his penetrating gaze. And I liked it. I was sure the gods watching over lonely college co-eds in strange lands had sent him to me.

How could I resist when he offered me a ride?

We became a twosome that summer. Inseparable day and night. I have no doubt he drove the fastest, sleekest motorcycle in Paris. Speeding up and down the bustling Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Latin Quarter with me on the back. A long, crusty baguette in one hand, holding onto his muscular bod with the other.

My fingers seeking his hard chest through the holes in his ripped T-shirt.

Ah, yes, the moments memories are made of.

“Hold on tight, ma chérie,” he yelled into the wind scented with the lingering perfume of lost queens and courtesans. Even the smoky exhaust couldn’t mask it. “I’m going to put pedal to the metal, as you Americans say.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I snuggled up close to him. Damn, I loved the feeling I got hugging his body. The strong musky smell of his maleness hit my nostrils, reminding me of the sultry nights I’d spent in his arms in my tiny hotel room on the rue du Sommerard…our bodies twisted together in harmony, him whispering words of endearment in French, me wishing I’d paid more attention in French class.

M. Appel, my professor, would have raised an aristocratic eyebrow and tapped his pointer on the edge of my nose. “Bien, mademoiselle,” I could hear him say. “I told you someday you’d regret not studying your French idioms.”

So be the folly of my youth.

But Romain and I didn’t have trouble communicating between the sheets. I was tempted to tell that to M. Appel when the fall quarter started. In three weeks. Till then, Romain was all mine.

“Bon,” the sexy Frenchman said, shifting his weight on the leather seat of his motorcycle and pushing his butt into my groin, sending me to paradise. “Let me show you Paris like you’ve never seen her.”

Off we went.

We rode around Paris on his big, sexy motorcycle. Up the steep hills of Montmartre and past Sacré-Cœur, then the fancy boutiques on the rue de Rivoli before zooming under the bridges where the homeless of Paris sought refuge from the chaos above.

As they had for hundreds of years.

Every day, we stopped under the bridge and brought fresh baguettes to the people huddled there. Gathered around the burning flame in the old metal trashcan, eking out an existence. I had no idea Paris had so many les exclus, as they were called. It broke my heart. I saw them begging on church steps, at train stations, in the park with the carousel.

Romain told me his family was once homeless after his father died. His mother and three little sisters lived under the bridge when he was fifteen and they couldn’t find room in a shelter. He worked as a laborer till his hands bled so he could get them a tiny apartment. Over the years, he worked even harder to better himself, go to university and, now in his late twenties, he had his dream bike.

He rode it everywhere.

His muscular arms and big hands maneuvering his lean, mean machine through ancient narrow streets and back alleys. Me on the back. His strong torso crushing my breasts, his hips grinding against mine, his body heat so wonderfully intense, I melted into him. By the time I had to go home to the States, I’d ripped apart half a dozen of his T-shirts with my nails. Holding onto him. Wanting him.

And when we made love at night, he rode…mais non, that’s my little secret.

A summer in Paris I’ll never forget.

===================

Coming for Halloween: MY SPEED DATE WITH A VAMPIRE

meet Count di Romanzo, a vampire to die for

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Featured Image -- 2069If you love Civil War romance and time travel and TWO hunky military heroes, check out my Kindle Scout winner:

LOVE ME FOREVER

She wore gray.
He wore blue.
But their love defied the boundaries of war.
And time.

LOVE ME FOREVER is now available from Kindle Press at Amazon.com

Casting spells on #Halloween? Nah, I’d rather read my favorite romance novel


Happy Halloween!!
What’s your favorite type of romance?
If you like fairy tales and want to read about Zoey — not your ordinary Cinderella. She’s not young, beautiful, or blonde — check out Royal Bride.
Sweet Romance on Amazon Kindle.

===================

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Halloween!! — EROTIC ROMANCE:

NP_Halloween_title

I love Halloween and dressing up in a pretty costume. Especially a can-can outfit with a white petticoat and layers of ruffles and black stockings. Imagine if you could go to Paris and dance the can-can at the famous Moulin Rouge.

You can…with the help of a little black magic.

Meet Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris She’s jilted at the altar and uses her pre-paid honeymoon tickets to go to Paris. She’s turned on when she sees a full-size painting of a sexy, lost Impressionist named Paul Borquet in a studio in the Marais District…

Here is an audio/video podcast of two short scenes from Naughty Paris where Autumn hears the laughter of the scandalous artist…and she’s transported back to 1889 Paris.

Find out what happened to Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris.”

Happy Halloween!

Halloween Happening: Bobbing for Apples was never like this…

halloween_bob_apples

Happy Halloween!!

NP_Halloween_title

I love Halloween and dressing up in a pretty costume. Especially a can-can outfit with a white petticoat and layers of ruffles and black stockings. Imagine if you could go to Paris and dance the can-can at the famous Moulin Rouge.

You can…with the help of a little black magic.

Meet Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris She’s jilted at the altar and uses her pre-paid honeymoon tickets to go to Paris. She’s turned on when she sees a full-size painting of a sexy, lost Impressionist named Paul Borquet in a studio in the Marais District…

Here is an audio/video podcast of two short scenes from Naughty Paris where Autumn hears the laughter of the scandalous artist…and she’s transported back to 1889 Paris.

Find out what happened to Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris.”

Happy Halloween!

 

Check out my Royals of Monterra Kindle Worlds: ROYAL DARE

When PRD_KindleWorldsrincess Violetta goes off to rehab at the end of Sariah Wilson’s (Royal Date) Kindle Worlds Royals of Monterra, she can’t take her tiara with her.

Princess Violetta is the younger sister of the hero, Prince Nico, in Sariah’s story.

She’s also a meth addict.

When she goes off to rehab in the States (after being tossed out of a posh London rehab), she doesn’t tell anyone she’s a princess.

Though her British accent and her purse collection (who else but a princess would bring all this stuff to rehab? asked a resident) earn her the nickname of “Princess.”‘

Still, it ain’t easy getting clean…even for a princess.

COMING *** November 10, 2016: ROYAL BRIDE — Zoey’s story from ROYAL DARE.***

————-

I first met Princess Violetta in Sariah Wilson’s story, ROYAL DATE.

You can meet see what happened to her afterward in rehab in ROYAL DARE.

I fell in love with the Monterra family, especially Violetta. I call her the “misunderstood princess.” She has everything—looks, money and a title—yet she fell victim to the seductive power of drugs. Why? I wondered. What led her down this path?

I was intrigued to answer that question, but more importantly, I wanted to know what happened to Violetta when she went to rehab. How hard is it for a princess to get clean? And will she find her prince when she does?

I answer this question and more in my Kindle Worlds “The Royals of Monterra” story, ROYAL DARE.

I hope you enjoy it!

Jina

===========================================

What if you fall in love with a royal magician…

In ROYAL MAGIC, Afton and her sister Emma travel to Monterra. It’s a fairy tale kingdom in the modern world.51f4OchWGWL._SX312_BO1,204,203,200_

She meets a gorgeous guy who has the look of a man used to getting his hands dirty. Rugged, independent.

When her sister goes missing in ROYAL MAGIC, he’s her only chance of finding her.

Meet this rugged hero in:

ROYAL MAGIC The Royals of Monterra Kindle Worlds.

The magic is in his kiss…

===========================

Halloween Happening: Bobbing for Apples was never like this #HappyHalloween

halloween_bob_apples

Happy Halloween!!

NP_Halloween_title

I love Halloween and dressing up in a pretty costume. Especially a can-can outfit with a white petticoat and layers of ruffles and black stockings. Imagine if you could go to Paris and dance the can-can at the famous Moulin Rouge.

You can…with the help of a little black magic.

Meet Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris She’s jilted at the altar and uses her pre-paid honeymoon tickets to go to Paris. She’s turned on when she sees a full-size painting of a sexy, lost Impressionist named Paul Borquet in a studio in the Marais District…

Here is an audio/video podcast of two short scenes from Naughty Paris where Autumn hears the laughter of the scandalous artist…and she’s transported back to 1889 Paris.

Find out what happened to Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris.”

Happy Halloween!

Ride, Baby, ride…my excellent Paris adventure #shortstorysunday

ride_baby_ride

His name was Romain and I was in Paris on a summer break from college when he nearly ran me over with his motorcycle. Okay, it was my fault since I was ogling this gorgeous hunk of masculinity in his ripped T-shirt and tight jeans and I got too close to the curb and stumbled into the street.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, knowing he wasn’t to blame, but taking it on the chin anyway.

Brooding dark eyes with unruly dark hair gave him an outlaw look. Sitting astride his big motorcycle, he glared at me, his strongly arched brows furrowed as if he were sizing me up. I felt naked under his penetrating gaze. And I liked it. I was sure the gods watching over lonely college co-eds in strange lands had sent him to me.

How could I resist when he offered me a ride?

We became a twosome that summer. Inseparable day and night. I have no doubt he drove the fastest, sleekest motorcycle in Paris. Speeding up and down the bustling Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Latin Quarter with me on the back. A long, crusty baguette in one hand, holding onto his muscular bod with the other.

My fingers seeking his hard chest through the holes in his ripped T-shirt.

Ah, yes, the moments memories are made of.

“Hold on tight, ma chérie,” he yelled into the wind scented with the lingering perfume of lost queens and courtesans. Even the smoky exhaust couldn’t mask it. “I’m going to put pedal to the metal, as you Americans say.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I snuggled up close to him. Damn, I loved the feeling I got hugging his body. The strong musky smell of his maleness hit my nostrils, reminding me of the sultry nights I’d spent in his arms in my tiny hotel room on the rue du Sommerard…our bodies twisted together in harmony, him whispering words of endearment in French, me wishing I’d paid more attention in French class.

M. Appel, my professor, would have raised an aristocratic eyebrow and tapped his pointer on the edge of my nose. “Bien, mademoiselle,” I could hear him say. “I told you someday you’d regret not studying your French idioms.”

So be the folly of youth.

But Romain and I didn’t have trouble communicating between the sheets. I was tempted to tell that to M. Appel when the fall quarter started. In three weeks. Till then, Romain was all mine.

“Bon,” the sexy Frenchman said, shifting his weight on the leather seat of his motorcycle and pushing his butt into my groin, sending me to paradise. “Let me show you Paris like you’ve never seen her.”

Off we went.

We rode around Paris on his big, sexy motorcycle. Up the steep hills of Montmartre and past Sacré-Cœur, then the fancy boutiques on the rue de Rivoli before zooming under the bridges where the homeless of Paris sought refuge from the chaos above.

As they had for hundreds of years.

Every day, we stopped under the bridge and brought fresh baguettes to the people huddled there. Gathered around the burning flame in the old metal trashcan, eking out an existence. I had no idea Paris had so many les exclus, as they were called. It broke my heart. I saw them begging on church steps, at train stations, in the park with the carousel.

Romain told me his family was once homeless after his father died. His mother and three little sisters lived under the bridge when he was fifteen and they couldn’t find room in a shelter. He worked as a laborer till his hands bled so he could get them a tiny apartment. Over the years, he worked even harder to better himself, go to university and, now in his late twenties, he had his dream bike.

He rode it everywhere.

His muscular arms and big hands maneuvering his lean, mean machine through ancient narrow streets and back alleys. Me on the back. His strong torso crushing my breasts, his hips grinding against mine, his body heat so wonderfully intense, I melted into him. By the time I had to go home to the States, I’d ripped apart half a dozen of his T-shirts with my nails. Holding onto him. Wanting him.

And when we made love at night, he rode…mais non, that’s my little secret.

A summer in Paris I’ll never forget.

===================

Featured Image -- 2069If you love Civil War romance and time travel and TWO hunky military heroes, check out my Kindle Scout winner:

LOVE ME FOREVER

She wore gray.
He wore blue.
But their love defied the boundaries of war.
And time.

LOVE ME FOREVER is now available from Kindle Press at Amazon.com

“Ride, Baby, ride” on #MotorcycleRideDay and my excellent Paris adventure

motorcycle_ride_day

His name was Romain and I was in Paris on a summer break from college when he nearly ran me over with his motorcycle. Okay, it was my fault since I was ogling this gorgeous hunk of masculinity in his ripped T-shirt and tight jeans and I got too close to the curb and stumbled into the street.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, knowing he wasn’t to blame, but taking it on the chin anyway.

Brooding dark eyes with unruly dark hair gave him an outlaw look. Sitting astride his big motorcycle, he glared at me, his strongly arched brows furrowed as if he were sizing me up. I felt naked under his penetrating gaze. And I liked it. I was sure the gods watching over lonely college co-eds in strange lands had sent him to me.

How could I resist when he offered me a ride?

We became a twosome that summer. Inseparable day and night. I have no doubt he drove the fastest, sleekest motorcycle in Paris. Speeding up and down the bustling Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Latin Quarter with me on the back. A long, crusty baguette in one hand, holding onto his muscular bod with the other.

My fingers seeking his hard chest through the holes in his ripped T-shirt.

Ah, yes, the moments memories are made of.

“Hold on tight, ma chérie,” he yelled into the wind scented with the lingering perfume of lost queens and courtesans. Even the smoky exhaust couldn’t mask it. “I’m going to put pedal to the metal, as you Americans say.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I snuggled up close to him. Damn, I loved the feeling I got hugging his body. The strong musky smell of his maleness hit my nostrils, reminding me of the sultry nights I’d spent in his arms in my tiny hotel room on the rue du Sommerard…our bodies twisted together in harmony, him whispering words of endearment in French, me wishing I’d paid more attention in French class.

M. Appel, my professor, would have raised an aristocratic eyebrow and tapped his pointer on the edge of my nose. “Bien, mademoiselle,” I could hear him say. “I told you someday you’d regret not studying your French idioms.”

So be the folly of youth.

But Romain and I didn’t have trouble communicating between the sheets. I was tempted to tell that to M. Appel when the fall quarter started. In three weeks. Till then, Romain was all mine.

“Bon,” the sexy Frenchman said, shifting his weight on the leather seat of his motorcycle and pushing his butt into my groin, sending me to paradise. “Let me show you Paris like you’ve never seen her.”

Off we went.

We rode around Paris on his big, sexy motorcycle. Up the steep hills of Montmartre and past Sacré-Cœur, then the fancy boutiques on the rue de Rivoli before zooming under the bridges where the homeless of Paris sought refuge from the chaos above.

As they had for hundreds of years.

Every day, we stopped under the bridge and brought fresh baguettes to the people huddled there. Gathered around the burning flame in the old metal trashcan, eking out an existence. I had no idea Paris had so many les exclus, as they were called. It broke my heart. I saw them begging on church steps, at train stations, in the park with the carousel.

Romain told me his family was once homeless after his father died. His mother and three little sisters lived under the bridge when he was fifteen and they couldn’t find room in a shelter. He worked as a laborer till his hands bled so he could get them a tiny apartment. Over the years, he worked even harder to better himself, go to university and, now in his late twenties, he had his dream bike.

He rode it everywhere.

His muscular arms and big hands maneuvering his lean, mean machine through ancient narrow streets and back alleys. Me on the back. His strong torso crushing my breasts, his hips grinding against mine, his body heat so wonderfully intense, I melted into him. By the time I had to go home to the States, I’d ripped apart half a dozen of his T-shirts with my nails. Holding onto him. Wanting him.

And when we made love at night, he rode…mais non, that’s my little secret.

A summer in Paris I’ll never forget.

===================

Featured Image -- 2069If you love Civil War romance and time travel and TWO hunky military heroes, check out my Kindle Scout winner:

LOVE ME FOREVER

She wore gray.
He wore blue.
But their love defied the boundaries of war.
And time.

LOVE ME FOREVER is now available from Kindle Press at Amazon.com

National Homeless Persons’ Remembrance Day

???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

I’ll never forget the homeless woman I met outside a church in Versailles. It was a cold, winter day with a sharp wind whistling in my ear. I was about to go inside to get warm when I noticed her. She was wearing tattered, black half-gloves over her reddened hands, a torn scarf tied over her matted dark hair. A soiled white linen bandage wrapped around her leg.

She reminded me of the chiffonier, the homeless of another era who gathered under bridges and built fires to keep warm. It broke my heart to see they still existed.

I was on holiday in the lovely little town of the Sun King having arrived from Paris the day before by train. I was wearing a new silk scarf I’d bought in the flea market. I loved that scarf with its pretty floral print of bright red roses splashed over the heavy, rich silk. It made me feel like I was wrapped up in warm sunshine when I fastened it around my neck.

Then I looked at the homeless woman shivering, her eyes heavy from little sleep. Her frail shoulders hunched together to warm herself.

She needed it more.

????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Photo credit: © Rollenberg | Dreamstime.com – Homeless Woman Begging Photo

With a wistful sigh, I unwrapped it and insisted she take it. She couldn’t believe I was giving it to her. She ran her fingers over the silk in a slow manner almost as if she was afraid to touch it. Then she became bolder and rubbed the luxurious material over her cold, wrinkled cheeks. Her eyes lit up with such a glow, my heart melted

She threw her arms around me and hugged me. Tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips.

Then she disappeared into the crowd.

I went inside the church and said a prayer for her, imagining her sitting by the fire under a bridge. Wearing her new scarf. Touching the silk and humming to herself. I pulled up the collar on my coat and smiled.

I wasn’t cold anymore.

~Jina

=============

CPT_Jared_gate

I never forgot that woman and thought of her often as I wrote about homeless vets in my holiday romance, “The Christmas Piano Tree.”

The hero is a wounded warrior suffering from PTSD when he shows up at the gate to the entrance to the Mary Huber School for Girls where my heroine, Kristen Delaney, works…she’s been feeding homeless vets with leftover food as a way of keeping her husband’s memory alive (he was killed in Afghanistan)–this is a very difficult Christmas Eve for her and her little girl Rachel…until this soldier shows up!!

Here’s a short scene where we first meet him. Kristen gets a funny feeling when she sees a tall man walking toward her…

“She pulled her steering wheel hard to the right to avoid colliding with the tall man bundled up in a black field jacket and khaki pants, a duffel bag strapped on his back, his broad shoulders dusted with falling snow.

“She stuck her head out of the window to give him a piece of her mind and then stopped.

“Something about him made her stare at him. He had that swagger she knew so well. Military. Seeing him touched a nerve. Another homeless vet. Kristen shook her head, understanding. He was the third one this week looking for a hot meal.

“Not surprising on Christmas Eve.”

=============

Chris_Piano_Tree_Cover_Final_500x800

The Christmas Piano Tree” is the story of a pretty young war widow who re-discovers the magic of the holiday season with the help of a homeless vet and an old piano.

Available on Kindle and KindleUnlimited

Pretend to be a Time Traveler Day in “Naughty Paris”

time_traveler

Tired of online dating sites?

Fed up with emails from guys who just don’t get you?

Then what you need is a blast from the past!

A hottie hunk who knows how to treat a woman…and I’ve got just the guy for you…

Paul Borquet in my time travel erotic romance, NAUGHTY PARIS.

Here is an excerpt:

I don’t close my eyes, but continue staring at Paul Borquet, wishing I could feel his arms around me, his lips kissing me, his ???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????body pressed against mine.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance if I were young and beautiful,” I whisper, shifting my weight from side to side. The wooden platform bends, squeaking under my wet bare feet. Lightning flashes overhead through the skylight, stinging my eyes like a thousand watt lightbulb slashing through the air. “I’d make you fall in love with me–”

I cry out when electricity jolts the bronze sculpture I’m holding between my breasts, sending a hot current through me and vibrating through my brain, raising the hair on my arms, and making my eyeballs bulge out.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I hear the old artist calling out that he’s going for help, but I can’t answer, can’t focus. All the muscles in my body tighten and I feel myself lifted up off my feet and zooming through space, as if something is flinging me skyward. An unexplained chill settles in me as if I’m in a swirling vortex as electricity flashes over my skin, racing in and out of my bod faster than I can blink.

What’s happening to me?

This isn’t my normal world. I want things dry and safe. Not wild and crazy. The electricity dances a choreography of darkness and light all over me, tracing the path of my sweat. I’m breathless and more than a little bewildered. Mix in bewitched and my trip to Paris is turning into the Rocky Horror Picture Show with French subtitles. This can’t be happening!

Thunder claps in my ears with a loud boom then–

–the lights go out.

Darkness. The humid air suddenly reeks of a strong musky scent. Male.

Coming closer…closer…yes…I hear that sexy laughter again as someone blows hot air into my ear, making me shiver. I twist my fingers on the statue until they burn, then my nipples harden into pointy peaks as if someone pinched them. Becoming aroused again, I let out a sigh when someone squeezes my breast and sucks on it, then moans. Who? Where is he? I can’t open my eyes, swallow or talk, or move my legs or hands, touch him, anything.

I can’t do more than make a desperate breathing sound as I lie–

Where?

Where am I?

————-NP_large

Autumn travels back to 1889 Paris and meets the lost Impressionist Paul Borquet and boy, do things heat up from there…

Naughty Paris is available on Amazon and other e-tailer sites.

Good Looking Young Man in Pirate Fashion Outfit

© Artofphoto | Dreamstime.com

Paris

© Iloveotto | Dreamstime.com

 

Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited. ® and tm are trademarks of the publisher

=============

COMING in 2015:

LOVE ME FOREVER

A Civil War Time Travel Romance

She wore gray.

He wore blue.

But their love defied the boundaries of war.

And time.

 

Go to Naughty Paris on this Halloween

NP_Halloween_title

I love Halloween and dressing up in a pretty costume. Especially a can-can outfit with a white petticoat and layers of ruffles and black stockings. Imagine if you could go to Paris and dance the can-can at the famous Moulin Rouge.

You can…with the help of a little black magic.

Meet Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris She’s jilted at the altar and uses her pre-paid honeymoon tickets to go to Paris. She’s turned on when she sees a full-size painting of a sexy, lost Impressionist named Paul Borquet in a studio in the Marais District…

Here is an audio/video podcast of two short scenes from Naughty Paris where Autumn hears the laughter of the scandalous artist…and she’s transported back to 1889 Paris.

Find out what happened to Autumn Maguire in Naughty Paris.”

Happy Halloween!

%d bloggers like this: