KevaD - A Dance with Bogie and Bacall

Hello,Judith, and thank you very much for hosting me here today.
Andthank you, the readers, for dropping by and seeing what we're up to.
I'mKevaD, and I write in a variety of genres, from romance to comedy to horror."ADance with Bogie and Bacall" is an innocent tale of two people stumblingthrough life, and the ghost bent on bringing them together.
Blurb:
Radio DJ Scott Kincaid's first caller ofthe night is a lady who died forty-nine years ago. The second wants to knock hishead off. And he thought falling in love would be easy.
Maureenand Frank Johnson shared the kind of romance most people believe only exists inmovies. Until a ballroom fire took Maureen's life.
FranciJohnson grew up hearing her grandparents' love story a thousand times andwishes to find the kind of undying love Frank and Maureen had once upon a time.
DJScott Kincaid just wants the ghost following him to go away. But Maureen thinksthe hunky DJ might be just the answer to her granddaughter's dreams.

"ADance with Bogie and Bacall" came about purely by accident, orserendipity. Not really sure which.
I'dturned on some music while contemplating a love story for the Noble RomancePublishing Timeless Desire Line. On came Bertie Higgins's Key Largo, and that was all she wrote. Or in my case, that was theinspiration for what I wrote. I called up the video on Youtube and played itover, and over, and over, and over… Until my wife begged me to stop. Then Iturned the volume down, hit replay, and continued writing.
Inall fairness, the only similarity between my story and Bertie's song is theinclusion of Bogie and Bacall. In my story, the duo make a film appearance asthe ghost tries to create a romantic moment sure to bring the two young heartsof our hero and heroine together. Chalk up another failure, and implement PlanQ.
However,"A Dance with Bogie and Bacall" isn't all flowers and candy. Life andlove never is.Here'swhat two readers have said already:
"I adore A Dance with Bogie and Bacall! You owe me abox of Kleenex!" – author Debbie Vaughan"Hey, Man, COULD NOT put that book down....Verygood...Loved it.." – reader Margie Snyder Heitz
I hope you will too.Thanks for stopping by, and be sure to click the logo togo to your next stop on the tour.
DavidKentner/KevaDhttp://www.kevad.net/https://www.nobleromance.com/Authors/116http://www.rainbowebooks.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4507
Excerpt:
Frank propped his elbow on the ironrailing at the edge of the dance floor and absently watched yet anotherHumphrey Bogart lookalike attired as film noire detective Sam Spade arrogantlystrut across the ballroom, through the forest of faux palm trees and pottedplants with crepe paper leaves. Ribbons of gray tobacco smoke broke and swirledin his wake. The hard, leather heels of his polished shoes clicked a beat onthe floorboards. At a rickety, corner table barely illuminated under theflickering flame of a sconce gas lamp, a Rick Blaine copy in the character'spatented white tux and black tie rose from a wooden folding chair and graspedSam's extended hand. An obvious Vivian Sternwood Rutledge in full aqua gownuncharacteristically scurried across the floor until she stood at Sam's sidewhere she ran her hand over the back of his black suit coat. A glint of a toolong pocket watch gold chain flashed in the dim, orange light. A subtle nod toRick's left, and Sam turned his shoulders to take the hand of a seated NoraTemple resplendently sensuous in a black dress with plunging neckline thattickled the top of the fleshy V of her very noticeable, ample cleavage. "You're staring," whisperedFrank's own duplicated Nora into his right ear. "Not that she doesn't havea lot to stare at." "She forgot the necklace. WhenLauren Bacall played Nora, she wore a necklace with that dress in Key Largo.A silver one that clung to the base of her throat and accentuated the gracefulturns of her head. Lauren Bacall isn't only the most beautiful actress to evergrace the silver screen, she makes the clothing and accoutrements she wearsstunning"—he shifted his gaze and lost himself in his wife's glisteninggreen eyes—"just like you do." A quickly raised hand pinched his jaw atthe chin. "Franklin Johnson, you are such a liar." Maureen's glossyred lips curled at the corners. "But a sweet one." She pushed hisface left. "She's wearing the necklace." He coughed a hairball of embarrassment.Oops. Maureen pulled his face back to hers. Inheels, she stood nearly as tall as he did and leaned in as if to offer up a kissbut stopped a heated breath short. "You want to gawk at a woman's chest,gawk at your wife's." Frank glanced down. Maureen had capturedthe top of her black silk, body-clinging dress between thumb and forefingerallowing a full view of her diminutive, unclad breasts and perked, pinknipples. His groin stirred immediately within hisRick Blaine white tuxedo trousers. "You hussy," he heaved out in athick rasp. "Where is your brassiere? Some new moral descent didn't happenwhen we left the 50s behind us." Heat scorched his ears. How had he notnoticed before this? His breath caught. God, she was beautiful. "Built-in cups just firm enough tohold me in place." She chuckled at his discomfort and released the cloth,then slipped her arms beneath his jacket and around his torso. Inching in tohim, she only stopped when the hardened beads atop her bosom pressed throughhis shirt and against his chest. "Mmm," he moaned. Her mouthfound his ear. Little nips tugged at the lobe. He stroked the sides of her bodyunder the cool silk. The temperature of her skin headed for sweltering, thesilken material warmed. Sweat beaded under his arms and between his thighs. Shepressed into his thickening erection, which snapped to full attention under atidal wave of arousal. He allowed himself the publiclydisplayed pleasure of sliding his hands to the top of her buttocks, tracing theindentation with his little fingers. Nuzzling her soft throat, he whispered,"I want to make love to you right now. Let's get out of here." The six-piece band comprised of threestrings, the leader's clarinet, one sax, and a trombone returned from break tothe small stage at the end of the long room, and oozed into a slow, softrendition of As Time Goes By. Humphrey Bogarts and Lauren Bacalls of allsizes, shapes, and costumes materialized from the shadows of the gas lampsresurrected for this annual event celebrating Bogart's life and death. Thepast's mimes took to the dance floor under tiny squares of haunting light fromthe mirrored orb of the Harvest Moon Ballroom. "No." Maureen grabbed his handand yanked him into the throng of couples on the dance floor. "Bogie and Bacallwouldn't let a night like this go to waste . . . and neither will we." Herleft hand snaked its way to the small of his back, her right took his left in apretense of submitting to his "lead." She opted for a closed boxfoxtrot with her body trying to merge with his, their steps no more thanfoot-length shuffles. "Besides, you haven't given me myanniversary orchid yet. Ten years today, Franklin Johnson. And though I loveyou more than ever, and have borne you three children, you will give memy orchid." All the blood in him fell to his feet.The room swayed, but not to the music. The mirrored ball spun in a prismaticdervish. A ghostly orchid, fragile and pulsing its matte colors, swirled in andout of his vision. "Frank? Frank! Are you allright?" Movement. His. Somehow he moved acrossthe floor—the orchid just beyond his grasp led the way. "Sit down." The voice from anunseen well belonged to Maureen. He did as instructed. "I'll get you some water. I'll beright back." The orchid hung motionless in the air.He reached out his open palm. The flower settled onto his skin. A smile partedhis lips. The orchid was as beautiful as Maureen. A faint heat emanated fromthe flower's core. He brought the bloom closer. Flames engulfed the petals,burned his hand. Reflexively he dropped the small ball of fire onto the tablewhere it disintegrated into black dust and disappeared. "Drink this." The chilled rim of a glass touched hislips. Iced water trickled between them. He gratefully swallowed the mouthful,filtering out the ice cubes with his teeth, and then gulped down the entireglassful of water. "Come on, pal." A man's voice.Hands under his arms lifted Frank from the chair. "You just need to liedown a few minutes. A little too much bubbly, eh?" "Our tenth anniversary,"Maureen said. "We had some champagne earlier, but I didn't think he'd hadthat much. My husband isn't a drinker normally. Only on special occasions." Frank flopped his head back, watchingthe dark ceiling boards skip past. He tried to count them, but they moved tooquickly as the men on either side of him half carried him from the ballroom.Then his feet scuffed their way up a stairway and into a small room. A lampclicked on. Light under an emerald shade flooded a cluttered desktop. He waslowered onto a leather couch that squeaked his arrival. Maureen appeared in front of him andhelped him out of his jacket. She loosened his bowtie and unbuttoned hiscollar. Cool air sprinkled his exposed throat. "I'll have a pitcher of water sentup. Stay as long as you want. Not the first time a guest needed that couch tosleep it off." Two shadows stepped through the doorway into the hall. "He's not drunk," Maureen saidin a huff. She wiped his face with her open hand. "Are you okay, honey?You scared me there for a minute." Little by little, Maureen's face cameinto focus. Lines of worry wrinkled her brow. Still, the creases somehow lookeddamn good on her. Age would meet its match in this gorgeous woman. Frankgrinned. "Yeah. Better now. Just got a little dizzy. I guess I should stayaway from champagne that comes in six-packs. I'm fine. Let's get out ofhere." He placed his hands on the cushions and pushed in an attempt tostand. Maureen countered with her hands on hisshoulders. "You stay right there, Mister, until I'm sure you're allright." He tilted his head and kissed her wrist."I'm okay. Honest. Let's go home." Something inside him rolled over.An urge, a need of some kind. A desire to leave this place. "We will, Frank." Maureenguided him downward and placed a throw pillow under his head. "But I wantyou to rest for a few minutes. For me? Please?" She lifted his feet ontothe couch. His shoes thumped on the floor. Cool air swarmed over his stockingfeet, delivering a sense of comfort in its rush. Her hands went to his waist.His belt came undone, then his trousers unbuttoned. Tension ebbed under Maureen's care.Wrapped in her love, he was as safe as she was in his. He swept away the orchid asa momentary quirk in the thick tobacco smoke. "Too much champagne,celebration, dancing, and too much confined heat from the packed house crowd.That's all that happened. Nothing to be concerned with. I'm fine. And I stillwant to make love to you." She arched a brow and ran the tip of hertongue across her red lips. Subtly moving her hips from side to side, shegripped the zipper of his pants and slowly tugged it down; each metal linkclicked surrender to Frank's private lap dancer. A not unfamiliar game in theirbedroom. But they certainly weren't in their bedroom. His interest and erectionswelled. Ten years of marriage, and Maureen couldstill turn him on in an instant. "Are you trying to seduce me,madam? I am a married man, you know." He waggled his left hand back andforth. "I have a ring and everything." Maureen narrowed her eyes, and huskilywhispered, "It's the everything I'm after." She ran a fingerover the cylindrical shape of engorged flesh under his cotton briefs. "Bogieand Bacall wouldn't waste an opportunity like this." A grin of desire spread across Frank'sface. "And neither will we."