Posts Tagged ‘Italian’

My Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs Spice novel is being released today in Italy in a three-in-one book set with Lori Foster and Amanda McIntryre!
I’ve always loved trains and the mystery and adventure of the Orient Express. Even James Bond got it on with a beautiful Russian spy aboard the train to Istanbul in From Russia with Love.
When I wanted my heroine in my erotic spy thriller, Spies, Lies and Naked Thighs (Bionda Vendetta in Italian), to take control of the situation with a sexy man she perceived to be a dangerous terrorist, she went one step further than 007: she tied him up and performed delicious torture on him (including oral sex) on the night train to Paris:
He attempts to rip apart his restraints, arching and groaning and gritting his teeth.
“You can avoid further frustration if you tell me what I want to know.” I smooth his dark hair back from his sweating brow, avoiding touching his eye patch, knowing he’s anticipating me ripping it off. I don’t, adding to his tension. “Who do you work for?”
“I told you. I work alone.”
“I don’t believe you.” I slide my hand between his legs, feeling him. “Maybe this will loosen your tongue because I have no intention of loosening the rope around your cock.” This elicits a distinct erotic charge in him that jolts him. He thrusts into my hand, struggling madly to free himself, his shoulders heaving in his attempt to escape from captivity.
“You’ll get no information from me,” he snorts.
“Won’t I? I know the Russian had money,” I persist, knowing I have to give him a convincing story. “I want my share.”
He closes his eyes. I see his exhaustion. He’s not giving up as easily as I first believed. It’s not easy on me either. I exist in a situation of emotional and sexual intensity in which I’m deeply implicated, yet I can do nothing to satisfy my own needs. This is no lovers’ game, but a tug-of-war involving the intense energy of ritual and passionate SM where one of us will lose.
The question is: Which one?
I also made a short 30-second promo for Spies, Lies and Naked Thighs in both English and Italian.



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My Harlequin Italian publisher HARMONY is turning 30!

I was very excited when my Italian editor, Alessandra Bazardi, asked me to record a special Happy 30th Birthday to Harmony to my Italian readers.

All of my Spice books have been translated into Italian, so this was really cool.

Here is my video! I hope you enjoy it.

Happy 30th Birthday to Harmony Italy (Harlequin) from Jina


(PS — the Italian titles follow the names of my novels:)

The Blonde Samurai “She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.” Bionda Samurai

Jina Bacarr is also the author of The Blonde Geisha Passioni di una Geisha

Cleopatra’s Perfume Il Profumo del peccato

Naughty Paris Trasgressione Scarlatta

Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs Bionda Vendetta

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ROSSOFUOCO“Fire Red” with ROSE M.J., BACARR JINA, ANDERSEN SUSAN — 3 books in 1 from Harlequin Italy, http://www.eharmony.it/, including my book, Naughty Paris.

My Harlequin Spice time travel about 1889 Paris, “Naughty Paris,” is being re-released in Italy as part of a not-to-be-missed 3-book Special Edition along with novels by M.J. Rose and Susan Andersen.

After being jilted by her fiancé, Autumn Maguire uses her nonrefundable honeymoon tickets to exploreParison her own. Eager to experience the true bohemian lifestyle, she answers an ad for an artist’s model. When she exchanges her clothes for the artist’s lush red cloak, something strange happens…a feeling of intense sensual reawakening overcomes her. Suddenly lightning strikes and through the power of black magic she’s thrust back into…

…the nineteenth century where the scandalous painter Paul Borquet is insisting she become his Titian-haired muse. Between everyone’s strange clothing, the claustrophobic Parisian streets and the overpowering pull of sexual desire, Autumn can’t process…just where the heck is she and how did she get here? And frankly, with Paul’s expert caresses imprinted on her body, does she really care about going back to present day?

Click here to read an excerpt of “Naughty Paris.” (also available as an eBook)

I hope you enjoy my video!

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by Evelyn Q. Darling
Romance Reporter At Large

It has come to the attention of this reporter that several of you out there, both romance readers and writers alike, are so involved in your reading and/or writing of romance novels that you may not be aware the bastion of male sweat and tight ends will soon be upon us.

Super Bowl.

Be aware, ladies, this is not to be taken lightly. No amount of cleavage or sexy panting will get your man away from the TV set on Super Bowl Sunday. Trust me, I know.

And if you are a football fan, well, you may know how to play the game, but do you know the top 5 things NOT to do during the game?

This reporter has gone to great lengths to find out.

So before the coin toss on Sunday, let’s get your game face on.

1. This is not the day to have new furniture delivered. Your man wants his lumpy sofa and scratched-up, old coffee table where he can be comfortable and put his feet up and watch the game. His turf, if you will.

2. No flavored sparkling water with teensy lime slices. This is like serving vanilla meringue puffs to a hungry army on the march. Beer is the beverage of choice and plenty of it.

3. Hold the beans and pass the guacamole. This is not the time to try out your extra spicy, three-kinds-of-beans dip. Bathroom breaks are not at the top of his list, even during the commercials. Who wants to miss those?

4. Don’t diss his friends if they show up smelling of beer and cigarettes. It’s a guy thing, believe me. A ritual to see who can smell the worst. Remember the guy in the news recently who didn’t wash his jeans for more than a year? That’s right, keep telling yourself it could be worse.

5. No matter how many potato chip crumbs or pizza toppings fall to the floor or carpet, do not vacuum them up. You will drive him crazy. Not good crazy, bad crazy. He’ll never forgive you if he misses the winning touchdown because of a noisy vacuum. And don’t try vacuuming naked. The only skin he’s interested in during the game is on a football.

One final word from this reporter’s iPad: whether your man pouts or gloats about his team’s performance, make sure you rave about his performance in bed afterward.

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I had an exciting day yesterday when my mail lady delivered five (5) boxes of foreign editions of my Spice novels.

Italian, German, Spanish and Polish. Amazing how the Harlequin brand is so international!

The Blonde Samurai has just been released in Spanish.

Placer Oriental in Spanish (Oriental Pleasure)

So for all my Spanish-speaking readers, here is the blurb from the Harlequin Spain site:

Encontró el placer en brazos de un samurái Primavera de 1873 Yo, Katie O’Roarke, llegué a Japón en la primavera de 1873 con mi virginidad intacta, mi corazón cargado de nostalgia y mi alma ansiosa por encontrar los placeres que me negaba mi marido, lord Carlton, un hombre frío y egoísta, poseído por una crueldad sin límites.

El país oriental contrastaba en todos los aspectos con la tediosa vida que llevaba en Londres y me permitía olvidar mi horrible matrimonio. Pero cuando mi marido me atacó en un estado de embriaguez y locura, no pude seguir soportándolo y hui a las montañas. Allí encontré a Akira, un joven samurái que me llevó hasta Shintaro, el jefe del poderoso clan guerrero.

Al principio recelaba de mi presencia, pero Shintaro empezó a visitarme a diario hasta que el sonido de sus pisadas bastaba para que se me desbocase el corazón. Me enseñó el camino del guerrero, el valor del honor, la lealtad y la dignidad, y también un mundo de infinitas posibilidades eróticas en el que yo iba a descubrir una fuerza insospechada.

Juntos prenderíamos la pasión prohibida, traspasaríamos las barreras del placer y evocaríamos el peligro en su forma más sensual. Pero mi marido estaba empeñado en encontrarme y hacerme pagar por la humillación sufrida. Y yo no podía seguir ocultándome entre los naranjos del valle cuando una oscura amenaza se cernía sobre mi destino…

A big “thank you” to the international Harlequin team who puts together the foreign editions and sends them to the authors!

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by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of The Blonde Samurai”  

I take up my pen today not to write my romance, but to impart to you news, important news that has reached me in my place of solitude where I deign to call myself a novelist.  

Morning sunlight, wiggling through the petit-point pattern on the lacy curtain, hovers over my shoulder to see what I’m writing.  A red-breasted robin fluttering about on the window sill holds its breath, pen scratchings fill my ears. 

I am beside myself with excitement, spilling blue ink on my gown and smudging the fine rice paper upon which I write with dirty fingerprints, but I know you shall forgive me for word has reached me that my memoir, The Blonde Samurai, has found its way to faraway shores. 

To Italy.  

A place where– 

The romance of carnival and exquisite masks enchants the eye.  

The sacred mount of the holy saints restores one’s faith. 

The musical language of the arts and literature delights the ear and enriches the soul. 

I must recount to you how pleased I am that the story of this Irish-American lass and her samurai has made its way to such a grand place. 

Here then is the visual and audio presentation in Italian of the publisher’s synopsis of “Bionda Samurai” (available May 13th).  Grazie!



Postscript:  I have also included the English translation for you:

“During the latter part of the nineteenth century, a beautiful and fascinating American woman named Katie is about to release her memoir with more than a hint to scandal, a scandal that will unleash an uproar in Society. 

“She is determined to recount her adventures in every detail, from the electrifying moments to the salacious, her life ruled by her insatiable appetite for all things sensual.  Her story takes us from London to Japan, where the journey takes you through a maze of raw and vivid eroticism. 

“Tantalizing and provocative scenes of sensuality await you in Japan.  This is the return of class because Jina Bacarr (author of The Blonde Geisha” and “Cleopatra’s Perfume“) puts forward with her usual skill a story that is unique and has earned her millions of readers around the world, her themes more endearing and bold with provocative situations raw and sexy but always romantic. 


The Blonde Samurai
She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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I love pizza (as you can see by my video blog in Venice) and everything Italian. 

So you can understand why I’m having so much fun with my books coming out in Italy in April (Peccati e Piacere) and on May 13th (Bionda Samurai — look for a video in Italian next week!). 

My Harlequin Spice, Naughty Paris (TRASGRESSIONE SCARLATTA in Italian) is included this month (May 8)  in a pack of sexy novels called PACK ROSSO PASSIONE  featuring Megan Hart and Sarah McCarty.
It’s the featured cover in the pack as shown below. 
Love that sexy scarlet...


Want to know more about “Naughty Paris?”

Here is an Excerpt From the Harlequin website

Naughty Paris
by Jina Bacarr 

Paris Today—An Art Studio in the Marais District The Model

“You want me to take off my T-shirt?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“And my yoga pants?

He nods. “Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Hold on a Paris minute,” I protest, glancing over at the old artist with a Gauloise cigarette hanging out of his mouth like a limp penis. He takes a drag without taking his eyes off my wet T-shirt sticking to me like a Post-it. “I ducked in here to get out of the rain, not sign up for strip aerobics.”

Husky voice, low in the back of my throat. Jeez, is that me? Got to be nerves.

I had the same catch in my throat when I swallowed the mint in my mouth after David, my ex-fiancé, insisted I give lousy BJs and he couldn’t go through with our wedding because he had issues with us.

The jerk.

As if flunking a postgraduate course in blow jobs is a top-ten reason to send me into therapy and sic my mother on me for the prepaid, nonrefundable honeymoon to Paris. But here I am, wandering around the Right Bank in the rain like Jean Valjean in squishy Nikes. Jilted and miserable.

And wondering how I let silver-tongued David—a guy who knows how to use that tongue to trigger my starter button—talk me into charging everything on my credit card. I’ve worked my ass off climbing the corporate ladder since college, putting my dream of opening my own art gallery on hold. Now I’m not only groomless but I had to dip into my 401-k account to pay for twelve bridesmaids” dresses with matching dyed Jimmy-what’s-his-name stilettos, not to mention more than two hundred pounds of prime rib. Rare.

After I cut up my maxed-out credit card, I guzzled down the last bottle of champagne then tossed my white satin Vera Wang knock-off into the closest trashcan. The next morning I took off for the birthplace of Godiva chocolates to sweeten the bad taste in my mouth. And I don’t mean spending time on my knees sucking on a guy wearing a raspberry-flava condom. I mean something dramatic and wonderful, heartstopping and sizzling with pent-up energy. I want to feel alive, desired.

Who am I kidding? I want to be a drop-dead-gorgeous sex goddess.

Youth and a fab bod aren’t everything, you know.

Ha! David thinks so. That’s why I’m not all snuggly and warm with him between the sheets in my Paris hotel instead of sneaking through the city like a rat in an underground sewer.

You’re not young anymore, kiddo, and you are, oh, so not thin. That’s why you lost David to that Aphrodite, an insipid skinny-as-a-toothpick, not-old-enough-to-drink-yet blonde. Your assistant, yet. How could you be so dumb?

Dumb? I was stupid, insane, a complete idiot for letting that bitch take David away from me. I got punked.

Zap! As if agreeing with me, lightning rips through the long multipaned window, hitting me in the eye like a redlight camera, illuminating the faint light in the studio and diluting the smoky atmos.

I blink, then blink again. A B horror film mentality creeps me out, making me shiver. It can’t get any worse. Storm clouds hide the afternoon sun. A rush of rain falls outside, banging against the windowpanes shimmering with a wet sheen. Thunder cracks like a boombox bursting with outta control volume. The old building shakes. I cringe. Do I really want to go back outside into that stormy mess? That’s why I don’t protest when the old artist hustles me toward the platform in the back of the art studio.

“Hurry, mademoiselle, we’re losing the light.” A pungent whiff of burnt tobacco shoots up my nose. Who is this putz? For sure, he’s no panting Adonis who can seduce a woman to take off her clothes with a smile. He’s short, balding, sporting a little paunch and he smokes too much.

“Watch those hands, monsieur. I know karate.” I’m bluffing, but it works with the geek corporate types I deal with every day who think a physical workout is something you do by yourself with one hand.

By the way, did you notice the old artist was impressed when I said kah-rah-tay with the accent on the tay? I may give lousy blow jobs, but I’m not Gallic challenged. I got an A in French in college. I can rattle off enough swear words to impress the surliest taxi driver, from calling him a salaud, bastard, to a quel casse-couilles, pain in the ass.

“You made a mistake, monsieur,” I continue, now that I’ve got his attention. “I wouldn’t look as soggy as overcooked lasagna if I owned an umbrella, which I don’t. mention Nielsen ratings.”

He makes a face. Silly me. As if he understands my popculture rhetoric to explain why he doesn’t want to see me naked, why I slap on phony tanning stuff rather than sport a citrus-yellow bikini on a SoCal beach. I don’t tell him cellulite and I are as tight as sorority sisters. Not to mention my stomach is upset and I feel like I’m going to pass gas from the greasy pommes frites I gulped down at the flea market.

“Then you’re not a model, mademoiselle?” The old artist gestures with his two hands like he’s feeling up melons in the supermarché.

I shake my head emphatically. “No.” “Pity.” He coughs, tosses his cigarette into an empty saucer, then does a mental strip search of my bod from the top of my red Angels baseball cap to my DKNY white cotton T-shirt, mauve yoga pants with a white stripe running up the side, and comfy walking shoes. “I’d still like to draw you.”

I tilt my head to one side, thinking. What’s holding me back? Posing in my bra and panties isn’t any different from sporting a bikini at a pool party, right? So why not go for the win?

I nod. “Okay. It’ll be a fun souvenir to take home.”

He smiles, then drops the bombshell. Right into my lap. “Bon. Good. You must pose in the nude.”

“Are you sure Madonna started like this?” I ask, holding on to my panties, pulling on the elastic waistband until it snaps against my bare skin. Ouch. I’ve already taken off my wet clothes and left them hanging on the tall black screen standing in the corner, along with my waist pack with my money and passport.


“You know, the pop star? “Like a Virgin’?” I sway my hips like the superstar diva. Somehow it doesn’t have the same effect. The old artist shrugs.

“I don’t care if you’re a virgin—”

I’m not, but I smile anyway.

“—I wish to sketch you, mademoiselle, not make love to you.”

That did it. Can my ego get any flatter? Ever seen a used condom?

Well, here goes.

I wiggle my peppermint pink panties down over my thighs and let them drop onto the small platform. There. I’ve done it. I’m nude. No turning back, even if I haven’t shaved below my bikini line.

Vive la nue me.

I glance over at the old artist wiping down his posterboard with a damp cloth. The look on my face says, What do I do next?

He coughs, wipes beads of perspiration off his forehead, then points to my feet. I look down. I’m up to my ankles in pink nylon. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The wooden platform creaks. Loudly. Urging me to hurry. Okay, okay. I scoot my panties off the platform with my bare toes. Wearing nothing but my sweat, I grin.

The old artist nods, picks up a Conté carré dessin, drawing charcoal, and waits for me to get into position. I hold my hand over my crotch. What a silly thing to do. I must relax. Relax. Keep up my courage. A chill slithers up the back of my neck, making my nipples harden and point straight out. I know now how guys feel when they get a hard-on in the middle of a heated business meeting. They can hide it behind this week’s market stats report. Me? I’m as naked as a low-carb burger going solo.

I know you’re sitting there all comfy in your sweats, shaking your head, pinching your thighs, wondering how a thirty-something woman could even think about taking yourself. It ain’t pretty. Here’s the skinny, which I’m not, so it’s even more outrageous.

I’m desperate for excitement, a cheap thrill, and if it cost me a new pair of La Perla panties, then let them fall. Nothing exciting ever happens in corporate real estate sales, though I keep hoping I’ll run into Donald Trump between bankruptcies and wives.

Unfortunately, time is running out for this apprentice wannabe. I’m thirty-four with more than a little tummy since David took off with my heart and my willpower stuffed into his back pocket. The idea of posing nude evokes a sexual charge in me, an irresistible allure of the forbidden without putting myself in danger or jeopardizing my corporate reputation, a unique twist to my personality I never dared explore.

Until now. This moment. My world is so frustratingly normal, so conservative in every way, that although I’m shocked at the artist’s request, I’m also terribly intrigued. It’s my nature.

Besides, I want to show my ex-fiancé I’m still hot stuff. I grind my teeth. Just thinking about David makes me cringe. When I discovered he used me to get info on a major land development deal in Wyoming, I should have broken up with him then. But he was so convincing in his “I’m doing this for us” speech, I put aside my fears and didn’t protest when he proceeded to slide my panties down between my thighs and do more with his sexy mouth than give me spin.

Even my mother warned me about David, said he was listen. She oughta know. My mother and her talking mirror just divorced their third husband.

I’m not in the mood for advice so I clicked off my cell phone. Mother drives me insane with her text messages that resemble the bottom-of-the-screen news headlines on CNN. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother, even if she collects marriage licenses like some women clip grocery coupons.

For your information, I left her blissfully engaged in bringing down the French national debt single-handedly on the fashionable rue Saint-Honoré while I wandered around the Marais district. I was looking for a poster or painting to take home to add to my collection of lowbrow work by undiscovered artists, or to put it bluntly, cheap, when a summer storm hit. A refreshingly cool rain blew in from the west, twirling over the blue-tiled rooftops and pelting down the narrow alleyways. The raindrops fell in bunches and splatted on the stone streets like water balloons. I got drenched. Not a pretty sight. I took refuge in an art studio with faded lettering over the arched entryway: House of Morand.

House of Wax is more like it.

Looking around the studio, the place looks like something out of a scary movie. Dirtballs fill every corner, mustard-yellow newspapers sit piled up on chairs, and a bookcase filled with art books stands alongside a tall, ebony pearl-inlaid screen. A hotplate with dirty red pots sits atop a Chinese coffee table alongside paint brushes sitting in trays in a liquid that smells like turpentine.

I hear the old artist clear his throat. “Are you ready, mademoiselle?”

I nod.

Wetness drips down the insides of my thighs, a wetness which makes me twitch when I see him smoking and humming to himself, waiting for me. I can’t back out now. I exhale deeply. This is it. My destiny on canvas. I’m hot, sweaty and perspiring.

I strike a pose.


I hope you enjoyed the excerpt from Naughty Paris! 

If you’d like to read an excerpt about what happens when Autumn travels back to Paris 1889 and meets up with handsome lost Impressionist, PAUL BORQUET, click here (18+ only please)!! 

Ciao, ciao, 


The Blonde Samurai
She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

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