R.C. Bonitz: Dangerous Decisions (Giveaway)

Hi there fans of Susana’s Morning Room. It’s my pleasure to join you today. Thanks for inviting me, Susana.

Bob%20Bonitz[1] SMALLI don’t blog hop very much these days. FB and my own blog keep me busy enough, and with autumn in the air I’d rather be enjoying the brisk breezes at the end of the sailing season and writing novels. I only have three in the works right now and one in promotion. Heh, heh, you knew I’d get to that one didn’t you. Well, I might as well mention the book in question now that I have your attention.

Ever hear the saying, “the grass is always greener etc.”? Ever feel that way in your own life? That could be a dangerous thought if you give it legs. It might call for Dangerous Decisions, which just happens to be the title of my fourth book.

Megan believes in loyalty and living up to one’s commitments, but her live-in boyfriend isn’t in very much these days. And then of course there’s that total stranger her four-year old daughter invited to move in with them. The dog-pound helper-outer? He seems to have a few secrets up his sleeve. Then again, it turns out the boy friend has a few too.

About Dangerous Decisions

Occasional snatches of conversation reached her from the bathroom as Jordan and Wade carried on their endless chitchat.

Dangerous Decisioms small copyThe man was very patient for darn sure. Why did he hang around them so much? Because of Jordan? Was he some kind of pervert who had fixed on her daughter? She shivered at the thought. He couldn’t be interested in her. Could he? A thrill ran up her back. Stop it, Megan Weston, you’re a mother and in a committed relationship. She stopped abruptly in the midst of slicing carrots.

The sounds from the bathroom had ceased and Megan strained to hear Jordan’s voice or Wade’s, or the sounds of tools being used on the broken door. Not a single bit of noise reached her ears.

He liked Jordan? Too much? Oh God! What was he doing in there?

She charged down the hall and threw open the bathroom door. Almost. The door flew open just a little bit before something very solid brought it to a halt. A loud thud was followed by a clatter as something metallic crashed to the tile floor.

“Owww! What the devil?” Wade yelled.

Megan cringed. Oh dear, what had she done?

She stuck her head through the partially open door and grimaced. Wade lay on the floor behind the door, a hand over his right eye, blood streaming down his nose. Across the room Jordan tried to restrain an agitated Betsy, who gave voice to her upset with loud barking. Jordan stared at Megan, a look of utter consternation on her face.

“You don’t believe in knocking, I gather,” Wade growled as he staggered to his feet and turned to face Megan.

Blood streamed from a gash at the bridge of his nose and he still held that hand to his eye. Jordan was absolutely fine. She’d half-killed Wade for nothing.

“I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Let me get out of your way. Jordan, come on. Your Mommy has to use the bathroom.” He started to step around Megan, his hand still plastered against his eye.

“Oh, no that’s all right. Let me get something for that cut.”

He frowned then winced. “You don’t need to use the bathroom? I thought you were in a hurry.”

Heat rose to her face. How to explain she’d thought he was a pervert? She needed an excuse, another reason for braining him with the doorknob. Oh well, she could take the one he’d given her.

“Oh yes. I’m just upset. I have to pee.” Oh crap, why don’t you stick your foot in your mouth, Megan? Nobody said you had to be so specific.


There you go. That’s only the first calamity to befall our hero. That’s all about Dangerous Decisions for the moment. You can buy your ecopy at Amazon  or at ARe.

You can also win a FREE copy in the GIVEAWAY starting today. Leave a comment. I’ll pop your names into a hat three days after this post first appears and then will choose one commenter at random. That person will receive a free copy of Dangerous Decisions  with my best wishes.

About RC Bonitz

I’ve been writing forever, or so it seems sometimes. Long enough that I don’t recall my beginnings exactly, say about 1995. My first novel wasn’t intended to be a romance, but it almost came out that way. I killed the hero, though, an absolute no-no in romance, but it made for a good story. Since then I’ve never started out to write a romance, but they all keep coming out that way. Must be in the genes—my grandson still writes love poems to his wife. I’m a great-grandfather you see. Wonder what kind of romance a great-grandfather writes? Aha! You’ll have to read Dangerous Decisions to find out.


Guest Author RC Bonitz: A Defense of Romance

Susana, thanks for having me today. I don’t often editorialize, but I just couldn’t let this go by without a comment or two. I call this post

A Defense of Romance

I read a blog post recently by a romance Scrooge in which he condemned romantic love. The author blamed romance novels and movies for high divorce rates, among other things. Really? As a writer of heartwarming love stories, I must admit I’m a little biased, but last I heard divorce rates had come down a bit because of the economy.

The blogger also attributed our love of romance to a desire to possess someone. Possess? Like in “own” or “control”? That implies some sort of abuse to my way of thinking. Romance novels have a common theme- the heroine’s wish for happiness, a wish to be loved without the grubby details of daily survival. In short, a wish for perfect love. I can’t equate that with a desire to possess someone.

Why is it that so many brides and grooms choose the words from Corinthians for a reading at their wedding? Because of movies and romance novels? Duh? Seems to me those words existed long before movies came along. And Shakespeare wrote not only Romeo and Juliet—he also wrote romantic comedies. You think he did some time traveling and read a little Nora Roberts? Clearly folks have liked this romance stuff long before modern romance novels and movies showed up.

Is perfect love unrealistic? Of course. Once the wedding is over, and that beautiful white dress is put away, we all go back to daily living with its problems and disappointments. That bloom of happily ever after fades a bit and we must adjust our expectations.

In a way, romance and getting married is like buying a new car. In the showroom that sports car is just perfect. We fall in love with it! (Well maybe guys do!) The interior sparkles and has that wonderful new car scent. The exterior shines like a brand new diamond ring. Then familiarity sets in. Dirt collects, we notice a squeak here or there, the handling’s not quite as good as we expected. What do we do? Some folks trade their car every year. That’s just the way they are. But most keep it and maintain it for a while. Ever feel nostalgic about that great old car you drove when you were young? It wasn’t perfect but it got you there. (Mostly) And the stories you could tell about it? Imperfect car it may have been and you may have wished for a new one. Don’t we all. Isn’t that human nature—to always look for something better? So, we dream—and read the car ads and romance novels. But, maybe our romance could use an oil change once in a while. Sounds to me like Mr. Scrooge could use one.

If we won’t accept a splash of dirt, or adjust to the quirks, we won’t be happy. Love is no different. Romance is what got us here and guess what? We can keep it going if we just adjust to the squeaks. The road may be bumpy on occasion, but if we don’t let that romantic bloom evaporate it grows stronger and deeper—and you know what? Sometimes it almost gets there. To perfection that is! That’s not movies, folks—love is what we make of it!

And besides—who wants to ignore that glorious romantic rush when Cupid finds us with his arrows?

About A Blanket For Her Heart

blanket for her heart 8 (3)Anne Hoskins faces the most difficult decision of her life. Will she grab for the brass ring, or choose the safer, more familiar path she’s traveled since her youth? Will temptation divert her from the choice she selects? She has much to learn about herself—and tests galore to overcome.  A Blanket For Her Heart is a story of courage and love, uncertainty and challenges. And an unexpected turn of fate.



He checked into the old Victorian hotel, dragged the ancient ten-speed bike from the rack on the Toyota, and headed along the shore, away from town. The route was familiar, ridden many times with his wife long ago. Back then, only two or three boats rocked quietly in the harbor. Now there had to be three hundred, rivaling Newport just across the bay. Shops and restaurants, once part of a sleepy little town, thrived on the bustle of early season tourists.

He cleared the harbor and headed south over the sandy isthmus that held the island together. The land had a name he’d seen on maps, Conanicut Island, but he called the whole place Jamestown, after the town. Passing Fort Getty, he started up the long hill he hadn’t seen since Carol died.

Proud of her riding, she’d always beaten him to the top, except once, that last time. He had teased her, laughing with victory. She had smiled and said it was just a fluke; she hadn’t had her vitamins that day. A first warning, it had gone unrecognized.

That was a long time ago, before he met Ellie and before she dumped him last year. Inactive since then, the last of the climb he had to do on foot.

Back on the bike, he pedaled toward the lighthouse, up and down the rolling hills. The New England air was crisp, but warm enough, and the ancient bike rolled smoothly under one of those clear blue early June skies. Scrub trees and bushes lined the road and an old rock wall, nearly hidden in the undergrowth, followed the pavement, its neglected top missing stones.

The heaviness of his last few months returned with a sudden certainty the island was a lonely place to live, not at all as bright and open as he’d remembered it.

A bird high overhead caught his attention. An osprey or a hawk soaring, probably seeking prey. He caught his breath as it dove suddenly, flashing downward like a dart.

The bike lurched. His attention diverted, he had drifted into the ditch at the side of the road. Pulling hard to the left, he tried to recover, but the front wheel struck one large rock and then another. As if a spectator, he watched in disbelief as the wheel collapsed, pitching him forward, over the handlebars. The rocky ditch offered a hard greeting.

As his body registered pain, he lay unmoving, hoping someone would come by. But the road was devoid of homes or cars. He was alone.

Raw flesh against the rocks and pavement brought an involuntary cry as he struggled to get up. He lurched to his feet, his left arm crooked, panic clutching at his heart. Sliding his right arm below the left for support, he took a step and groaned in spite of himself.

A single driveway beckoned. It had to be followed, but its slippery, sloshing gravel made each step he took a grim adventure into pain. Finally, a house appeared deep in the woods, barely visible but a very welcome sight. Waves of pain ripped through the arm with each stumbling step, but he goaded himself onward.

“One more step, one more blasted step.”

At last, the house. Thick shrubs shrouded the front, extending from the garage around to an L-shaped wing, a castle wall to block his entry. The garage was closed, no car in sight. Silence lay heavy in the air. He stared, numb, his mind uncomprehending. So much effort for nothing.

The deep roar of a motorcycle reached up from the road, unmistakable help gone by, a blow to his belly. Someone had to be home. Three steps toward the garage revealed a path, barely visible in the shrubs. He eased through, trying to avoid branches, and emerged in a sheltered courtyard.


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About the Author

Bob%20Bonitz[1] SMALLRC Bonitz was born in New York City a long time ago and grew up in Long Island farm country. At eighteen he met a pretty girl and announced he would marry her. More than fifty anniversaries have gone by since then. They have five children and twelve grandchildren who do them proud.

RC has an interesting background. He’s been an engineer, a building contractor, a psychotherapist, and now an author.

A resident of a small Connecticut shoreline town, he spent many years sailing and racing, but now finds pleasure writing and bass fishing from an ancient red canoe. In addition to short stories, he has three novels to his credit at the moment (A Blanket For Her Heart, A Little Bit of Blackmail, and A Little Bit of Baby). He is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the Ct. chapter of RWA and the Ct. Authors and Publishers Association.

And he’d love to hear from you via his blog at  or at