Victoire Absinthe is no ordinary dame. She’s the kind of dame that takes you by the hand and leads you down the path to madness– and you thank her for it.
Five foot two inches of sin, Victoire’s black hair and green eyes cut through men like hot knives through butter. She knows that. But she doesn’t care. She has more important things to do than seduce men. Weaving her way through life on charm and curves she laughs. She’s got brains but hell, most of the time a look is all that is needed. She wears her sunglasses and veil like a shield-blocking out the outside world’s idiot problems and the world’s idiot people.
She’s not heartless. She’s just pragmatic.
Born in New Orleans to a soldier and his wife, Victoire had one brother. He was the only boy that ever mattered. She still keeps the toy he gave her before he drove off to join the Navy. A small little thing, but still it’s the only thing that constantly remains in the suitcase Victoire keeps packed at all times… in case the wind blows from the North sweeping her away with it.
Victoire was married, once. To a handsome young man. They ran away in a passion fueled on raspberry sherbet and misguided dreams. He drowned in a rainstorm of bullets. All Victoire was left with was a sack of bloody gold and a broken heart.
She spends her time writing novels. Trashy, raunchy dime piece grocery store romance novels. You can travel wherever you want but writing is a job that moves with you. Alaska, New York, Mississippi. Glasses of pomegranate martinis as her only company.
Men come and go, but gold lasts forever. And she takes it when she needs it, no matter the cost. She’s got more blood in her bank account than gold. Her other constant companion is a Smith and Wesson 36. What else is could be hidden in that purse?
It’s like she always says, “Onwards. To the land of milk and honey.”