by Gwyn Cready
“You have to admit you took some cheap shots,” Phil said carefully from his perch on the adjacent chair.
“Yeah,” she said, laughing, “I did. I especially liked the ‘literary equivalent of word-search puzzles’ line.” Her phone vibrated, and she stole a quick glance at the screen. A text from Axel? Emergency! Trust me on this, it began, and she clicked the phone off automatically. The last time he used that line, she’d ended up with sixteen tubs of something that looked like rabbit pellets and smelled like the floor of a bar stacked in her entry hall for six months. Life with a Canadian hadn’t been easy, at least not that Canadian. They seemed to have beer in their blood.
“But it isn’t the books themselves,” she went on, “it’s that woman and the way—”
Phil cleared his throat.
“—she insists on seeing her achievement as something more than having figured out how to build the biggest crap-shoveling machine in the history of publishing.”
Phil made an even louder noise and began waving his hand back and forth below the edge of Black’s desk.
“It would be like the head of BP writing a book on harnessing the power of the ocean,” she said, “or the owner of the Pittsburgh Pirates on squeezing profits out of a sports team. I mean, they have the credentials, but who would want to read it? And, my God, the outfits she wears—”
Black slammed his fist so hard on his desk, Ellery jumped. “I think,” he said slowly, “it’s time for a little fair balance.”
Ellery looked at Phil. He looked as if he’d been laid out sitting up. All he needed were coins over his eyes and a bugler playing “Taps.”
“Fair balance?” she repeated.
“Yes,” Black said. “I’m curious as to why so many women love those books, aren’t you?”
She cut her gaze to Phil, like a runner looking for a sign, and got nothing but the faint whiff of embalming fluid. This was like some weird, otherworldly experience. Buhl Martin Black wondering why women liked romance novels? The man who could give you the name and theme of every short story that had been published in the New Yorker since 1972 and who had cried when John Updike died? “Well, I mean, I guess.”
“Good,” Black said. “Because I want you to write a piece on it.”
“Me?” She felt the world shifting under her feet. “I don’t know the slightest thing about them.”
His eyes shone like round, hard nuggets of coal. “Really? You seemed to have formed quite a clear opinion.”
“But—”
“I want three thousand words,” he said. “A real ode to the topic. Why don’t we try for the upcoming issue?”
She blinked. They had moved from the absurd to the impossible. “The issue being put to bed next Monday, as in ‘one week from today’?”
“That’s the one.”
Three thousand words? On a topic she neither understood nor could tolerate? “In Vanity Place?”
“Are you under the impression, Miss Sharpe, that understanding what makes women tick is somehow beneath our notice? As far as I know, they still make up half our readers, though I am only the publisher, so perhaps I’ve been misinformed.”
This from a man who had nearly drummed her out of the editorial room for once professing a liking for Bridget Jones’s Diary. “But—”
“But nothing. I want the article to be in essay form. Your personal journey, discovering the marvelous world of romance novels.”
“I—”
“You will be the literary critic who convinces the non-romance-reading public they’ve been wrong all along. You will be credited with the Great Awakening. You will go down in history as the Pied Piper of Romance.”
She supposed it wasn’t the best time to remind Black that the people the piper cast his spell over followed him into a river and drowned. She cleared her throat. “You know I was supposed to be doing the John Irving interview.”
“Does John Irving have something to do with why women like romance novels?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not as far as I know.”
“Then Irving can roll up his wrestling mat and hit the showers as far as you’re concerned.”
At this, Phil emerged from the dead and hopped to his feet. “We’ll make it happen.”
Chapter 3
“He said ‘an ode,’ Phil—an effing ode!” Ellery rubbed her temples and wondered whether a jump from her managing editor’s third-story window would be enough to kill her.
“I know it seems like a challenge—”
“A challenge! An undercover piece on Colombian drug trafficking would be a challenge. A first-person report on sexual discrimination aboard the Space Station would be a challenge. This is…”
“A chance to really show your range?”
“An intellectual impossibility. What the hell was going on in there?”
Phil made a slightly embarrassed cough. “I’m not absolutely sure, but a good guess is that Black is bedding Bettina Moore.”
“Oh, crap.” Now her head really started to ring. Why did sex have to get in the way of good writing? “Really? Bettina Moore?” A vision of Jack Sprat and his wife sprang into her head and—thankfully—raced out again. “I can’t think of two people less suited for one another.”
Peck shrugged.
Eight years of increasingly challenging roles in the magazine world. Two years of strong work as literary editor at Vanity Place. Ellery’s goal, to run her own literary-themed monthly by age thirty, was within reach, and in fact, she knew she was one of two candidates being considered for just such a role with Lark & Ives Publishing, one of Buhl Martin Black’s biggest competitors—big in the bottom-line sense, for of course no one could outdo Black in the girth department. Lark & Ives was the most literary-minded magazine publisher around, and all that remained was for them to review each candidate’s body of work and get final approval from the board, an effort they said they would finish in a matter of weeks—just long enough for an article on romance novels to sink her helium-fueled dreams like a shot from Cupid’s BB gun.
“My reputation’s on the line here.”
Peck inclined his head sadly toward Black’s office. “Your job might be, too.”
She weighed her choices: potential unemployment versus a potential job offer. Peck had been a great boss and had taught her a lot. She owed him the truth. She got up, closed the door, and turned to face him. “There’s something I should tell you.”
He gazed at her over his reading glasses. “You’re in line to launch your own magazine at Lark & Ives?” He smiled.
“But—”
“Don’t be surprised. Who do you think they called after you interviewed? You’ll be great, and you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” His approval meant everything to her.
“Who are you up against?”
“Barry Steinberg.”
Peck made a quiet whistle. “Tough one.”
“Tell me about it.”
“But you’re better.”
“Phil, this article will sink me. John Irving was going to be my blaze of glory.”
“I know. It’s a bad time to have gotten your foot caught in a clandestine affair.”
Getting any part of her body caught in a clandestine affair would have been a nice change of pace, had the affair been hers. Too bad the only spank she’d be getting out of this one was to her professional ego. The whole thing was infuriating. She bit her lip. “I’m not sure I can write that article, Phil—at least, not the way Black wants me to. The last thing I want to do is go down in history as the Pied Piper of Romance.”
He nodded. “I know. Write it the best way you can. I’ll fight for you.”
She hoped she wouldn’t be congratulating herself on her impeccable principles in the unemployment line.
Chapter 4
Bettina answered after the first
ring. “Buhl,” she said in her pouty British voice, setting his heart to race, “your Wittle Sprout is very unhappy. I hope you have some good news for her.”
Bettina had christened herself Wittle Sprout after their first fevered dinner—as she’d said, the natural complement to the delightful giant she’d found nestled in his green boxers during the raspberry flan.
“Yes,” he said under his breath, not trusting his locked office door or the burner cell phone. It was hard keeping a lover happy. Especially one an ocean away. “I’ve taken care of it.”
“Taken care of it? How? Your Wittle Sprout wants to know.”
Black switched the phone to his other ear and daubed his forehead. He sometimes wished his Wittle Sprout were more “ho-ho-ho” and less poisonous nightshade.
“She’ll be writing an article.”
“An article? That’s not much of a punishment.”
Moisture poured down his back like condensation down the side of a Palm Beach gin and tonic. What had she expected? That he’d have Ellery put before a firing squad?
“Yes, an article. For next month’s issue.”
“On what?”
He could hear the disapproval seeping into her voice. Disapproval would mean no more of that glorious hand wrenching him into a nirvana so profound, it made his thirty-year-old marital bed look like a bowl of off-brand cornflakes. “On romance novels, of course. Their impact on women.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” she cried, all horticultural tendencies gone. “She’ll eviscerate us!”
“She won’t,” he said firmly. “She has her marching orders. She doesn’t like them, but she knows it’s either fall in line or fall out—permanently.”
Bettina made a sprouty sniff. “I’m not sure I like it. How will it fix what she’s done to me? She was very mean about my memoir.”
“By building awareness of the inspiration romance novels bring to women’s lives, Vanity Place will open the floodgates.” He thought of the inspiration those warm, confident fingers had brought him under the table that night, and—like a bear roused from a long winter’s hibernation—his pecker slowly stretched to life.
“What are you saying? That every woman will want to get their hands on one?”
“God, I hope so,” he said, closing his eyes and remembering. “It would certainly make American men happy.”
“Hm.”
She was softening, unlike Martin, who would now have to cancel his nine o’clock meeting with the women’s health editor or risk an HR complaint.
“The only problem is,” Bettina said, “a story like that would help every romance novel publisher.”
“You’re sixty percent of the market, my dear. It might help every publisher, but you’ll be carrying the biggest bag of money to the bank. Just think of what it could do for Vamp.” He held his breath. Vamp, the love story of a vampirette who worked in a Pittsburgh steel mill during the day but danced at night to win the heart of an ancient vampire, had been the biggest book by far ever put out by Pierrot. The book had been a huge crossover hit, drawing in women readers of all ages and reading preferences. It had been sitting atop the bestseller list for months.
“She’ll write about Vamp?” Bettina said in a small, hopeful voice.
“Of course. Highlight of the story.”
“Will there be pictures?”
Black had been thinking more of a puff piece than a photo spread, but what the hell? “You bet.”
“And are you absolutely certain she doesn’t want to do it?”
“Yes, but you don’t need to worry. I’m making her.”
Bettina made an “mmm-mmm” of such length and satisfaction, Martin felt his balls begin to tingle.
“Then it sounds perfect,” she said.
Just in Time for a Highlander
by Gwyn Cready
For Duncan MacHarg, things just got real
Battle reenactor and financier Duncan MacHarg thinks he has it made—until he lands in the middle of a real Clan Kerr battle and comes face-to-face with their beautiful, spirited leader. Out of time and out of place, Duncan must use every skill he can muster to earn his position among the clansmen and in the heart of the devastatingly intriguing woman to whom he must pledge his oath.
Abby needs a hero, and she needs him now
When Abigail Ailich Kerr sees a handsome, mysterious stranger materialize in the midst of her clan’s skirmish with the English, she’s stunned to discover he’s the strong arm she’s been praying for. Instead of a tested fighter, the fierce young chieftess has been given a man with no measurable battle skills and a damnably distracting smile. And the only way to get rid of him is to turn him into a Scots warrior herself—one demanding and intimate lesson at a time.
“Cready’s highly satisfying creation is filled with humor, witty dialogue, double entendres, and clever schemes, and a wonderful cast of imaginative characters keeps this twisty story lively to the end.” —Publishers Weekly Starred Review
For more Gwyn Cready, visit:
www.sourcebooks.com
First Time with a Highlander
by Gwyn Cready
She needs a man—but only for one night
What do you get when you imbibe centuries-old whiskey—besides a hangover the size of the Highlands? If you’re twenty-first-century ad exec Gerard Innes, you get swept back to eighteenth-century Edinburgh and into the bed of a gorgeous, fiery redhead. Gerard has only a foggy idea what he and the lady have been up to…but what he does remember draws him into the most dangerous and exhilarating campaign of his life.
Be careful what you wish for…
Serafina Seonag Fallon’s scoundrel of a fiancé has left her with nothing, and she’s determined to turn the tables. If she can come up with a ringer, she can claim the cargo he stole from her. But the dashing man she summons from the future demands more than one night, and Serafina finds it easier to command the seas under her feet than the crashing waves he unleashes in her heart.
Praise for Gwyn Cready:
“Gwyn Cready does a marvelous job of creating strong and sexy characters that stand out.” —Fresh Fiction
For more Gwyn Cready, visit:
www.sourcebooks.com
Every Time with a Highlander
by Gwyn Cready
She can work her magic on any man
In a quest to bring peace to the Scottish/English borderlands, fortune-teller and spy Undine Douglas agrees to marry the handsome but savage Colonel Lord Bridgewater. Desperate to delay the wedding long enough to undermine Bridgewater’s plans, Undine casts a spell to summon a fellow spy and instead gets the unlikely aid of Michael Kent, world-weary theater director from the twenty-first century.
But the white witch may have met her match
Michael will play whatever role it takes to guard Undine’s safety—it couldn’t be harder than catering to the whims of egocentric actresses and high-handed patrons. But not even Undine could have foreseen the sparks that fly between her and the man she stole out of time.
Praise for the Sirens of the Scottish Borderlands series:
“An extremely sexy time-travel romp.” —Publishers Weekly
“The perfect read for someone looking for something different and exciting in the historical romance world.” —Fresh Fiction
For more Gwyn Cready, visit:
www.sourcebooks.com
About the Author
Gwyn Cready is a writer of contemporary, Scottish, and time travel romance. She’s been called “the master of time travel romance” and is the winner of the RITA Award, the most prestigious award given in romance writing. She has been profiled in Real Simple and USA Today, among others. Before becoming a novelist, she spent twenty-five years in brand management. She has two grown children and lives with her husband on a hill overlooking the magical kingdom of P
ittsburgh.
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