by Lisa Wells
End of advice.
He hadn’t even been able to give him an example of what the laugh sounds like. Just learn it early and never forget it.
The conversation with his father prompted Ian to steal several of Kinley’s romance books to read and try to figure out what girls wanted, and what the laugh his father told him to tattoo to his memory was all about. And wonder if any girl had ever given him that laugh and he’d missed recognizing it.
The waitress came and set their meals down. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“We’d like another round of drinks,” Ian said.
“And some ketchup,” Kinley added, glancing at her salmon.
The waitress left.
“I forgot your terrible habit of eating ketchup on everything,” he murmured before taking a bite of his eggplant napoleon.
“I forgot everything about you,” she said, forking a piece of salmon. “So you’re telling me you have authors who let you represent them?”
“They do.”
Her brows furrowed. “Romance writers?” She took the ketchup from the waitress and dumped half the bottle on her plate.
“Mostly writers of thrillers and espionage, but I also have romance authors on my list.”
She slapped her palms down on the table. “Shut…up.”
He took a sip of his drink. Smiled at two women walking by their table.
She leaned back, crossing her arms under her breasts, once again drawing his gaze to where it didn’t belong. “I don’t believe you.”
He glanced up. His lips tightened. “That seems to be our pattern. I tell you something, you call me a liar.”
She grabbed her purse and pulled out the conference agenda. “You’re not in here. I’m sure of it. I would have noticed if your name had been on the list of agents attending the conference.” She thumbed through to a chart showing which agents were taking pitches and what they were searching for.
“Are you sure about that?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.
She glanced up at him. “Of course, I’m sure. I wouldn’t have come to a conference you were attending.” He refrained from telling her that the only reason he’d decided to attend was because her brother had mentioned in an email that she was attending. Then he’d casually replied he was attending the same conference. That’s when her brother called him, and they’d hatched their scheme for Ian to earn her forgiveness. Finally.
He pointed at a name. One that was highlighted in pink. “This must be an agent you really want to meet.”
She jerked the agenda away from his view. “Not necessarily. He’s just one who is taking pitches at the conference. Why haven’t I heard of you?”
He glanced around the room. Was anyone listening to their conversation? He lowered his voice. “I don’t agent under my real name. Like I said, I wanted to be successful on my own.”
She stilled like a child who’s just seen the boogeyman. Her eyes widened. She glanced down at her chart. “What name do you use?”
“I. Hartley. My mom’s maiden name.”
“You’re—”
He placed a finger on her lips. “Yes.”
She moved his finger. “You’re this I. Hartley?” she whispered.
He nodded. Leaned in. “So you have heard of me? I’m not just another agent taking pitches at this conference?”
She stared at him. “My brother told me on the way to the airport I should try to pitch to you. That you are the agent of his favorite author.”
“That’s not a lie. He told me the same thing.” The waitress set their drinks down and left.
“So my brother knows you are I. Hartley.” The whisper was gone, in its place a cold, hard accusatory tone. As if someone’s head was about to be chopped off.
He nodded and then sipped his drink.
“I can’t believe you guys are still friends. Still scheming up ways to annoy me. If I were him, I would have, at the very least, made you do something hideous before I would even contemplate forgiving you.”
Her words cut deep, but he smiled like they didn’t. “Vengeful wench.”
“I didn’t used to be.”
His pride told him not to even try. She wasn’t the forgiving sort. And he wasn’t the explaining sort—especially if never asked. And, unlike her brother, she’d never asked. “Tell me about your book. Pitch it to me now.” Kinley had taken Stacy’s version as gospel and never asked him for his. At least her brother trusted him enough to know there was more to the story. Although he hadn’t told her brother the whole truth. He couldn’t. The truth would have hurt Kinley.
Kinley gulped half of her drink. “I’m not ready.”
He took a sip of his, enjoying the burning sensation as it went down. “You’ve written it, haven’t you?”
“Why would I pitch a book I haven’t finished?”
“Then tell me in a conversation what your book’s about.”
She folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Why? So you can pretend you’re interested and then tell me no, because I just told you that’s the sort of thing I’d do to you?”
He sighed. “I don’t have a reason to hate you. I wouldn’t do something so petty. Tell me about your book.”
“I’m not petty. Just loyal to my brother. And damn it, you hurt him. You hurt my family. You hurt…us.”
He rubbed his jaw. “I have a confession.”
“This should be interesting. Are you going to finally admit that the truth is you stole his fiancée from him because you were jealous and not whatever bullshit you told him that night to make him break off his engagement and take your side of things?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“If not that, then what big confession do you have?”
“I’ve read your book. Your brother sent it to me.”
Her eyes widened. Her face went white. “What? Why?” She looked like she might faint.
Ian’s stomach lurched. He didn’t want to continue this conversation. It was going to get harder before it got easier. He did anyway. “Your brother asked me to read your book and to keep an open mind about becoming your agent.”
“You read my manuscript? He sent it to you? Tell me he’s not trying to mend the broken fences between us by having you become my agent?”
“Yes, I’ve read your manuscript. I won’t tell you he’s trying to mend our friendship. And I’m free to reject your manuscript.”
“You’re free to reject my manuscript?” She nibbled her bottom lip. “He’s not twisting your arm?”
“He thinks you’re perfect. Nothing’s changed there. But yes, I can reject you. As I explained to him, I have very high standards. I’ve only added one new author to my list in the past two years.”
“And?”
He took another sip of his drink. “And what?” He braced himself for the next question. Wishing like hell he didn’t have to answer.
“You said you read my manuscript. Are you rejecting me?”
Tension snaked around his gut. “Not you. Your manuscript. And not outright.”
“What does that mean?” Her words were stiff as if they were weighted down with concrete bricks. Like she was trying to hold down her emotions so they didn’t attach themselves to the words coming out of her mouth.
He really hated rejecting authors. He knew how hard they tried and how much they wanted the elusive “yes” from an agent. “It means you’re a damn good writer. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He placed a hand on her arm and then withdrew it when she jerked away. “Don’t take this personally, but you suck at sexual chemistry on the page.”
Chapter Five
Kinley sat in the café with Ian Thompson—aka I. Hartley.
“Excuse me?” she said in a remarkably calm voice.
He sighed. “I don’t mean to be blunt, but I can only help an author if they can handle the truth.”
She breathed in the fragrant aroma of freshly baked croissants
and told her heartbeat to slow the hell down. “What do you mean I suck at sexual chemistry?” She prayed the salmon she’d just consumed didn’t come back up.
“There’s no sexual chemistry between your characters. When they do finally hookup, the sex is bland. My dick didn’t twitch once when I was reading your sex scenes.”
She clenched her hands into fists. Inhaled and exhaled a turbulent breath. “I didn’t write it so your dick would twitch.”
“Maybe not. But no man is going to get laid as a result of his woman reading your book. And if you’re going to write sexy contemporary, then that is your ultimate end desire.”
Were his eyes laughing at her? They were.
“Well, I didn’t ask you to read it. It’s not even ready yet.” She wished her drink wasn’t empty. She’d throw it at him. How could her brother place her in this humiliating situation? If he were here, she’d throw a drink at him as well.
Damn it, what was wrong with her? She was an adult. An accomplished professional. She didn’t whine or throw tantrums—or throw drinks at people. Or even entertain such immature thoughts. It was like Ian was her personal time warp, sucking her mind and body back to adolescence and rendering her a veritable teenager all over again.
“This is a brutal business. If you’re going to be an author, you have to learn how to handle constructive criticism.”
Her stomach rolled. How dare he lecture her? “Constructive? Constructive? You’re not being constructive. You’re being a jackass.”
Ian checked his watch.
Was he anxious to get away from her? Was he meeting the check-in attendant somewhere?
He looked at her. “And you’re responding like a teenager. All defensive. Just like the time I told you you couldn’t flirt your way off a paper plate.”
She ignored the part of her brain telling her he was right. “You were an ass then, and you’re still an ass. And for your information, if I was behaving like a teenager, I’d do this.” She kicked at him under the table as hard as she could. The toe of her boot made contact.
He grimaced.
It was like all of the emotions she’d felt that fateful afternoon ten years ago were in control of her. “I’ll have you know, I’m behaving like a woman who was scorned by you once. And I’m not going to sit here and let you scorn me again.” She grabbed her purse and pushed her chair back.
“Still running away from things that make you nervous,” he drawled in a tone that irritated the hell out of her. Full of supreme superiority. Of a maturity sadly missing from her current arsenal of defense.
“I’m walking away because I think I’ve had all the ‘blunt truth’ I can handle from you for one day.” Actually, this last humiliation should last her the rest of the century.
“Let’s recall that first offense where I—” he made air quotes— “scorned you. The situation called for it. You were a minor, Kinley, asking an adult to make a woman out of you.”
Heat flamed through her body, and his words halted her exit. “Lucky for me you said no, and I found someone better to give my virginity to.” She told herself to stand up and walk away. But she couldn’t. She wanted to see his response. Wanted to know if she hit a nerve. Wanted to know if he cared even a little that he hadn’t been the one.
God knew she’d cared at the time. And maybe, just maybe, still did.
He scowled. A vein bulged by his right eye. “If the quality of your sex scenes are anything to go by, he didn’t teach you much.”
She slammed her palms on the table, causing their glasses to shake. “Damn you, Ian Thompson. How dare you reject me twice!”
She pushed into a standing position, prepared to make an exit worthy of a Regency heroine.
“Sit down.” He spoke in an authoritative tone. A tone a teacher uses with an unruly student.
“Go to hell.”
His lips tightened. “Are you really going to walk away from this conversation?”
She turned her foot toward the exit. She wasn’t done. But she didn’t trust herself to stay. She’d long since moved past the mistakes of her youth, but that didn’t mean that ripping the scab off this particular wound wouldn’t hurt. A lot. “I’m done talking, Ian.”
“I’m not.” There was a plea in his tone.
They stared at each other for long seconds. Seconds that felt like eons.
She huffed and took a seat. “What else do you want to say?” She had no idea why she allowed him to boss her around.
“I’m not rejecting you. I’m rejecting your manuscript.”
“Well…praise the Lord. I feel so much better now.” Why did she let him sucker her into thinking he was going to say something nice?
“Great. Glad to hear it. And while you’re taking my advice so well, I suggest you hit all of the workshops this week and seriously consider switching over to writing Amish romances or something that allows you to close the door on sex scenes.”
She jerked back, his comment catching her on the chin. The back of her eyes burned. “Why do you have to be so hateful?” She’d worked really hard on the manuscript he’d read.
“Hateful?” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up.
But not nearly as messed up as his words left her self-confidence. “You heard me.”
He exhaled harshly. “Believe it or not, I see a great writer in your manuscript. You just can’t write sex. It comes across as a nun trying to write spanking romance.”
“And that’s your idea of not being mean?” She glanced away. No way in hell would she cry in front of him.
“You’re right. That was uncalled for.” He reached out and touched her hand. “Sorry.”
She yanked her hand away. “I can’t unhear your comment just because you say you’re sorry.”
“You’re right. I’ll tell you what, if you learn how to write sex, you can query me with the manuscript again.”
She rolled her eyes—a bad habit she’d picked up from working with fifth grade girls who desperately want to appear in control of all situations. “No, thanks.”
“You have a raw talent that needs cultivating. My offer is sincere.”
No matter how sincere the offer was, the condescending raw-talent comment struck a nerve. “You have a raw talent for being an asshole. No cultivating needed.” She grabbed her purse, once again ready to bolt. Yet…she didn’t move. It was like her brain and body weren’t on the same page. Or even in the same state. “And my insult is sincere.”
“I have an idea.” He said the words so softly she almost didn’t hear them.
“What?” Why did he have to be an agent? Why did her brother have to send him her manuscript?
“Since you’re spending the next two nights in my suite, if you like, we can talk about the craft of writing. I can give you some concrete ways you can turn your manuscript into something an agent can sell.”
What was it about him that made her want to say yes? “Forget it.”
“Don’t let your pride get in the way of this opportunity. Didn’t you say you came to this conference to find an agent? Well, I’m offering you two one-on-one evenings with me.”
He was right. And she hated that. She wanted to say no, but her New Year’s resolution demanded she didn’t. “Fine. I’ll spend a couple of evenings with you letting you teach me about writing.” She waited for his gloating response.
He motioned to the waitress. “We’ll have another round.”
“I’ll take a water,” Kinley said to the waitress.
“Tell me, Kinley Foster,” Ian said once the waitress walked away. “Are you the type who only has meaningful sex? Or do you do one-night stands?”
“T—that’s none of your business,” she sputtered.
“I’m simply trying to decide if your lack of steam on the page is because you’ve never experienced gut-wrenching sexual tension, or if it’s because you’re too uptight as a writer to put what you know onto the page.”
“And why does that matter to you?”
“Because your answer will make a difference in how I try to teach you what you need to know.”
Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? Or was he just fishing, trying to see if she still had a thing for him? “I prefer short-term relationships.” “Get in, get out with your sanity intact” was her new motto when it came to relationships. Part of her New Year’s resolution. Something she’d planned on putting into practice starting at this conference.
“Me too.” She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. Did her response make him happy or angry?
She licked her lips. What would she do if he ever tried to kiss her? He was, after all, her first knight in shining armor. The one she’d never stopped thinking about no matter how much she told herself and her brother otherwise. “I’ll sleep better at night knowing that the Great Ian and I have something in common.”
He shook his head. “For a moment, I thought the mature Kinley might be able to leave the past in the past for the sake of her future. But you’re no more mature now than you were ten years ago.”
The fact that he had a point stung. Why did being around him reduce her to such out-of-character behavior? “Would you like to place a friendly wager on that?” The challenge was out before she could suck it back in. Shit.
Chapter Six
Ian opened the door to his suite around seven p.m. and found Kinley, the woman who sarcastically bet she could handle him mentoring her on sex way better than he could handle teaching her about sex—yes, that’s right, she’d bet about them and sex—dozing on the couch in a pair of flannel pajamas featuring pink elephants in tutus.
He could talk her through the intricacies of passion, give her an understanding of what real chemistry was. This bet was in the bag.
His scrutiny lingered on the sight of her hair splayed across the pillow. One she must have snatched from the suite’s king-sized bed. She had one arm thrown across her face as if to shield her eyes from the light of the lamp she hadn’t turned off.