How I Met My Husband: The Real-Life Love Stories of 25 Romance Authors

by Michele Stegman

  “Who here has ever dated a man in a leather jacket?”

  Jake thought of his own beat-up buddy hanging downstairs. There was a rip in the sleeve that needed fixing.

  “Did he ride a motorcycle?”

  Unfair, he thought. There were dentists and accountants who rode those silly little Japanese things on weekends. He had a bona fide Hawg—a Fat Boy parked out back, all gleaming chrome and supple leather, babied like an only child. Besides, he didn’t ride the bike all the time. It slumbered safely through the winter in his garage. He drove the Corvette instead.

  “Or drive a Corvette?”

  Wait just a damn minute, here! This was out and out libelous behavior. She was casting aspersions on his character as part of her seminar!

  “Aren’t they wonderful?”

  What?!

  “Isn’t that leather so masculine? Don’t you just love the way he moves? Like he owns the world? Isn’t he so sexy your knees shake?”

  Murmurs of assent—some very enthusiastic—drifted up. He wondered if he should put on the jacket and hang around outside with the bike after the seminar to see which of the participants really meant it.

  “What about the tough guy? The one who would start a fight for you? Whose hands are so...powerful.” Did he imagine it, or did her voice drop a husky octave?

  Not Barbara the Ice Queen.

  But who else had that voice? The one that continued in the same husky timbre, “Those powerful hands that turn gentle on your skin?”

  He glanced down at his own hands. They were large and callused in places, but he was quite capable of a gentle touch on a woman’s body. He’d been told as much, if his former lovers were telling the truth. He wondered if Barbara was overly-sensitive. Would he be gentle enough for her picky tastes?

  He blinked and wished he could shake his head to get that thought right out of his head. He had no business thinking of Barbara Whitehall that way, especially when she made it so clear at their first meeting that any flirtatious behavior on his part would be considered criminal behavior on hers.

  “Don’t smile at me,” she’d said, right after he introduced himself, intrigued by the good-looking neighbor. “My goal in life is to help women avoid heartbreakers like you, Mr. Mancini.”

  He’d been a little stunned—scratch that, a lot stunned—that she’d been so hostile. “Well,” he’d said, “maybe you’d better call me Jake since you already know me so well.”

  Dreamy feminine sighs reached his ears. “Yeah,” one woman spoke up. “The bad boy who feels so good.” A round of giggles followed that suggestive comment.

  Was it getting warmer up here? Maybe she had the heat in her place turned on and it was finally rising from the acoustical tiles. He set the wrench down absently, straining to hear more.

  “Exactly,” Barbara purred. He’d be damned if she’d even given the time of day to anyone not in pinstripes. Still, he leaned a little closer to the beam and the conversation below. His dad always said women were a mystery, and a man needed all the help he could get in dealing with them.

  “The brooding, bedroom eyes, that shy smile that’s almost a sneer.”

  He blinked his own eyes. Were they bedroom eyes? Did he brood enough? You’ve been doing your share lately, his practical voice supplied.

  “We’re addicted to them. We crave them. We need them like an addict needs a hit.” Impossibly, her voice dropped even lower, summoning a visual with it that he didn’t want. He most certainly did not want to imagine the Barbara that was supposed to go with that voice. The Barbara whose black hair feathered wildly around her face instead of the sleek, sharp pageboy. The Barbara whose cat eyes weren’t cold with hostility, but heated with passion, gazing heavy-lidded into his—

  Stop right there, pal. He would not—absolutely would not—have sexual fantasies about Barbara Whitehall! He refused to have fantasies of any sort for that matter. Except maybe of waving goodbye as she packed up her stuff and left him in peace. Or at least moved out of her offices so he could expand his studio.

  “We can’t help ourselves around him, can we, ladies?”

  A chorus of “No, ma’am’s” and one, “Why would we want to?”

  “Good question,” Barbara said. “Why would we want to say no to a man that turns us on, fulfills our fantasies, and makes us hot all over.”

  “I could make you hot all over, darlin’,” he murmured, before he could stop himself. Good lord, did he say that out loud? He needed a sound beating for even thinking it! Sweat beaded on his bare skull, running in salty rivulets into his eyebrows. How could he be hot?

  He sucked in a deep breath to clear his head of weird ideas and jammed the wrench on the bolt. Shoulda brought my socket wrench up here instead of the crescent, he thought. Hell, he shouldn’t even be up here. He wouldn’t if the landlord’s nephew—the building’s so-called Facilities Manager—actually did his job. Best to get this over and done with before his brain fried.

  The bolt refused to budge under his half-assed effort. He had no leverage to throw his weight into it, and his wrists weren’t going to move it any time soon, so he carefully maneuvered himself to his knees. The bumpy wood of the support joist dug into him through his jeans and he hoped that they or his balance wouldn’t give out on him before he got this stupid bolt undone.

  “He’s like chocolate—you want to pour him all over you and lick him off.”

  Heat shot through him. He had no trouble imagining Barbara’s expression as she said that. Her lush lips turned up in a wicked smile, and her fey eyes twinkling. Against all reason, it didn’t matter squat that she’d sooner swallow a toad than turn that coy smile on him. Somewhere down deep, he knew without a doubt that he’d never again eat a hot fudge sundae without a semi.

  Furious at the unscheduled vacation his common sense took, he jammed the heel of his hand on the wrench. The shock shot up to his shoulder, heralding a clear dart of pain in the very near future.

  “We can’t get enough of him, can we, ladies?” There was amusement in her tone, and a note of something else—something that spoke of knowing and promise, and reached right into his solar plexus and grabbed a fistful of his gut. Sweat poured off his forehead, running into his eyes and he buried his head into his shoulder for an instant to wipe it away.

  The sudden motion disoriented him and he clutched the wrench with a death grip until he felt sure enough to move again.

  “We’ve just gotta have him, don’t we?” He suddenly wished for some nice, loud rock and roll to drown out the sound of Barbara’s seductive voice. The sudden slamming of his heart certainly wasn’t doing it.

  He reached for the wrench.

  “And we just can’t say no.”

  He missed.

  You can find Forever Material at Smashwords and Amazon or check her blog for more information at athenagrayson.com/blog/.

  Brenda Hiatt

  Halloween Hooker

  And yes, the following story is absolutely true!

  It was October 31st, 1979. I was in my first year of grad school and I’d been invited to a last-minute Halloween party at the house of a friend of my roommate’s. (Following that?) The hostess and my roommate were both vampire fanatics (yes, even back then, vampires were big! Frank Langella’s “Dracula” had recently come out) so of course they both dressed as vampires for the occasion. I wasn’t, so I wore what I confess had become my usual Halloween costume since starting college (refined over the years)—a hooker. Hey, it’s any easy costume: short skirt, lots of tacky jewelry and makeup, and plenty of attitude.

  Because it was last minute, not many guests showed up, so the hostess began calling friends. One of the latecomers was this tall, skinny guy, not in costume, who when he met me, immediately asked, “So, what do you charge for your services?”

  Well, I wasn’t born yesterday, even then. (Plus, as I said, I’d used this costume before, so had a supply of comebacks.) I countered with my own question: “How much do you have?”

  He
checked his wallet and was startled to discover he had more money than he could remember having at once in his whole collegiate career. In his surprise, he blurted out the truth. “I have thirty dollars!”

  Without missing a beat, I informed him that I charged thirty-five. He spent the rest of the party trying (unsuccessfully) to get someone to lend him five bucks. Between those efforts, we talked and I ended up driving him back to his place. No goodnight kiss, but we became friends after that, started dating the following summer, and just over a year after our Halloween introduction, he proposed. We’ve now been married for 30 years and that’s still one of his favorite stories—and he has a LOT of stories! So do I, of course, but I put most of mine into books. Check out SCANDALOUS VIRTUE, which also involves a first meeting in costume!

  Excerpt from Scandalous Virtue

  Nessa paused, a mere step inside the room, surveying with bewildered delight this, her first masquerade. Gaily costumed revelers moved and shimmered in the candlelight of the chandeliers, dancing to the strains of a country tune or gathering in small groups to converse. Multihued dominoes vied with replicas of every historic personage imaginable.

  Glancing down at her own low-cut scarlet gown with black trim, Nessa smiled to think she had feared her costume too flamboyant. What pains she had taken to slip away from her sister and sharp-eyed abigail yesterday in order to purchase this cyprian’s costume! Prudence would doubtless have a spasm if she found it hidden in the back of Nessa’s wardrobe, but it was nothing compared to the plumage she saw here displayed.

  “Eh there, me beauty! Might ye care to dance?” inquired a poor imitation of Henry the Eighth at her elbow.

  Abruptly, she remembered her sister’s objections when Nessa had first mentioned this masquerade to her, about cits and other vulgar sorts attending. In her excitement and determination to attend she’d shrugged it off, but now the evidence was before her.

  “Ah, not just yet, thank you,” she replied nervously, taking a step away from the man, who reeked of spirits. Somehow, she hadn’t really thought about what she’d do at the masquerade. She’d focused all her energies on simply getting here.

  The man stepped closer. “‘Ere now, you’re not refusing to dance with yer monarch, are ye?” he prodded with a leer. “Royal privilege and all that.”

  Nessa swallowed. “No, it’s not that. It’s only—”

  “She has a prior obligation, to confess her sins,” interrupted a tall, brown-robed monk. “Even Your Majesty must admit to the superior claims of the Church in such matters.” The monk’s accent was cultured, reassuring Nessa that this, at least, was a man of her own class.

  The drunkard appeared disposed to argue, but a tilt of the monk’s head and an ominous glitter of brilliant blue eyes from behind his mask dissuaded him. Muttering something about more wine, King Henry moved away.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Nessa, relieved. “He really was becoming most persistent.”

  “One can hardly blame him.” The monk looked her over with a most unclerical gleam in his eye. “What do you here alone? Or is your protector busy procuring you a glass of iced champagne?”

  “My—?” Nessa glanced down at her costume again and flushed. Perhaps it was a trifle too realistic. “No, I assure you I am here alone—but I do not intend to stay long. No more than an hour.”

  The monk smiled, and Nessa realized how very handsome he was, even with a mask obscuring much of his face. “Then pray, allow me to act as your escort for the brief time you mean to grace this gathering with your presence.”

  Nessa frowned, wondering if perhaps she had tumbled from the frying pan into the fire. “I, ah—”

  “Surely you cannot feel less than safe with a man of the cloth?” he prompted. “Besides, our costumes complement each other so well.”

  That forced a chuckle from Nessa, making her instantly more comfortable. Surely a man with a sense of humor could not be too evil. Though why she should think that, she did not know. Neither her father nor her husband had ever shown the slightest hint of whimsy, and both had been regarded by the world as the most upright and estimable of men.

  “Very well, Friar, I place myself under the protection of the Church for the present.”

  “In my present guise, I suppose I dare not request a kiss in return for such gallantry. But allow me to tell you your eyes are most haunting, even through that remarkable mask.”

  “You flatter me, sir.” More than ever, Nessa suspected her escort’s costume was decidedly at odds with the man underneath. He might be the greatest rake in all London, for aught she knew. She cast about for some way to discover his name—not that it was likely to mean anything to her, as unfamiliar as she was with London Society.

  Apparently she was not alone in her curiosity. “Since you do not intend to remain for the unmasking at midnight, might I know the name of the lady I have taken under my protection?”

  Though he was but mimicking her earlier words, his phrasing still caused Nessa a thrill of alarm. Surely he did not truly believe her to be as she dressed tonight, a woman of easy virtue? Considering what her life had been until now, the idea was both outrageous and highly amusing. More than ever, she knew she must guard her identity at all costs.

  “You may call me Monique,” she informed him. It was a name she’d always liked, and sufficiently French to fit her present role.

  His well-shaped lips curved into a smile. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips—then cut off such thoughts, shocked at herself. Clearly, she was taking her masquerade role far too seriously!

  “Might I request this dance, Monique?” A waltz was just beginning.

  “First might I know your name, Friar?” she asked boldly.

  “In return for the dance, you may call me Brother Eligius,” he said loftily, taking her hand to lead her to the floor.

  Nessa hung back. “One might ask what it is you are worthy of, Brother Eligius.”

  “Ah, a lady who knows her Latin! Worthy of this dance, of course—and anything else you might see fit to bestow upon me,” he added with a lascivious wink. She might have been alarmed were it not clear he was teasing—and if his words didn’t send her thoughts down most improper channels.

  She stood her ground. “I see. Perhaps I shall bestow the next dance upon you, then. This one is nearly over.” That was not quite true, but she could not bring herself to admit that she had never learned to waltz. Given her parents’, and then her late husband’s, views on the dance, she had never even dared to ask.

  To her relief, the monk did not press the issue, but stood trading quips with her about both of their pseudonyms until the orchestra struck up a country dance. The dance was lively, allowing little opportunity for conversation, and by its conclusion Nessa’s hour was nearly up.

  The two of them had drawn many curious stares, and as they left the dance floor a lanky man dressed as a harlequin approached them.

  “What a sight this is!” he exclaimed. “Have you persuaded your partner to join you in a life of virtue, J— er, Friar?” A quick motion by the monk had prevented him from uttering the monk’s name, to Nessa’s frustration.

  “Indeed, for her I believe it won’t be so much of a stretch, despite appearances,” he replied, making her wonder how on earth he had guessed that. “Am I not right, milady Monique?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she replied, stung that her attempt to throw off propriety had been such a failure. With sudden recklessness, she swooped up onto her tiptoes to plant a swift kiss square on the monk’s mouth. Then, more shocked at her own boldness than he could possibly be, she turned quickly away.

  “I really must be going, now,” she said breathlessly, not meeting his eye. “I wish you success in your conversions, Brother Eligius.” Before he could respond or even react, Nessa fled the scene of the most daring thing she’d ever done in her whole sheltered life.

  Find links to all Brenda’s books at her website: brendahiatt.com.

  G
wen Williams

  A Good Friend

  I was eighteen year old, and running around the IU campus with my dear friend. At one point we were in the Union, eating some of the world-famous sugar cookies from the Sugar & Spice. My friend suddenly announced that she was going to introduce me to her brother, who was just getting off work at one of the administrative offices on the IU campus. And that’s where I met my future husband, in the stone archway of the Memorial Hall. We’ve been together for thirty years!

  About Fantasy Follies

  Rhiannon is a librarian with a secret. Underneath her prim and proper shell, she’s alive with passionate fantasies ranging from being pleasured by a well-oiled servant to being ordered into erotic obedience by a hot cop.

  When Rhiannon agrees to go on a date with Sam, a corporate lawyer type, she dreads the evening. She’s expecting to be bored out of her mind, but as they frequent art galleries and share laughs, Sam surprises her by revealing how much he, too, shares in her spirit of imagination and fun.

  As they become closer, Sam indulges her fantasies by creating provocative sexual scenarios in downtown Cincinnati, using props and their own wild imaginations. For the first time, Rhiannon begins to feel how satisfying living in the real world can be.

  When Rhiannon is offered a job in Seattle, how will she ever choose between the opportunity of her dreams and the blissful life that once seemed possible only in her fantasies?

  Excerpt from Fantasy Follies

  “I have a kind of a secret,” she said, abashed.