Made For Sex (50 page)

A man approached her. “You must be Nicki, and I'm to be your escort this evening.” He looked her over. “Nice outfit,” he said. She had to agree. She had rented a pink and green flowered sarong that draped seductively over one shoulder and across her breasts. It was cut to below the knee on one side and far up her hip on the other. She had arranged her hair so it was slicked back behind one ear, held there by several pins and a large blood-red orchid, exactly like the one on the cover of her book.

She looked at the man who had spoken. “You look very familiar,” she said. “Do I know you?” He was very tall and bare to the waist with just a strip of bright red cloth around his loins. She had to admit that he had a gorgeous body, smooth and muscular, just the way she had described the island men in her book.

“In a way. I'm on the back cover of
The Love Flower
.”

Fran burst out laughing. “Of course. You're the famous Marco. I've seen quite a number of your covers.”

“Marco's a stage name. Actually mine's Brad. Brad Crajeski. And you're gorgeous. They should have used you in that shot.”

“Yeah,” Fran said, craning her neck despite her three-inch heels. “And I could have stood on a box for that kiss. How tall are you?”

“I'm actually six one, but I say I'm five eleven and a half. It gets me better jobs.”

“Well, Brad, I think we're supposed to mingle.”

And mingle they did. Eileen and Sandy were already there and they introduced Fran to their husbands, and then to several people with familiar names from the world of romance publishing. For more than two hours, she smiled, behaved slightly outrageously as Nicki would have and in general had a wonderful time.

When, for the hundredth time, someone said, “Wow, that was quite a book,” she slipped out into the hall and took a few deep breaths.

“You must be Nicki,” a woman's voice said. She was wearing worn jeans and a plaid shirt, a wide-brimmed western hat and boots with high heels.

“Yes,” Fran said patiently, extending a sore hand. “I'm Nichole St. Michelle. Thank you for coming.”

“I just came to see the woman who wrote that piece of trash.” The woman's eyes slid down her body, then back up to her face. “I expected you to look like a slut, and you do.” The smile was nasty and didn't reach her eyes. “I just thought I'd take a look at the least of my competitors.”

“Competitors?” Fran sputtered.

“I'm Diane Barklay and I've got what I came for. I saw you and you look like someone who should have a nine-hundred exchange phone number tattooed on your chest with the words, ‘For a good time, call me.' It's nice to know that you write like the whore you are.” She glared at Fran. “Of course it does sell books to the perverted segment of our population. That's why there are no people on the cover, so the weirdos can read it without anyone thinking they're reading the pornography it really is.” She turned on her heel and strode away.

Fran didn't want to admit how shaken she was. Slut. The woman had called her a whore. In her mind she repeated, over and over, “Sticks and stones.” But the names had hurt her. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across from the elevators. Who the hell was she? She was half dressed, here in a midtown hotel filled with tourists from the Midwest. And she was really a tourist from the Midwest and she did look like a whore. She had to admit that she had behaved like one for three weeks. She was seven kinds of fool. She brushed the moisture from her eyes. But she'd be back in Omaha where she belonged on Sunday afternoon and back at work the following day.

She hurried back to the suite to say her goodbyes. She wanted no part of this anymore. Maybe she wouldn't even show up for the damn awards ceremony. But no, she thought as she sought out Eileen and Sandy, each looking very conservative in spring suits, she owed it to them to at least show up. “Nicki, there you are,” Sandy said. “I want you to meet someone.”

Fran plastered a smile on her face and prepared for the standard greeting, after which she would run for the hills. “This is Ty Gardener,” Sandy said. “He's the CEO of Aurora Books and one of the judges.”

Swell, Fran thought. One of those traditional, old-school, stuffy pillars of the publishing world. She turned and looked into a pair of sea green eyes. “Ms. St. Michelle,” the man said. “I'm delighted to meet you.”

Fran took in the man's deep brown hair with the white wings at the temples. “Mr. Gardener. It's so nice to meet you.”

“Let's eliminate this formal Mr. and Ms. stuff. I'm Ty.”

Fran smiled in spite of herself. “I'm Nicki.” His handshake was firm and she winced slightly.

“You know, I should learn not to do that, shake hands with authors at these things, that is. Your hand must be sore after shaking everyone's paw this evening. How many people do you figure you've greeted?”

She felt her shoulders relax a bit. “Several thousand, or at least it feels that way.”

When they had been silent for a moment, Sandy jumped in. “Ty is one of the new stars in publishing. But don't let him sucker you in. Your next book is ours.”

“Of course, Sandy,” Ty said.

“Ty's on the judging committee because Aurora's
Heavenly Hosts
won last year.”

“Do you have any of your books nominated this year?” Fran asked.

“No, or I would have declined to judge. And I've read all the books. I'm really very impressed with your talent, Nicki.”

After what Diane had said, his remark struck her as hilarious so Nicki's laugh was immediate. “Thanks for the kind words.” The wine she had been drinking and the fact that her emotions were so close to the surface made her add, “But I don't believe a word of it.”

The startled expression on Ty's face was genuine. “Excuse me?”

“I'm really sorry. I just had someone tell me the truth about the book. My ears are still ringing.”

When Ty took her hand, she realized that it was cold as ice in his warm one. He led Fran to a pair of chairs at the side of the room. “Why don't you tell me what
someone
told you.”

Her voice shaking with a combination of embarrassment and deep sadness, Fran dutifully repeated Diane's words without revealing her identity. When she finished, she wondered why she was talking about this most difficult subject to a perfect stranger. She blinked rapidly to control the tears that threatened to spill over.

“Nice looking woman, maybe in her thirties, in a western outfit?”

When Fran nodded, Ty continued, “Listen, Nicki, you must have been talking to Diane Barklay. I recognize the vitriol. She's been stirring up trouble for weeks. She's a very frustrated woman who's been nominated for the second time and wants this award more than anything else. I talked with her for a while earlier and she all but offered me her body in exchange for my vote. I don't know why it's so important to her and we could play psycho babble all evening to try to figure it out, but why bother. Suffice it to say that she's not a disinterested party.”

“But the book's still pornography.”

“Let's define the terms here. What's pornography to you?”

“Trashy. Dirty. Kinky.”

“And?”

“And the book's full of sex. I just thought I was adding a little spice to the story.”

“You did. And that's just great. People enjoy reading your book. Look at the sales.”

“Yes, but most of them are reading it to get turned on.”

“So?”

Fran hesitated. What was so bad about a book that turned readers on? This was fiction and fiction was designed to rouse emotion. So what if hers aroused more than that.

Ty smiled and continued to hold Fran's hand. “I can see the wheels turning. Are there people who will take offense at your writing? Probably. Are there people who think Stephen King and Dean Koontz are too violent? Definitely. Are there people who want Jackie Collins' books banned. Of course. So what?”

Fran took a deep breath. He was right.

“And why do you think
The Love Flower
was nominated for The Madison Prize. It's a well-written, well-constructed romance novel. Is it more explicit than the ones we usually honor? Yes. But that didn't prevent us from considering it and considering it quite seriously.”

Another sigh. “I guess.”

“And I assume you write because you enjoy it, not to be nominated for some prize. Right?”

“Right.”

“Well Nicki, then write. Because you want to. And I hope to see more books like this from you. As an author you've got a clear voice that says, ‘Hot, enjoyable coupling is okay,' and that's an important message. For everyone.” He winked, took her hand and, with a flourish, kissed it.

Fran blushed. Everything he said made sense. Nicki's existence made sense. And Nicki made her happy so what was wrong with that. She returned the squeeze of her hand. “Thanks. As they say in the cliché films, ‘I needed that.' And what you say makes wonderful sense.”

“I'm so glad. So whether your book wins or loses makes very little difference. And, by the way, I have no clue. We'll meet tomorrow afternoon to decide. But remember this. You've got a great voice and a valuable message. Don't stop writing.”

Together they stood up and, feeling wonderfully refreshed, Fran returned to Sandy and Eileen. “What was that all about? Do you know who's going to win? Did he tell you anything?”

“He told me a lot, but it had nothing to do with who's going to win. We won't know that until tomorrow evening.”

Back in the apartment that evening, Fran put in a call to her mother in Colorado. “Is something wrong?” her mother asked quickly. “You usually call on Sundays.”

“I know, Mom, but I've got something I probably should have told you long ago.”

“Oh my.” Her mother's voice was suddenly filled with concern.

“I'm not just in New York on vacation. I wrote a romance novel a while ago and it was nominated for a prize. The dinner is tomorrow evening and I'll know then whether it won. I'm sure that I didn't, but it's a great honor to be nominated.”

“Oh darling, that's wonderful. Why haven't you told me this before?”

“I was afraid you'd think less of me. The book's a bit racy.”

“I don't understand. I read a lot of romances, but I never read anything by you.”

“I wrote it under a pseudonym. I guess I was a bit embarrassed.”

“You're hedging. Come on, out with it. What's the name of the book?”

“I wrote
The Love Flower
under the name Nichole St. Michelle.”

There were several seconds of absolute silence on the other end of the phone. “Oh my. I've got a copy of the book right here,” the older woman said. “I never imagined. Oh my.” She started to laugh. “I never imagined….”

Fran lifted her chin and just waited for her mother's reaction.

“You know, I gave a section of it to your father to read. That initiation scene where Rhona's introduced to sex by the priest. Well, I don't know whether I should tell you this, but, let's just say he enjoyed it as much as I did a few minutes later.”

The picture of her parents rolling around the bed flashed through Fran's mind. “Mother!”

“Wait until I tell your father. Oh my. Oh my.”

The two women talked for another half an hour, her mother anxious to hear the details of everything from getting the book published to the prize nomination. Finally, when Fran had told her mother everything she could, she finally said, “Listen, Mom, it's been a really long day and I've got to sit and sign books all afternoon tomorrow.”

“Of course, dear. I keep forgetting the time difference. Get some sleep so you'll look wonderful tomorrow. What are you wearing?”

After another few minutes of fashion tips, her mother finally said, “I can't wait to tell your father. I just can't wait. Please call me as soon as you know about the prize. I just can't wait to tell your father. This is so exciting. Can I call Susan and tell her?”

The thought of going through the entire thing again for her sister exhausted her so Fran said, “Of course, Mom. Call Susan and give her all the gory details. I'll call you both tomorrow evening late.”

“Just one more thing. How long will you be in New York?”

“I'm scheduled to go back to Omaha on Sunday.”

“Any thoughts of moving to
The Big Apple
?” her mother asked, giggling over the term. “To be closer to the publishing world and such?”

“Actually, I'm seriously considering it.” She might just do that.

“I can't wait to hear about the prize.”

Fran heard her mother cover the mouthpiece of the phone and yell, “Vince, get up here. I've got very exciting news from Fran.” She uncovered the phone. “Darling, I'll let you go. We love you and miss you.”