Mr. Fix-It (5 page)

Khela shamelessly moaned into his kiss, gripping his wrist and thrusting her hips against his hand. His finger slid inside her in time to feel her tight constrictions, and he kissed the graceful arch of her neck as she closed her eyes, surrendering to the pleasure of release.

“Khela?” he whispered between calming kisses applied to her face and neck. “Why did you throw my bag into your room earlier?”

Still panting, she choked back a laugh. “I didn’t want housekeeping to come in tomorrow and see that we were sleeping in separate bedrooms. Word spreads fast in a hotel.”

He nuzzled her neck and took one of her hands. She smiled lazily when he directed it to the rigidness distending the front of his sweatpants. “Are we sleeping in the same bedroom?”

She chewed a corner of her lip. “Would we actually do any sleeping?” she chuckled. “I still can’t feel my toes.”

Carter hooked his fingers into her waistband and peeled her pants from her body. He took his time running his hands along her smooth legs. “Is that a line from one of your books?”

Sensation returned to Khela’s extremities in the form of indignant fury. She scrambled to sit up and yanked her pants from Carter’s grasp.

“Uh oh,” he mumbled, sitting up and adjusting his pants.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Carter. I’m a writer, but I’m not what I write, okay? In my day-to-day life, I don’t work from a manuscript. If I say something, it comes from
me
, from in here.” She gave her heart two hard jabs. “It doesn’t come from some made-up story!”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

Khela knew that she was overreacting, but she was committed to her rant because it was a fine distraction from the hunger Carter had started raging inside her.

“Maybe I should have just gotten separate rooms.” She angrily thrust her legs into her pants. “We’re not fooling anyone. No one’s going to believe that we’re red-hot lovers.”

“You convinced me, for a minute there.” He rested one arm along the back of the sofa. “Now the writer is writing me off.”

“You certainly have a way with words, Carter.” And with his hands, and lips, and fingers…

“Maybe I should write a book,” he said. “A mystery. It would try to explain why a love-starved woman would initiate a kiss with a man she’s enlisted to be a hot prop, only to turn him away after a harmless slip of the tongue.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Had she imagined the emphasis he placed on his last few words? They had a very real effect on her pulse, which throbbed hard in unusual places. “I’m going to bed now.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stiffly walked toward the master bedroom.

“Khela, don’t.” He stood and followed her. “Don’t just walk away without giving this a chance.”

She paused at the door to her room. “There’s no ‘this.’ You and I aren’t a ‘this!’ We’re a weekend of make-believe, and I lost sight of that for a minute. Once we get through the luncheon tomorrow, you and I can go right back to being what we were before.”

“Tell me what you think we were, Khela. I’m curious.”

His challenge cooled her blood, transforming her lust into needles of humiliation at having thrown herself at him. “We were just another couple of single thirtysomethings in the Back Bay,” she said. “Look, you don’t have to come to the luncheon. There’s really no point in carrying on with this charade. I apologize for dragging you here.”

“Khela,” he said, starting after her when she disappeared into the master bedroom. She closed the door, nearly snapping his nose off. He rested one hand lightly on the door and debated his next move.

He was still working out what to say when she reemerged to set his duffel bag at his feet. He was at a loss for words, but Khela wasn’t. “Goodnight, Carter,” she said softly, and retreated once more behind the closed door.

Chapter 4

“How shall you know Temptation? Not by its taste, scent, touch, appearance or voice, but by its persistence…”

—from
An Angel’s Prayer
by Khela Halliday

An ocean of faces, most of them female, swam before Khela. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, to better focus on individuals. Her left hand gripped the edge of the podium centered on the dais while her right flirted with a glass of ice water sitting at the upper-right corner of her prepared remarks. ECWA romance writers and RAAO members comprised her audience, so she recognized quite a few of the people staring expectantly at her. Unpublished members outnumbered the “pubs” twenty to one. Khela couldn’t decide which group frightened her more—the unpubs, with hope and hunger shining in their eyes, or the pubs, most of whom barely managed to conceal their boredom.

What was another keynote address to women who had been in her position before, some of them four or five times a year?

Merrie Bollinger sat at a table smack in front of the dais, her benign smile doing little to ease Khela’s nerves. To the uninformed observer, Merrie looked as if she should be wearing a gingham apron and baking oatmeal cookies for her eleven grandchildren.

But Merrie was a seasoned veteran, the author of eighty-seven historical romances for RayderThorne Publishing Corporation. She spoke at RAAO chapter conferences several times a year, which frequently had Khela wondering how the sweet-faced Merrie could write so many books.

But then Khela had read a few of Merrie’s books, and she’d discovered her secret. It was easy to write dozens and dozens of books when you were recycling the same story over and over.

Khela swallowed back her catty deduction, and scanned the crowd. She had no right to criticize Merrie’s work, or anyone else’s. There was a time, not too long ago, when she had attended her first romance writers’ conference, and she had been captivated, listening to a seasoned author who had taken time out of her life to impart wisdom and encouragement to a roomful of writers.

She and Daphne, her roommate of three years, had been juniors at Fieldcrest. Back then, Daphne had the largest personal library Khela had ever seen, and it was built solely of Cameo romances. While Khela had been an able student, double majoring in biology and western civilization, Daphne had been working on a creative writing degree, with the ultimate goal of becoming a Cameo author.

Khela majored in fields that would prepare her for employment that would grant her financial security, but she honored her love of storytelling through a minor in English. And she continued to scribble her stories in spiral-bound notebooks, which she never showed to anyone, not even Daphne.

Daphne had done all the right things—according to Daphne. She’d joined RAAO and one of its Missouri chapters; she had attended meetings, annual conferences and the national convention. She belonged to critique circles and book-discussion groups, and she maintained the strictest discipline, faithfully writing from 10
p.m.
to midnight five nights a week.

When Daphne invited her to the Chicago RAAO chapter’s fall conference, Khela had gone primarily out of curiosity and to enjoy a weekend with her roommate in the Windy City. Daphne had registered for a one-on-one appointment with one of the major-league editors attending the conference. Her fearlessness hadn’t fully matured yet, so she dragged Khela with her to the five-minute, make-or-break meeting. Tongue-tied, Daphne had barely managed to babble the pitch she’d practiced for two weeks prior to the conference, and afterward, she’d rushed off to the ladies’ room to barf up the bleu cheese and artichoke soufflé she’d had at lunch.

Assuming that Khela was next on her appointment list, the editor had beckoned her into Daphne’s vacated seat. Khela had pitched a story idea that she made up on the fly, splicing together everything she’d ever learned from Daphne about romance novels with one of her favorite pieces of classic literature.

“My hero is a stormy, husky, brawling man with big shoulders,” she had said, wildly improvising. “And my heroine is a painted woman with a reputation for luring one too many farm boys. My book is the story of how these two disparate souls use their cunning, strength and tenacity to defy expectations and overcome the burden of destiny to find love on their own terms.”

Cameo editor Fawn Ellman had then asked Khela the one question that almost tripped her up. “What’s the title?”

And without thinking, Khela had responded with the first thing that popped into her head. “
Satin Whispers.
”

The name of the moisturizing body lotion in the hospitality basket at her hotel.

Fawn had requested the full manuscript, and Khela had spent the next two months working furiously on a book that hadn’t existed, not even in her imagination, before her sit-down with the editor. She found out about Fawn’s acceptance of the manuscript the hard way—through a phone message relayed to her by Daphne, whose conference experience hadn’t been so fortuitous.

Daphne had spent one week in a sulky, sullen mood, but then she had read Khela’s first few chapters. Enraptured, she had congratulated Khela and had become her staunchest supporter, even helping her with some of her class work so that she could devote more time to her manuscript.
Satin Whispers
was released a year later, on Daphne’s twenty-first birthday.

Khela’s gift to her was the dedication:
To Daphne Carr and Carl Sandburg, for obvious reasons.

A few months later, after graduating with honors, Khela moved to Boston to take an assistant researcher position at a small bioengineering firm. She’d enjoyed the work—few recent college grads had the chance to develop cutting-edge biologic matrix products right out of the gate.

But when Fawn offered a multibook deal with Cameo, Khela veered from a career path that had once seemed perfect.

The polarized windows of the banquet hall softened the intensity of the sunlight reflecting off the placid surface of the harbor. Unlike the night before, when she’d accepted the Torchbearer Award, she now easily saw clear to the back of the room, where people stood two rows deep to hear her keynote address.

More than ever, Khela truly appreciated how damned lucky she’d been all those years ago. There were better writers and better storytellers, Daphne foremost among them, sitting attentively at the ivory linen-draped tables dotting the enormous room. The next Beverly Jenkins, the next Theresa Medeiros—hell, the next Khela Halliday—was probably right there in front of her, sipping a slightly chilled Boyden chardonnay, or picking the bitter radicchio from her mesclun salad.

What can I say to give that woman what I clumsily stumbled upon?
Khela wondered, misery clawing at her insides.
How can I inspire these women to pursue their dreams of romance when I don’t believe in love myself?

“Miss Halliday? Are you all right?”

A light touch of a hand on her shoulder shook Khela free of her reverie. The woman who had presented her with the Torchbearer now stared at her, a moue of concern behind her pleasant smile.

Tears boiled behind Khela’s eyes as she nodded. She offered a weak smile that seemed to do little to convince the RAAO president, who nonetheless, backed away and left Khela alone on the dais.

She cleared her throat, and glanced down at her note cards. Then her head snapped back in a double take.

The silent crowd in the back parted to admit another guest—Carter, dressed in a crisp white button-down and freshly pressed khakis. He hunkered down, as if it were possible to make himself any less noticeable as he murmured “Excuse mes” and “Sorrys” in the preternatural quiet. Even though he bumped knees, shoulders and displaced a guest or two, his polite words were met with openly adoring looks from every woman he passed.

His hands briefly lighted on the back of Rose Gracen’s chair. The petite Inspirational-romance novelist’s cheeks flamed as her pert nostrils flared to inhale the air he had just moved through.

Venus Black, the star author of Throb Books, actually licked her cherry-red lips and ran three red-taloned fingers along her décolletage when his backside swept past her face.

Daphne glanced away from him long enough to give Khela a hearty thumbs up, but Khela looked at him only after he had removed her pink Prada croc clutch from the one empty chair at the head table. After seating himself in the chair, he plopped the clutch onto his lap. His expression unreadable, he stared at her.

She swallowed hard, but the hard lump in her gullet remained. Her super-looking super had the attention of every woman in the room, and every one of them probably believed him to be every bit as educated, wealthy and sexy as one of the heroes in her books.

With a gnawing, burning sensation growing in her belly, she imagined what they would say if they knew that the Prada clutch resting on Carter’s lap probably cost more than he earned in a year keeping up her brownstone.

The handbag was as much a part of her charade as Carter. Daphne had “loaned” it to her, along with the two-carat diamond studs glinting in her earlobes. Khela’s idea of accessorizing was typically limited to a pair of simple white-gold hoops and nothing more. Daphne had convinced her to purchase the clutch and diamonds in celebration of her liberation, meaning her divorce almost four years ago from a man who’d forced her to pinch pennies while he secretly spent her royalty checks as fast as they came in.

The clutch and the earrings were pretty, but not thousands of dollars pretty, and they spent more time at Daphne’s than they did at Khela’s, as they were two of Daphne’s favorite items to borrow.

Khela eyed Daphne fanning herself with her hand as she whispered to her nearest tablemates, each of whom seemed to nod in agreement as they stared at the back of Carter’s head.

Right then and there, Khela knew that Carter wasn’t to be shared. Prop or no prop, he was hers for the weekend. She caught Carter’s eye, and without changing his flat expression, he winked at her.

The playful gesture sent a sense of ease through her, starting at her mouth, which finally formed a tiny smile. He had been gone when she awakened that morning, and with all the workshops, readings and meet and greets she’d had before lunch, she’d had no time to dwell on his absence.

But he was here. Clean-shaven, with his short hair neatly combed off his face, he was the picture of casual masculine coolness, even with her girlie clutch on his lap. Despite her attitude malfunctions of the day before, he hadn’t fled. Her relief was so great it washed out the shame she might have felt at having behaved so badly toward him.

His presence was a comfort, which Khela attributed to one fact: with every woman’s eyes on Carter, they were no longer on her. She cleared her throat once more, and began her speech.

“ ‘All women, as authors, are feeble and tiresome. I wish they were forbidden to write, on pain of having their faces deeply scarified with an oyster shell,’ ” Khela read, grinning broadly at the horror on Kitty Kincaid’s face. “Those are the words of Nathaniel Hawthorne. I keep them posted on my office wall, above my computer monitor. My first novel, and every novel I’ve written since, was written in defiance of Hawthorne’s words.”

Applause erupted, and Khela lowered her eyes. They landed on Carter, who sat up straighter as he stared at her. She began anew once the clapping died down. “As a genre, romance fiction is as wildly popular as it is disrespected. What we do, as storytellers, might not cure disease or reduce the national deficit, but it makes those things easier to bear. We entertain. We offer an escape. W-We…”

Her throat tightened and her words stalled. A tiny sip of water loosened her pipes enough for her to say, “We practice a very specific form of witchcraft.”

Soft laughter rippled through the room. Khela only wanted to cry.

She started her wrap-up. “I’m supposed to provide guidance, but you already know how this game is played. You know that publishing moves on geological time. You know that each ‘no’ is one step closer to a ‘yes.’ The only advice I can give you is the same advice I was given ten years ago by one of our genre’s best, January Rose, when I was the one sitting on the other side of a podium like this one: ‘Write the story of your heart. If you can write it, you can sell it, and people will read it, and they will believe in it.’ Those words, too, are posted on the wall above my computer monitor—above Hawthorne’s. My first novel, and every novel I’ve written since, was written in honor of those words. And now…”

She found January Rose in the crowd, and the older lady kissed her fingertips and sent Khela a silent thank you. Khela’s next words remained stuck in her throat. It was impossible to make herself finish with what she had planned. She couldn’t, not here, not with Daphne, January Rose, Kitty Kincaid, Carter and dozens of other people looking at her with pride, affection or envy. She took a deep breath and said, “I wish you all the best in your careers.”

The banquet hall exploded in applause, with Carter, her clutch tucked under one arm, on his feet banging his big hands together hardest of all. When he turned and slightly flapped his arms, spurring the audience on, the noise rose at least twenty decibels. The applause and cheers continued as Khela made her way to the head table, where Carter offered her his vacated seat. An observant waiter swooped in with another chair for Carter.

“That was awesome,” he whispered, his lips and his breath caressing her ear. “You were great.”

Smiling sickly, Khela wondered if anyone would notice if she ducked under the table and vomited into her purse.

* * *

Carter paused in the archway between the banquet hall and another larger room, where long tables formed a giant “U.” There, the authors signed books for the general public. Stacks of books were at each author’s elbow, with a placard bearing the author’s name and head shot propped in front of them. Before this weekend, Carter had been completely ignorant of the many sub-genres of romance. From erotic fiction that read more like hardcore pornography to Christian fiction that placed love of God above love of any creature born on Earth, Carter saw something for every connoisseur of romance.