Читать книгу Cover Girl - Nic Tatano - Страница 7

“Men can’t write romance. Their sex scenes only last one paragraph.”

Keira Madison’s answer to the question as to why there were no men in the standing-room-only romance-writing seminar got a huge laugh from the crowd of over two hundred women. The tall, skinny redhead, a/k/a Cover Girl, was the most powerful editor in the romance genre. She smiled as she waited for the laughter in the auditorium to die down.

But it was all she could do to avoid adding one more sentence. “And this is why I never meet any guys in my job and I’m on my way to being a cat lady at thirty-five, even though I don’t have a friggin’ cat.”

The group settled down and Keira nodded at a young blonde in the second row who had her hand raised. “I’m curious if your own personal romantic experiences have an effect on the books you buy. You know, if you prefer fictional male characters who are like the ones in your life. Do you look for your type when you read a romance novel?”

Well, so much for holding back.

Keira pushed her mound of red tangles back from her face then grabbed the side of the wooden podium and leaned forward, her turquoise eyes getting wide. “Let me tell you something, girls. I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for the world. But look around this room. Do you see one guy in here? No. This genre repels men like a Star Trek force field. Drop by the romance division where I work. All women. The highlight of my week is when a man shows up to stock the soda machine and I drop by to get a Dr. Pepper just so I can talk to someone with a Y chromosome. And I don’t even drink soda. While my life revolves around romance and I’ve edited some of the steamiest books of all time with some of the hottest men on the covers, it is unfortunately all fiction. And since I don’t go to bars I rarely meet guys. So the answer to your question is no, since the best men I’ve met only exist on paper. I have a great job, but if you want a career that will let you meet guys, this ain’t it. If you think you’ll run into Prince Charming at your book-signing, fuhgeddaboudit. While I’m in the business of selling the Mister Right fantasy, for me it is, unfortunately, still a fantasy.”

Keira smiled as the crowd chuckled a bit. The clock on the wall told her she needed to wrap things up since the military thriller seminar had the place booked next. She looked at the back of the room and saw an attractive dark-haired thirty-something man peeking around the open door and pointed at him. “Hey, look, a cute guy! C’mon in, join the romance revolution!”

The crowd turned around and the man smiled. “Thank you, but I’m waiting for the next seminar.”

“C’mon, we won’t bite. You’ll never have better odds… two hundred girls to one guy. If you’ve got some sort of harem fantasy, indulge!”

The guy waved. “That’s okay, I’m not into a ménage à horde.” He smiled, then disappeared to a lot of laughs.

“Figures. The one guy who drops by is a smart ass. See, romance is scary to them.” The group turned back to face her. “Now, watch, in five minutes this room will be filled entirely with men for the military thriller talk. So if you wanna meet a guy who likes to blow things up and dream of sharing a futon in his mother’s basement, stick around.” She looked at the back of the room to see if the guy reappeared, then raised her voice. “Hey, youse guys out in the hallway, if male writers were a little smarter, they’d realize the market for military thrillers is stone- cold dead and the easiest genre to crack is romance. C’mon in!” She paused a moment to see if there was any reaction. “Bueller? Bueller?” Still no one. “Oh, whatever. I gave it a shot.” Keira had time for one more question and pointed at a brunette in the back.

“Keira, do you think a guy could write a romance? I know you were joking around… but seriously, could a man do it?”

“Hey, good writing is good writing. A good writer is a good writer, regardless of gender. Every male author out there has female characters in his books, so it’s not like they can’t write women. And every one of you has a hero in your work, but no one ever says a female romance author can’t write men. There are a few guys out there who do write romantic novels, but a manuscript from one has never crossed my desk. But sure, a man could do it. He’d have to be a special kind of guy, though. I don’t think a man could write a romance unless he was a romantic soul at heart: the kind of guy who respects you as an equal but holds doors for you, who brings you gifts without occasion, who is kind enough to take in a stray kitten out of a rainstorm, who leaves little love notes on the pillow if he has to go to work early, who knows when a woman needs to be left alone and when she needs to be held, who is so damn hot every woman in the room is jealous of you, who will look at you in the same way twenty years after your wedding day and make your heart flutter. Who—”

Keira realized she’d verbalized a familiar daydream and caught herself before going any further. She looked out at the crowd and saw a room filled with dreamy-eyed women, their heads cocked to the side like puppies waiting for a treat, who knew exactly what she was talking about. “Sorry, occupational hazard. Easy when you create Mister Right on paper, huh?” The crowd chuckled as she saw a few famous thriller writers waiting in the wings offstage. “Okay, we have to clear out for the boys with their toys, so thank you all for coming and I’ll be around the convention all day if you have any questions. Don’t be shy. But please don’t pitch your book in the bathroom like someone did to me last year.”

The crowd began to disperse as Keira picked up her leather satchel and headed off-stage.

She was surprised to see her publisher, Jill Howland, waiting, on the phone, looking devastated as she ran one hand through her dark-blonde hair. But then Jill had a tendency to overreact. She ended the call as Keira arrived at her side. “What’s wrong, Jill? You look like someone ran over your dog.”

“It’s Rose.” She bit her lower lip as her green eyes welled up.

“What, is the bestselling romance author in history gonna be late for the awards dinner tonight?”

“Oh Keira, I know how close you two are. Something happened…”

As usual, Alex Bauer wore his heart on his sleeve, so trying to sneak one by his roommate Juliette Frye would be fruitless. If there was such a thing as a poker face for literary rejection, he had the opposite. And he knew he couldn’t get anything past her. Juliette was like a human polygraph. His olive-green eyes could project a life force that was off the charts… or be deep pools of permanent hurt.

Which they were right now.

She studied his look as he came through the door and put his portfolio on the dining-room table. “Uh-oh. That bad, huh?”

He moved to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. “Same old story. The market’s extremely tight for military thrillers. You’re a good writer, but… blah, blah, blah.”

“How many people did you meet with this time?”

“Four agents and three editors.” He opened the beer, took a long swig and plopped down in his leather reclining chair, stretching out his lean five-foot-ten frame. “I’ve actually run out of places to pitch the damn thing. Today was my last resort. So my book literally becomes the tree that fell in the forest.” He looked up at the ceiling as he ran his fingers through his thick black hair. Maybe I need to go back to reporting.”

The petite blonde got up, stood in front of him and folded her arms. “Alex Bauer, you stop that right now. Hey, look at me.” Her pale-blue eyes locked with his as he faced her. “Don’t start with that again. You hate what journalism has become and that’s why you spend one night a week teaching reporting ethics at the college. You want to be an author. You socked away enough money to give it ten years and you’ve only been at it for two.”

“Well—”

“And to be honest, the newsroom has gotten a helluva lot worse since you left. The bias is off the charts and I’m thinking of leaving myself. I actually got a feeler today from a PR firm for when my contract is up next year. Good offer, normal hours, great money. Low stress.”

“You’d be good at that.”

“And you’re a great writer. You have been since college.”

“Thank you, but that’s not translating into a sale. Geez, even the seminar was depressing. A bunch of has-been authors, who hadn’t sold anything in years, basically telling us how tough it is. Probably because they don’t want any new competition. I was hoping to be energized but came away even more discouraged.” He flipped the lever on the recliner and put his feet up. “Funny, the military thriller seminar was right after the romance talk and I happened to get there a few minutes early. Those women were having a blast.”

“Well, they usually aren’t writing stories with snipers and people dying. Don’t think terrorist sleeper cells and nuclear warfare are popular plot elements in a romance novel.”

“You’ve got a point. Anyway, I’m out in the hall waiting and the woman running the thing sees me peeking around the door. Real cute redhead. I mean, seriously cute. So she invites me in, but I mean, there’s not a single guy in the crowd so I duck back into the hall. But I can still hear her.”

“Wait a minute… did I just hear you say a ‘seriously cute redhead’ gave you an invitation and you went in the other direction?”

“I know. You would think my thing for redheads would have taken over, but I was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Being one guy in a room with two hundred women.”

“I would think that would be every man’s wet dream. Author gets harem, film at eleven.”

“Funny. Anyway, then the cute redhead said something interesting. That military thrillers are dead and romance is the easiest genre to break into.”

“I would think so. Simple supply and demand. There are more romance books in the bookstore than any other genre.”

“Then she says if guys were smart they’d give it a shot. Writing romance, I mean. Pretty funny, huh?”

Juliette put her hands on her hips. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Why don’t you give it a shot?”

“Me? Write a romance novel? You mean chick lit? What the hell do I know about purses and shoes?”

“You’re a reporter, do some research. And not every romance novel is about shopping. Besides, for the past ten years you’ve been sharing this townhouse with a woman who has been the sister you never had. I know you’ve always thought of me as one of the guys, but I do possess the shoe chromosome. Seriously, Alex, you could do it. Remember that creative writing class we took in college and the assignment to write a short story for someone you love? And the one you wrote for your girlfriend about the engagement ring?”

“You mean Ring Girl? What about it?”

“Okay, full disclosure. I never told you this because I thought you’d be embarrassed, but she-who-must-not-be-named showed it to me. It was incredibly romantic and beyond sentimental. Along with being funny as hell. It made me laugh and cry at the same time. If our relationship wasn’t platonic I would have fallen in love with you after reading it. And she was blown away by it.”

“Yeah, she was so blown away she broke up with me after I gave it to her.”

“Because she thought you were getting too close and she was the girl in the story. That’s how much pure emotion it had, that’s how much it touched her. But you’re missing the point. You wrote a romantic short story. Why couldn’t you write a romantic novel? In fact, I’ll help you get started… why not flesh out that short story into a novel? It was such a terrific plot and the characters were so memorable I can tell you their names today. Lexi and Jamison.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “I cannot believe you remember that.”

“Like I said, it was a great story. So I want you to do it.”

“Seriously?”

“It was beyond clever, Alex. And since you never throw anything out I assume you still have it.”

“It’s on an old computer disc, but the story’s still in my head.”

“It’s still in my head, too, which should tell you something. Alex, I read that genre from time to time, and I’m telling you, what you wrote back in college combined with the romantic soul I know you are tells me you have it in you. You can do it. You spent years in newsrooms filled with women so you know more about us than you might think. I’ll help you add a little of the girly stuff. Take you shopping for shoes. I’ll even let you go through my purse to see what’s in there.”

His face tightened as his eyes filled with fear. “I’ll go shopping with you, but I’m not going in your purse.”

“What the hell are you afraid of?”

“I dunno, purses remind me of that movie Roman Holiday.”

She furrowed her brow. “Huh?”

“You know, that scene with the Mouth of Truth where you put your hand in it and if you’re a liar the statue will bite it off. And Gregory Peck sticks his hand in there and pulls it up into his sleeve so Audrey Hepburn would think the legend was true.”

She shook her head. “I assure you, there are no extremity-eating monsters in my purse.”

“It’s just one of those places where men dare not go.”

“Fine, I’ll dump it out on the table. But I want you to do this. Now put that damn military thriller away, get your ass in the chair and start writing.”

“Okay, but there’s one major flaw with your plan.”

“What’s that?”

“How many editors will take a look at a romance novel written by a guy?”

“Well, that redhead you saw today sounds like she seemed open to it. And who says they have to know the author is male? Look, your first name is also a popular woman’s name. Or you could use a pen name. There’s no rule that says any editor or publisher has to meet you in person.”

“What about book-signings? Am I supposed to dress up in drag like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie?”

“You could pull it off. You’ve got better legs than Hoffman.”

“Again, funny.”

“Look, you told me yourself that they only do book tours for bestsellers these days, so I’d worry about that if you actually sell the thing and it takes off. At that point it will be a nice problem to have. Hell, you could even hire some woman to play the part.” She pointed to his laptop. “Chair. Now. Find that disc with Ring Girl on it ‘cause I wanna read it again. And you need to do the same.” He bit his lower lip as the story dredged up a bad memory. “Look, I know you’ve been terrified of getting close to any girl ever since that incident, but maybe if you write it with a ‘happily ever after’ ending it will help you get over your fear of women.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll write the thing.”

“Meanwhile, I’ve got some research for you in my bedroom.” She started to head down the hallway.

“What? I gotta go through your lingerie too?”

“No, I’ve got a bunch of romance novels and you need to read them to give yourself a guide. Get familiar with what women are looking for. You need to get acquainted with an author named Rose Fontaine.”

“Who?”

“Bestselling romance author of all time. And an incredible writer. Actually, she has a snarky style that’s a lot like yours.”

“Okay. You promise to help me with the girly stuff?”

“Honey, when I get through with you you’ll be able to get a job writing for Cosmo.”