“What do you say to a no-strings fling?”

“It’ll just be hot, wild sex—nothing more, nothing less,” Nick continued, backing her up to the wall, bringing his body flush against hers. Delaney bit back a whimper at the sweet pressure of his chest brushing her aching nipples, his thigh, warm and hard, pressed between her legs.

He placed his hands on either side of her head and lowered his face until his mouth was within inches of hers. Delaney swallowed, unable to tear her gaze from the hypnotic blue depths of his. As though under an irresistible spell, she simply waited, both eager and terrified to see if he’d follow through.

She didn’t have to wait long. His mouth plunged, taking hers with a fierceness that shot straight down to her belly. Heat, flashing hot and intense, flamed as he traced the soft silk of her blouse with his hand, sliding his fingers over her collarbone, her shoulder, brushing the side of her breast. Then, growing bolder, he moved his palms over the curve of her backside, pulling her closer to him.

Without offering any resistance, Delaney shifted her leg to wrap it around his hard muscular thigh, giving him better access. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. And she could barely hold herself upright when he suddenly stepped back, leaving her cold and wanting.

“Just one month, Delaney,” he whispered. “Think about the possibilities.”

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Dear Reader,

I’m a sucker for makeovers. It’s like playing dress-up for adults, and I’ve always been a dress-up kind of girl. Even now I love nothing better than experimenting with a new hairstyle and makeup or coming up with a new look for my entire house. Paint, pillows, you name it, I’m game. But a total life makeover? Wow, that’s a little more than even I would want to take on….

But Delaney Conner risks it all, and the results are beyond anything she could have dreamed up. Especially when the benefits include having an incredibly sexy erotic suspense author make her an offer she doesn’t want to refuse. Nick Angel definitely tempts Delaney to stray out of her comfort zone. But the closer they get, the more Delaney worries that he’ll see beneath the glossy surface to the real her.

I hope you enjoy Nick and Delaney’s story. I sure did. Be sure to drop by my Web site at www.TawnyWeber.com to let me know. And while you’re there, check out my blog, my latest contest or vote for the hunk of the month. I’d love to hear from you.

Enjoy,

Tawny Weber

Risqué Business
Tawny Weber

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tawny Weber is usually found dreaming up stories in her California home, surrounded by dogs, cats and kids. When she’s not writing hot, spicy stories for Harlequin Blaze, she’s testing her latest margarita recipe, shopping for the perfect pair of boots or drooling over Johnny Depp pictures (when her husband isn’t looking, of course). When she’s not doing any of that, she spends her time scrapbooking and playing in the garden. She’d love to hear from readers, so drop by her home on the Web, www.TawnyWeber.com.

Books by Tawny Weber

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

324—DOUBLE DARE

372—DOES SHE DARE?

“It takes courage to grow up and

become who you really are.”

—E.E. cummings

To my parents, who always encouraged me

to be who I really am.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

HER HOT, DESPERATEbreaths echoed down the long, dark hallway. Terror coalesced into a black swirl of passion as his mouth slid down the concave silk of her belly. His fingers gripped her butt, lifting her for his pleasure, totally in control. He held complete dominance over her. Damp heat pooled between her legs, making her squirm in silent supplication. His fingers tightened, holding her prisoner, demanding she await his command.

Delaney Conner’s own breath puffed out as the words blurred on the page. God, to be that woman! She’d already read this scene three times since she’d gotten Nick Angel’s latest erotic thriller, but it still fascinated her. Fascinated, hell. She’d had two orgasms thanks to this chapter alone. Three, if she counted the memory it’d invoked in the shower.

She traced a finger over the face on the back cover. The author’s eyes, vivid and piercing, promised an ability to live up to the heat between the pages. She wondered how much of the sexual appeal was the words themselves, and how much was knowing they’d been written by the man with the sexiest face she’d ever seen grace a book jacket.

“Professor Conner?”

With a gasp, Delaney tossed the book in her canvas tote as if it had spouted flames. Cheeks on fire, she plastered a look of ingenuous questioning on her face. Hopefully the rapid flutter of her eyelashes conveyed innocence, in addition to cooling off her cheeks.

“Mr. Sims, hello,” Delaney said, her tone tight and stiff, as suited a professor at Rosewood.

Women like the heroines in Nick Angel’s books, when busted having sex in public places, gave a wicked smile and made you envy their moxie. Her? She couldn’t even read sexy books in public without blushing and worrying someone was going to rat her out for ill-advised reading choices. After all, reading was meant to be an educational pursuit, never for tawdry entertainment.

“I just wanted to say how much I got out of today’s lecture. The evolution of character archetypes fascinates me.”

Her discomfort dissipated as Delaney shifted into teaching mode. The two of them fell into a discussion of the topic, Delaney growing more animated and excited the more they talked. She loved it when a student grasped her concepts, loved even more seeing the spark of excitement in his eyes. Delaney wasn’t an easy teacher by any means. She pushed her students, keeping her curriculum dynamic and challenging. But she prided herself on having the lowest failure rate of any other professor in the English department.

And her success would only help in her bid to become assistant head of the Department. A plum promotion, it’d put her in the position to take over as department head within the next ten years. Exactly as she’d planned. And maybe, just maybe, it’d have the added bonus of actually getting her father’s attention.

“Excuse me,” said a husky voice.

Delaney and Sims moved aside to let a gorgeous brunette pass. Stunning from the top of her perfectly straight hair to the bottom of her sleek black heels, even her little red suit screamed power. Now she was a perfect Nick Angel heroine. Sexy, savvy and confident.

They both watched the woman pass, Delaney envying her sense of presence and Sims obviously admiring her ass. While he gathered his composure, Delaney glanced at her watch.

Damn. Late again. With a quick goodbye to her student, she hurried down the hall to the dean’s office.

She flew into the reception area. The tiny blonde at the desk looked like a kewpie doll. Flaxen curls, huge blue eyes and a round dimpled face hid a razor-sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor. She was Delaney’s best friend, and the two women had bonded over an obsession with Johnny Depp, eighties rock music and their mutual love for romance novels, a top-secret subject here at the college. Rosewood was that uptight and narrow-minded.

It’d taken Delaney until last year to finally confide in Mindy Adams her deepest, darkest secret. She not only loved to read popular fiction, but unbeknownst to anyone other than Mindy, she also made a tidy income reviewing it for various magazines and newspapers. She’d heard a rumor that two years ago, the college had fired an art history professor when they’d discovered she modeled on the side. That her modeling had been of historical costumes in a magazine layout had seemed to make no difference to the dean. Delaney could only assume that he and the trustees saw it as frivolous and mocking.

So she kept her reviews top secret and used her middle name, Madison. She’d have been crazy not to.

“Am I too late? Is my father still here?” she asked, catching her breath.

“He’s still here,” Mindy responded slowly.

“What’s wrong?” Delaney asked, still panting slightly.

“I just thought you might want to know, um—” Mindy hesitated, then sighed. “Did you notice that brunette leaving a few minutes ago?”

“She had a great laptop bag, with plenty of room for books and papers.” She glanced at her own canvas bag, ratty and worn. She hated shopping, but she lusted after practical totes, especially in leather. Maybe after she got the promotion she’d treat herself to one like that.

“She was here about the position in your department.”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Delaney stared. “My position?”

She hadn’t ever considered there would be competition for it. She tilted her head in silent question and Mindy nudged a paper toward her. Delaney scanned the woman’s resume.

“Nice, but not as strong as mine.”

Mindy winced.

“I’d heard talk Professor Belkin wants someone who’s going to attract attention,” the girl said, referring to the head of the English department. “Attendance is down in the department and he’s taking it personally. He seems to think a more attractive assistant head will help boost the numbers.”

“A dynamic curriculum and strong teaching reputation aren’t enough?”

They both knew it was a rhetorical question. Where Delaney might hide a mystery novel behind her textbook, Belkin was the kind of guy who hid a Hustler magazine behind his. The man was all about looks, the hotter, the better.

And even though the position was awarded by a hiring committee, he headed it. Which meant he had a lot of influence.

“I heard Belkin tell the dean he wanted someone with a lot of charisma and looks, who could not only handle the academic side of the job, but the PR angle he’s planning to push,” Mindy said to the top of her desk. She obviously couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes.

Delaney clenched her jaw to keep from screaming in frustration. Temper never helped, but imagining how good it would feel to throw her ratty bag across the room sure did.

Mindy took a deep breath and shot her a long, considering look, probably to make sure Delaney wasn’t going to pitch a fit. Reassured, she tapped the magazine on the desk in front of her.

“Maybe if you’d consider a makeover…” she suggested hesitantly, not for the first time. Delaney was already shaking her head before the blonde continued. “You know, something to change the visual so maybe people will give you the attention you deserve?”

Delaney sighed. Spoken like a true girly girl. Mindy never left the house without lipstick, how could she be considered unbiased? Delaney figured it was because she’d grown up motherless that she’d never been inducted into the girly club.

“Why bother? I am who I am. Will mascara and a push-up bra make me someone else?” The thought made her cringe. Makeup, fancy clothes, they baffled her.

“No, but they’ll get you noticed.” Mindy waved the magazine in her hand. Risqué. Delaney rolled her eyes. What a title. She looked at the tagline, “You’re only as confident as you look.” Right.

“Who needs that kind of attention?” Delaney groused. She tugged at the frayed hem of her tweed jacket and frowned. “What about that whole ‘inner beauty being more important than outer beauty’ thing?”

“It’s a feel-good myth, like Santa Claus,” Mindy deadpanned.

Delaney snorted.

“You’ve got looks under all that tweed. You’ve definitely got brains, and you’re a nice person,” Mindy mused. “You just need to learn to make the most of it all. Take my advice, read this magazine. It’ll have you on the road to satisfaction. Better yet, I’ll bet you even get laid.”

Delaney snorted again.

“Unlike some people, I don’t think sex is a cure-all.” Well, she was alarmingly addicted to a certain author’s books. But that had nothing to do with real life. Their only purpose was titillation. They had the reality level of SpongeBob SquarePants and even less emotional depth.

“How would you know? When was the last time you had sex?”

When Delaney opened her mouth to retort, Mindy shook her head. “With someone else actually in the room with you.”

Damn. She clamped her lips closed.

“What good is another department-store makeup fiasco?” she asked instead. She’d tried that once in her teens and discovered being invisible was much preferable to being mocked.

“No, you need something much bigger.” Mindy leaned over to push the magazine into her hands.

Delaney glanced at the cover, then at the dog-eared page. Risqué? “A makeover contest? You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. It’s a killer deal. Complete makeover. Hair, makeup, completely new wardrobe. Not some cheesy thing, either, it’s custom created just for you. They even teach the winners how to maintain her new look.”

“Why on earth would I want to do this?”

“It’s your shot. You win, you’ll see what a difference it makes.”

Delaney tossed the magazine back on the desk with a roll of her eyes. “What’s the point? I hardly think something as shallow as eye shadow and hairspray will cure my problems.”

Mindy pulled a face, then shrugged. Delaney felt bad for hurting the other woman’s feelings. Before she could apologize, Mindy slipped the magazine into her drawer. The alarm on her desk squawked a reminder.

“He’s leaving in ten minutes. If you want to see him, you’d better go in now,” Mindy reminded her.

Frowning, Delaney nodded her thanks, scooped up the tote and squared her shoulders.

She strode through the heavy doors, lifted her chin and took a deep breath. She’d originally intended to hint around that she’d appreciate his backing on her application. Now she’d have to be more direct. For once, she had to stand up for herself.

Of course, it would help if her father actually looked at her. Delaney cleared her throat, but he still didn’t glance up from the papers he was signing.

“I need your help,” Delaney stated quietly.

He lifted a finger, gesturing for her to wait. Preferably in silence.

She clutched the strap of her bag so hard the canvas hurt her fingers. She wished she had the nerve to throw it across the room, but years of lectures on why losing control never paid off flashed through her head. Temper, temper. Maybe if she recited that often enough, she’d stop imagining how good it might be to let loose and let him know exactly how she felt. But, as with most things nonacademic, imagining was the only way she’d experience the pleasure. Her mother had always been able to soothe away her temper, but once she’d gone, Delaney was on her own. Once, only once, she’d let her temper fly with her father. She’d been ten. He’d sent her away to boarding school as a result.

She glared at the top of his balding head. Tufts of red hair stuck out like chicken fluff. Didn’t it just figure that along with his brilliant mind, she’d inherited the man’s long, lanky body and god-awful hair? Where he came across as scholarly and authoritative, Delaney just looked like a carrot-topped Olive Oyl. Except given her miserable luck with men, instead of fighting over her, Popeye and Bluto would probably run off with each other.

“What kind of help?” Randolph Conner, Dean of Rosewood College and Delaney’s only living relative, asked in a distracted tone when he finally glanced at her.

“Support,” she informed him. “You know I applied for the assistant’s position. Apparently Professor Belkin is changing the job requirements.”

“He’s merely expanding the job description,” Dean Conner—as he preferred everyone, including his only daughter, to address him—said. He still didn’t bother looking at her, so Delaney didn’t bother hiding her angry expression. “Professor Belkin, as head of the English department, feels we need a strong, dynamic person in the position.”

Frustration surged through her. For all the faculty noticed—her father included—she really was invisible. Delaney thrust out her chin and did the unthinkable—she questioned his motives.

“Is it because she’s so attractive?” she asked.

“Wha…?” Dean Conner shot her a frown, his brows drawn together like a pair of bright red caterpillars. Finally, a reaction. “Who? Professor Tate? How does her appearance factor into anything? Who cares about all that physical fluff?”

And he meant it. A single parent, Randolph Conner had raised Delaney to value intelligence. Intellect, he deemed, was much more meaningful than something as fleeting and nebulous as society’s current definition of beauty.

Of course, since most of the rest of society hadn’t been raised with the same standard, that left Delaney at a slight disadvantage. She ground her teeth in frustration. And now it looked like brains weren’t enough, either.

“Professor Tate is the woman who was just here, right?” Delaney took a deep breath and, despite the clenching in her gut, confronted him. “My qualifications, to say nothing of my seniority, are stronger.”

Her father sighed, his deep, put-upon sigh that let her know she was wasting his valuable time. He used the same sigh when she’d wanted to learn how to ride a bike, had asked permission to go to school activities or wanted to get a pet. That sigh was so effective she still couldn’t ride a bike and had the social skills of a pimply-faced twelve-year-old girl who’d been deprived of the love of a puppy.

“Delaney, you’re missing the point. We need fresh blood in the English department. New ideas and a strong program.”

She just stared. He obviously wasn’t going to back her proposal. But she needed to hear it from him.

“Will you support my application?” she asked, her throat tight.

“As I said, we need fresh blood. Bright, energetic people who will bring excitement to the program. You’re one of our most brilliant professors, Delaney. A strong benefit to the department.” He fiddled with some papers on his desk, then met her eyes. He had that irritated “it’s for your own good” look on his face. Her stomach did a somersault. “As a matter of fact, at Professor Belkin’s recommendation, this next semester we’re going to experiment with taking some of the classes to the Internet. We’d like you to handle them.”

He handed her a course outline for the summer semester. She didn’t have a single nonvirtual class.

Her breath caught in her chest and she abruptly sank into a chair. Tears, rarely allowed to surface, filled her eyes. She took the few seconds needed to gather control, knowing her father would prefer she delay her response rather than show any form of emotion he might have to acknowledge.

“If I’m such a benefit, why’d I just get demoted?” Not what she’d intended to say, but she found she didn’t regret her outburst. After all, maybe if she spoke up for once, he’d listen to her.

Before he could put into words the irritation clear on his face, she jumped up to pace the room, the paper clenched in her fist. “Oh, sure, you can claim it’s not an official demotion. But what the hell would you call it when my classes are suddenly all via cyberspace?”

If not for her brains, nobody would ever notice her. And now they’d found a way to get her brains without her actual physical presence. She resisted the urge to sniff to see if she smelled bad. Apparently that was her life’s theme: Delaney Conner, the Invisible Woman.

She sucked in a shuddering breath and shoved a hand through her hair. Her fingers tangled in the knot she’d forgot she’d anchored in place with a pencil. With a wince, she untangled herself and tossed the pencil—along with a few carroty-red hairs she’d yanked out as well—on her father’s desk.

He glanced at the pencil, then back at her. Then he sighed.

“I don’t have time to debate this, Delaney. I’m due in a meeting in a few minutes and would like to review my notes. Please—” he waved toward the door “—we’ll discuss it another time.”

Her fists clenched at her sides, she watched him turn back to his papers. And just like that, he’d dismissed her. As usual. Delaney opened her mouth to tell him just where he could shove his meeting, to demand that he address her questions and really actually listen to her. Those damned tears welled up again, this time out of frustration that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—understand her. Value her. For once. She blinked the tears—and words—back, though. What was the point?

He’d never paid any attention to her before. Her intellectual achievements were expected, not celebrated. And to Randolph Conner, intellect was the only thing that mattered.

Her vision now blurred with anger, Delaney grabbed her purse and stormed out of the office.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the plateglass window. Long, skinny and…brown. She was a baggy mess. The heavy tweed of her ill-fitting suit sagged, her shoulder pads drooped. Just because the Conner family put no value on physical appeal didn’t mean the rest of the world didn’t. With a considering frown, she yanked at the waistband of her suit jacket to mimic a better fit. She captured the strands of hair flying around her face, then tucked them behind her ear. Her shoulders drooped. Still a mess. Definitely not what Belkin had in mind as a more visually appealing assistant.

Delaney ground her teeth. So what did she do? Give up? Go teach at a different school? Resign herself to invisibility?

Hell, no.

She stomped down the hall and planted herself in front of Mindy’s desk.

“Makeover, huh?” she asked.

Mindy’s blue eyes bugged out so much she looked like a squished Barbie doll.

“Really?” The girl scrambled to hand over the magazine, pages tearing in her haste to get it into Delaney’s hands.

The glossy image promising a sexy, sophisticated change made Delaney pause. Then she lifted her chin. It was time she stopped letting her father decide what had value and what didn’t. After all, that was probably the only way she’d ever learn to put any stock in herself. His assessment definitely wasn’t working in her favor.

“Instead of a well-earned promotion, I’ve been invited to teach from the comfort of my own home,” Delaney said with a sneer.

“Huh?”

“I’m taking over the Internet English curriculum.”

“I didn’t know we had an Internet English curriculum.”

“We do now. And it’s all mine. All the better to keep me invisible.”

Delaney knew she sounded bitter, but she couldn’t help it. She was bitter. And angry. And, not that she wanted to admit it, just a little desperate. After all, her career defined her and that definition had just taken a turn for the worse.

She glanced at the magazine again. Risqué. That was so not her. What chance did she have of winning? And would it really help? Belkin wanted visually appealing and charismatic. A few swipes of mascara and blush wouldn’t give her that.

“Did I mention the hiring committee won’t even look at the applications until the fall semester?” Mindy asked. “Even though Belkin’s made his choice, it still has to go before the rest of the committee.”

Delaney pursed her lips. That would give her six months. She considered for all of three seconds. Change? Or invisibility? Bottom line…invisibility sucked.

“I’m in,” she declared, ignoring the warning blaring in her head, screaming that decisions made in anger never paid off. “How do I become visible?”

2

“YOU HAVE TO ADMIT, sex sells,” Nick Angel declared, leaning back in the butter-soft leather chair and folding his hands behind his head. “And I sell it better than most.”

“Sure, sure,” Gary Masters, Nick’s literary agent, agreed with a slow nod. “Nobody is saying you don’t do great sex, Nicky. The thing is, this new editor wants more.”

Nick puffed out a breath. This was the third meeting he’d had in two months over editorial changes. Nick wanted a solid relationship with this new editor. After all, he credited a great deal of his career success to his previous editor. Damned if he didn’t wish she hadn’t retired.

“More sex?” He frowned, then shrugged. As long as it didn’t compromise the ratio of suspense in his books, he didn’t mind more sex. He’d just cut back on that foreplay crap, hit them hard and fast with the hot-and-wild kink. “I can do that.”

“Not more sex,” Gary said, his voice a low rumble at odds with the sophisticated gloss of the office. “More emotion.”

Nick dropped his feet to the floor and frowned. He’d come to New York to meet with Gary, sign his next round of publishing contracts and take in some R&R before heading back to San Francisco. From the way Gary was tapping his pen against the stack of contracts on his desk, there was a little problem or five buried in those papers.

“He’s suggesting more emotion?”

“More like demanding.”

Son of a bitch. “Three books on the New York Times bestseller list and he wants to change the core of my work? You’re kidding, right?”

“Look, you don’t have to take the demand. We can counter the contract clause. Or we can shop you around. But…”

“But what?”

“Well, he’s really pushing the point. He’s backed it with plenty of industry facts, data and even some fan requests. You’re starting to lose your female fan base, which composes over thirty percent of your sales, according to data.”

Nick gave a bad-tempered grimace. He wrote erotic suspense, not romantic suspense. The only emotions in his books were fear, excitement and lust. Jaw clenched, he bounced his fist on his knee.

“Look, those numbers came from the publisher. How do you know they aren’t skewed to their advantage?”

Gary raised a bushy brow. “In the first place, I’m not some green newbie without a clue—I checked with my own sources. In the second place, I’ve had even more mail here requesting you tone down the meaningless sex and give John Savage a softer side. The female fans want emotions. Even your reviewers are starting to band together about this. One just slammed your writing in a national magazine.”

Nick shrugged his disinterest. Reviewers had their place, but it wasn’t behind his computer keyboard. He wrote for himself first and foremost. If he’d caved to all the people who wanted him to write differently—hell, to be different—he’d have quit long ago.

“Don’t scoff,” Gary warned. “I know reviews don’t mean anything to you, but this one has become a hot topic on the Internet. And your editor is freaking out. He’s sure your next release will tank. In fact, he even messengered me a copy of the magazine with the reviewer’s comments highlighted.”

Nick frowned. “Who the hell is this guy?”

“Gal.”

He rolled his eyes. Figured. Female reviewer, female fans. Leave it to women to demand more emotion. What was with them and their need to talk about, hell, to even believe in the fairy tale of love?

Nick sneered. He’d watched enough manipulation, pain and drama played out in the name of that nebulous love thing to know the reality. Emotions were simply a label for choices made in the moment. They were what people used to justify whatever it was they wanted to do.

Nick prided himself on his honesty, brutal though others might find it; he always stated in the beginning of any physical relationship that he didn’t play the emotion game. And yet, like his character, John Savage, women always figured they could change him. The only ones not interested in changing him were the ones interested in using him.

Just like this damned reviewer. Probably thought she’d make a name for herself by slamming his work, thinking if he caved to her review, she’d be set.

“So some mouthy reviewer wants to use my books as a platform,” Nick summed up with a shrug. “Let her try. It doesn’t matter to me, I’m not changing. John Savage is a solid character. He’s intense, he’s a man’s man. The last thing his stories need are foofy love stuff slopping around to mess him up.”

“Actually, she has a solid reputation in publishing circles. She’s gained quite a bit of notoriety over the last couple months, though.”

“Based on trashing my books,” Nick scoffed.

“Nah, trashing you was incidental. Her rise to fame is from a contest she just won. Risqué magazine ran the interview last month.”

When he raised a brow, Gary lifted a file off the corner of his desk and handed it over. Nick flipped through the contents.

Risqué. One of the top women’s periodicals in the country, it touted everything from sexual adventure to health and fashion. Huge doe eyes framed by a silky sweep of russet hair caught his attention. There was something in those carefully made-up eyes, a vulnerability, that tugged at him. Rather than dwelling on it, Nick ignored the glossy images and went straight for the text.

“Ms. Madison, don’t you feel modern fiction leaves quite a bit to be desired?”

“Oh, no. There is so much fabulous writing in the bookstores today. New authors are to today’s reader what Brontë was to her readers. Inspired, entertaining, talented.”

“Brontë could be termed romance?”

“Definitely. But the other genres hold just as true.”

“What about oh, say, erotica or suspense?”

“If those are your cup of tea, one of the best authors to read is Nick Angel. He’s done a commendable job of combining both eroticism and suspense. You can’t read his books without having a physical reaction. Definitely a pulse raiser.”

Nick grinned. He wondered how often he’d raised her pulse.

“Then as a literary expert, you recommend Nick Angel?”

“If you want a commitment-free read, definitely.”

Nick frowned.

“Commitment-free?”

“Well, his books are great, but not the kind you become emotionally invested in. The sex, while some of the hottest out there, is always distanced. There is very little empathy or reader involvement. It’s like watching a fast-paced television program. A lot of impact in a short amount of space, but not enough depth to make the reader care much about the characters. It’s similar to well-done pornography. Hot and sexy, yes—I’ll be the first to say it totally draws you in for the sexual payoff. But that’s all it is. Sex for the sake of titillation. It’s too bad Angel is afraid of emotion. If he brought in some depth, his books would be amazing.”

Afraid? Nick sneered. Who was afraid? Just because opening the door to emotions was the equivalent to being shoved into a pit of flesh-eating piranha…

“She compared my work to porn?” he asked, not wanting to think about the other irritating—if blatantly untrue—accusation. It wasn’t the first time someone had made the comparison to porn. But it was the first time it’d bothered him. It was probably those big brown eyes of hers.

“That’s the part everyone latched on to.” Gary’s narrow fingers tapped a rhythm on the stack of contracts. Nick scanned the man’s face. Angular, almost scholarly, the gray-haired agent looked like a wise monk. He had the heart of a shark and the industry knowledge of a wizard. It was thanks to him that Nick was where he was, career-wise. The guy knew his business.

He also barbequed a mean steak, kept Nick’s mother off his back and had pulled Nick out of the nightmarish hell that had been his life after his wife had publicly humiliated him during their divorce. Nick owed him. Even more important, he trusted him.

“Look, I know you avoid emotions. And you have good reason, given your past,” Gary said in a carefully measured tone. Nick just glared. He didn’t want to talk about Angelina. The woman had lured him in, then ripped his life apart. Even after finding out about her affair, he’d been willing to work things out. She hadn’t, though, as she’d proved when she’d hit the interview circuit to share with the world the deep, dark secrets of their marriage. And more to the point, their sex life. Thanks to her, his sales had skyrocketed in equal measure to his ego deflating. Her point, he was sure, since she’d snagged a tidy share of his royalties. That’d been all Nick had needed to assure him that giving in to emotion was a one-way ticket to being screwed over.

“I don’t avoid anything,” he denied adamantly. “I just think this publicity stunt is a bunch of bullshit.”

“Nick, just consider it. You know, give Savage a love interest. Make your editor happy. Appease some female fans. Head this off before it gets any bigger.”

“My character is already established, Gary. I’ve already done eight books. It’s obvious he’s not an emotional kind of guy. He works, the stories work. You can’t just go in, midseries, and rewrite his entire history and motivation. I’d lose my core readership.”

“I think you need to consider some changes, then. Even if they aren’t to the main character. Maybe a subplot?”

Nick tamped down the angry panic clutching at his gut. To write a character, he had to get into his head. The last thing he needed was to delve into an emotional pit.

He glanced at the folder, flipping through the stack of newspaper clippings. Instead of a picture next to her byline, this Delaney Madison had a book graphic. Odd. Most women he knew craved attention like they craved air. It was a necessity. Maybe it was a ploy to play up the makeover fame.

“Give me a chance to take care of this,” he said, getting to his feet. Looming over his agent’s desk from his six-two height, Nick rolled the folder and stuck it the back pocket of his jeans.

“What are you going to do?”

Nick headed for the door. His hand on the knob, he glanced back. “I’m going to teach Ms. Madison to think twice before she messes with me. By the time I’m through with her, she’ll publicly admit the way I do sex is just perfect.”

“YOU KNOW, YOU SHOULD TRY a different shade of eye shadow,” Delaney mused, her chin resting on her hand as she stared across the restaurant table at Mindy. “Maybe something in a gray instead of brown. I think it’d bring out your eyes more.”

Her glass of iced tea halfway to her mouth, Mindy stared, shock clear in her brown-shadowed eyes. Then she burst into laughter.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

“Actually, I am,” Delaney confirmed, lifting her own glass to toast her friend.

This was the makeover results, of course.

She glanced at her reflection in the restaurant’s plateglass window. Even blunted in that poor excuse for a mirror, the change was still amazing. Her once wild carrot hair flowed in a smooth, russet bob, swinging a few inches above her shoulders. Cheekbones she hadn’t realized she owned accented eyes made huge and mysterious by the wonders of cosmetics.

She’d actually won! Sure, she’d figured her essay on “The Inner Risqué Woman” would give her an edge. But after that first round, the entire contest had depended on chance. But thanks to a combination of her essay, her obvious need of a makeover and some awesome luck, here she was. All made over.

Right after the drawing at the beginning of April, they’d done the makeover in segments, briefly interviewing her and running a “before” photo in the May issue of Risqué. Then for their June issue, they’d spent two weeks showing her the ins and outs of doing her makeup and how to actually style her hair to look the same as they’d done. And best of all, she mused as she ran a finger over the buttery leather strap of her purse, was her new wardrobe.

The shock of winning Risqué’s contest was starting to pass, but the shock of her own transformation was still fresh.

“I had no idea something as superfluous as makeup and fancy clothes could be so, well…”

“Sexy?” Mindy finished, grinning like a proud fairy godmother.

Delaney started to deny it. She’d never in her life aspired to be sexy. Oh, sure, she might have wished to be like the women Nick Angel wrote about. The kind that had a body worthy of using as an international weapon. But that’d always seemed as impossible as having tea with Frodo in Middle Earth. But now…

“Ladies, your salads will be right out. More tea?”

The women glanced up. Delaney’s cheeks heated when she realized the waiter’s attention was totally focused on her. Or, more specially, on her gel-bra enhanced cleavage. Again. This restaurant was a block from the college, and the guy had waited on Delaney at least a dozen times in the past. He’d never stared before. Maybe he was trying to figure out where she’d bought the new boobs?

Delaney squirmed while Mindy shooed him off.

“Yeah, maybe I’m feeling a little sexy,” Delaney admitted when he was gone. “But it’s a weird feeling. Uncomfortable. Like wearing a Halloween costume or pretending to be someone I’m not.”

Mindy shook her head so hard her kewpie-doll curls shook loose. “Oh, no, this is totally you. You’re a beautiful woman, I’ve told you that before. Now you have to admit it yourself because it’s staring you in the face.”

“As long as it gets me that promotion,” Delaney muttered, waving her hand in dismissal. Not realizing he was there, she knocked her salad out of the waiter’s hand as he tried to set it in front of her. He fumbled to catch it but half still ended up on the floor. With a dirty look he left, probably to get a broom. Apparently new boobs weren’t enough to excuse clumsiness. Delaney glared at Mindy, who didn’t bother to hide her snicker. “I told you, I’m not used to this.”

Mindy tilted her chin as if to say “watch,” and then gave the waiter two tables away a warm smile. He scurried right over. “Could you be a sweetie and take that salad back for a fresh one. And the sun is shining right through onto our table here, can you pull the shades down just a smidge, please?”

Delaney watched, awed as always, as Mindy wrapped the guy around her finger with a sweet smile and little flutter of her lashes. With a big grin to them both, he stepped over the spilled lunch and hurried to do Mindy’s bidding, tugging the shade down on his way.

“Instant obedience,” Delaney breathed. “Always. How do you do that? I thought maybe it was just a girly thing. But I’m wearing girly stuff now, all the way to my pastel panties, and I can’t get that kind of attention.”

“You’d better figure it out,” Mindy warned with a little frown. “You know the makeover is only part of what you need to get the promotion. Belkin can’t claim he’s hiring on looks, even if he is. He’s going to use the argument that he needs a charismatic, commanding assistant.”

Delaney’s jaw clenched. No. She’d gone through so much already, spent a month having her face and body analyzed like a freakish puzzle. She’d almost blown her anonymity when she’d slipped up in her “after” interview and told the Risqué people she was a book reviewer. The discussion turned to hot authors and next thing she knew, she’d opened her big mouth and critiqued Nick Angel’s books. Since she’d entered the contest using her pseudonym, she’d been worried her face attached to it would blow her cover. But Risqué wasn’t typical reading material for Rosewood’s students or faculty. Heck, it wasn’t even sold in bookstores or newsstands anywhere in the Santa Rosa area. It might be false confidence, but she figured her reviewing secret was safe.

She wanted that promotion. It was more than a job now. It was a symbol of her worth. To herself, to the college and to her father.

“You know,” Mindy said, picking at her nails like she always did when she was nervous, “I might have a suggestion that’d help you with that.”

“What?” Delaney asked slowly, eying the fingernails. As long as they stayed away from Mindy’s mouth, the idea probably wasn’t too crazy. It’s when she started nibbling on those things that Delaney really worried.

“My brother is the station manager at the local TV station. He mentioned last week their morning show is thinking of expanding their summer programming to include a critic’s corner.” Delaney’s stomach tightened when Mindy raised her hand to her mouth, pressing her thumbnail to her lip. “When I mentioned your name, Mike said he’d wait to post the job until I talked to you.”

“Me?”

“They’re looking for someone with a good handle on literature to do book reviews, discussions, that kind of thing,” Mindy finished in a rush, the words falling around the fingernail she was now diligently chewing. “It’s right up your alley. You do reviews already, love to read, and it’d be a great way to learn to become visible.”

“A TV show?” She couldn’t help it, she started laughing. “You’re joking, right? Me, on TV?”

She hyperventilated at the idea of having her driver’s license picture taken. Why on earth would she want to be on TV?

She’d make a complete ass of herself.

“It’s a great idea,” Mindy argued.

“No, it’s a crazy idea. What if someone saw me? I’m trying to hide that I’m a reviewer, remember?”

“It’s a San Francisco station, we don’t even get it up here,” Mindy assured her. “Besides, it’s a morning show, on the air during school hours. Who’d see it?”

“My father?”

“Does he even own a TV?”

No, but that wasn’t the point.

“Ahem.”

Both women turned startled glances to the tall, angular man standing by their table glaring at the mess the waiter had yet to clear. He turned his glare to Delaney. His eyes widened briefly, then narrowed with consideration.

Delaney grimaced. Professor Belkin. Then she glanced past him and felt herself turn pale. Her father. She’d been avoiding him, easy enough now that the spring semester was over. This wasn’t how she’d intended to tell him about the makeover.

She forced a smile on her suddenly stiff lips, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at her, so engrossed was he in his discussion with a physics professor. Two feet away, and she was invisible to her own father. As usual.

“Ms. Adams, Professor. Perhaps they can bring you a bib,” Belkin said, his tone stiff and annoyed as he stepped over the scattered croutons.

He was obviously not impressed with her makeover, and even less with her dining skills. Delaney wanted to pick up a tomato and throw it at his departing head. Bet that would get his attention. It’d blow her ever-narrowing shot at the promotion, too. So she choked back her temper with a deep breath.

“TV?” she asked Mindy, blinking away the frustrated tears as she watched her father depart.

“Keep using your pseudonym,” Mindy advised. “Let Delaney Madison become the woman you’ve always wanted to be. Imagine the shock value when you waltz into the hiring meeting and wow them all with your newly acquired charisma and command of the room.”

The woman she’d always wanted to be? Her ultimate fantasy was to be a woman like the kind she loved to read about. Sexy, powerful, confident. The kind who could handle the most arrogant snobs and the hottest guys with the same panache.

Delaney knew there were a million reasons why TV was a crazy idea. But this was to improve her chances of getting the promotion. She’d thought the makeup would be enough, that it’d make her stand out. Obviously she needed a little more than a costume. She needed to learn to command attention. So she’d do TV and become Delaney Madison. Super Reviewer. Savvy, sexy and commanding.

Nobody was ruining this for her. No way, no how.

“SEX IS SECONDARY,” Delaney insisted to Sean Logan, host of the morning show Wake Up California. Despite the fact that she was almost hyperventilating with nerves, she managed a quick smile and strong, assured tone. Nothing like a good literary argument to put her at ease. After three weeks of her weekly fifteen-minute segment on “Critic’s Corner,” she still hadn’t gotten past the terror of being on camera.

“Yes, I want to be invested in a hot, wild love scene,” she continued. “I want to feel just as turned-on as they are when I read the character’s actions. But unless I care about them, unless I’ve already developed a connection to them, it’s just…well, bodies. Often messy, rarely appealing.”

“So what you’re saying is you want emotionally driven love scenes when you read?” Sean, the epitome of the all-American boy grown up, asked as he shifted in his chair.

“I’m saying all stories, to really draw in the reader, benefit from an emotional depth the reader can empathize with,” Delaney clarified.

While Sean tugged his bottom lip and nodded, she shifted in the hard wood chair, wishing she could take a deep breath. She assured herself it wasn’t nerves—after three shows, she had to be getting over those by now, didn’t she?—but it was just the bite of leather where her belt snugged around her waist. Why couldn’t fashion and comfort be synonymous? According to Mindy, her skirt was the “latest fashion,” which apparently meant uncomfortably short and tight.

“Tell me the truth, Delaney,” Sean said with a schmoozy smile, leaning toward her like an old friend about to share a secret. “Do you really buy in to all that romance…stuff?”

Delaney grinned at the last-second correction. Halfway through her first segment, she and Sean had gotten past the formal Q&A they’d started with, and relaxed into a casual conversation. Used to his technique now, she knew this was the sign to wrap up the chosen topic for this week’s segment—the romance genre.

“Romance is what makes the world go ’round,” she paraphrased. “The excitement of falling in love in all its varieties, the quest for happily ever after.”

“You really believe that? That romance has that much of an impact on the world?”

“Relationships, by whatever terms they are defined, are what drive literature. Both period and modern,” Delaney said, warming to her subject. “Jane Eyre, Romeo and Juliet, Wuthering Heights, they’re all examples of romances that have strongly impacted our literary history.”

Caught by something offstage, Sean’s eyes went wide.

Delaney noted the muted explosion of murmurs and rustles. Well used to impatient students, she continued her lecture on romance novels through the ages without a hitch, but let her gaze shift to the ruckus on the main set.

Oh. My. God. Could a woman have an orgasm at just the sight of a man? Delaney tried to catch her breath, but she couldn’t stop her racing thoughts long enough to remember how. Gorgeous. Pure male perfection.

Midnight hair, so black there were hints of blue from the bright studio lights, waved back from a face that would do a romance writer proud. Piercing eyes, a clear blue that made her feel as if he could see through her carefully applied mask all the way to her squirming insecure soul, narrowed when they met hers.

Delaney swallowed, sure the zap of sexual energy was just some weird reaction to the camera and lights. Or maybe an allergic reaction to the makeup. Did gel bras have a toxic effect when the skin got overheated?

“Well, well.” With a quick look at the producer, Sean gave a little nod, then said, “We have an unexpected guest joining us today. Ladies and gentlemen, Nick Angel.”

Delaney barely kept her jaw from dropping. Her gaze shot back to the hunk joining them onstage. She stifled a little gasp as his eyes met hers, energy zinging between them like lightning.

No, she assured herself. Not between them. It had to be just her reaction. Men never got zingy around her.

When he joined them her stomach took a nosedive. All the zing on her side or not, it still scared the hell out of her. She had no idea how to channel this level of sexual attraction.

So she fell back on the tried and true, and pretended her body didn’t exist. Shifting into brainiac mode, she processed his appearance, which consisted of jeans, a dress shirt and a black leather jacket, his attitude—defiance wrapped in charm—and his body language, which suggested “watch out, someone’s gonna get it.”

Damned if she didn’t wish it were her.

3

DELANEY MENTALLY RECITED the works of early American poets to keep from drooling at the sight of Nick Angel, master of erotic suspense, just inches from her. If she’d thought he looked hot across the room, he was an inferno now. The pure masculine sexuality called to her like nothing she’d ever felt before. She wanted to peel his clothes off with her teeth. An image flashed through her mind of the two of them, a few feet of rope and a tub of double chocolate fudge ice cream.

“Nick, I’d like you to meet the newest addition to Wake Up California, Delaney Madison. Delaney, I believe you’ve read Nick’s work.”

Visions of ice cream melted as Delaney met Nick’s piercing blue gaze. She froze at the look in those intense depths, then reminded herself this was the new Delaney. The made-over, sophisticated, worthy-of-attention Delaney.

Even if his gaze said he knew what she looked like naked, she was only imagining that he knew how nervous she was. Don’t let them see you sweat, Mindy had lectured. Delaney recalled all her friend’s advice on handling the on-air nerves and figured it applied even more now. As long as she kept her polished mask in place, she’d be fine.

For a woman who worshiped the written word, meeting an author was always a pleasure. To meet the author responsible for her last orgasm was both fabulous and a little embarrassing. Especially since the look in his eyes, that dark and sexy consideration, made her wonder if he knew he’d given her such pleasure. Probably. He had that much self-assurance.

The old Delaney would have been humiliated to face that considering look. She’d have run, no question about it. But the new Delaney? Delaney Madison, Super Reviewer? She drew back her shoulders, showing her gel-lifted breasts to their best advantage in her red silk blouse, and lifted a brow in challenge.

“It’s a pleasure,” she said, proud of her smooth tone. “I’ve read all of your books.”

“Have you, now?” He arched one perfect brow, his smile predatory. Like a sexy, charming shark…ready to take one huge bite out of her ass. “And what did you think of them? Oh, wait, I think I’ve read your opinions already, haven’t I?”

Not sure how to respond, Delaney licked her lips, disconcerted to see his eyes narrow as he followed the movement of her tongue. After a heartbeat, he raised his gaze to meet hers again. The dark heat of his look made her stomach clench.

“From the look on your face, Nick, you’re not a fan of reviews?” she commented, falling back on her debate training to hide her nerves. “Or is it just reviewers who say things you don’t want to hear?”

She watched with fascination the expressions shift on Nick’s gorgeous face, from shock to amusement to appreciation.

“I have no problem with reviewers, or their reviews,” Nick said, his voice rich and deep. Delaney knew she’d be hearing it in her sleep. “It’s when they interject their unfounded prejudices into the review that I take issue.”

“Such as asking for emotional depth from your stories?”

“That’d be a good example.”

“But that’s what your readers are asking for.”

“They weren’t until you stirred them up,” he pointed out.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, nerves forgotten. “You’re giving me credit for the readers’ demanding emotions in your books? You think my one comment turned the opinion of thousands of readers?”

“Thousands?”

“I get mail.”

“So do I.”

“Did you want to compare sizes or something?”

Sean visibly choked back a laugh. Delaney saw him and the producer sending subtle, off-camera hand signals back and forth. Sean waved his hand to indicate heat, the producer indicating he wanted it fanned higher. Delaney smothered her panicked giggle. Higher, her ass, if things got any hotter in here, she’d melt all over Nick Angel’s very muscular thighs.

Nick snagged her attention again, his grin quick and appreciative. She couldn’t stop her answering smile.

“Seriously,” Delaney said, leaning forward to emphasize her point. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to the view highlighted by her V-necked blouse. She gave a brief thanks for gel-bra enhanced cleavage and pretended she wasn’t turned-on when his gaze returned to hers. “Don’t you feel an obligation to your readers? So many I’ve heard from are clamoring for emotions to go with the wild ride you take them on. Doesn’t that influence you at all?”

“I give them plenty of emotions. Fear, adrenaline, lust. Until you’d stirred this up, my fans were plenty satisfied. Especially with the sex,” Nick declared. He paused and considered, then added, “A review before yours once said the only way someone could be dissatisfied reading my work was if they were sexually dysfunctional.”

“So you’re saying the only way someone would hate your work is if they had a sexual dysfunction?” Delaney let out a baffled laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Of course not. I never kid about sex.” His words were teasing, but the underlying intensity proclaimed that he did, indeed, take sex very, very seriously. Delaney shifted in the hard chair, trying to ignore the damp warmth in her panties.

“That’s why I stopped by,” Nick continued. “Since I happen to disagree, strongly, with your view of how I handle sex, I figured we’d discuss the matter.”

“You mean you’re here to try and change my mind?”

“Or you can try and change mine.”

She pursed her lips, trying to see the trap. There was one, she was sure of it.

“Chicken?” he murmured in a low, husky tone.

Hell, yeah. Delaney stared into his cocky face. He’d known she’d be intimidated. He’d come here with his sexy self, his arrogant attitude and his challenge, all with one intention. To intimidate her, make her look stupid.

She narrowed her eyes. He probably figured if he made her look dumb, he’d be able to refute her comments from the Risqué interview.

“Actually, no,” she said slowly. “I’ve complete confidence in my evaluations. After years of reviewing, I believe the opinions I share generally reflect the public consensus.”

“You’re claiming to speak for the average reader?”

She considered that. She’d never been average anything, so the concept was intriguing. But she had consistently seen her reviews reflected in sales numbers, to say nothing of the mail she received. After a few seconds, she gave a slow nod.

“If you use the definition of average as the consensus of readers of the given genre, then yes. I’m comfortable saying that my reviews tend to fall into the norm.”

His brows drew together in a frown. Delaney wondered if she’d stepped too far over into brainiac-land. She wet her suddenly dry lips and hoped she hadn’t blown her cover.

Having anyone connect Delaney Madison, makeover winner and popular fiction reviewer with Dr. D. M. Conner, Associate English Professor, aka the invisible woman, was definitely not acceptable.

She had the feeling that whatever game Nick was playing could seriously jeopardize her anonymity and quite possibly ruin her shot at the promotion.

But she wasn’t about to back down. There was something about the man that demanded she stand firm, give one hundred percent. She wished she could figure out what it was. That way she could figure out how to ignore it.

“If you’re so sure of yourself,” Nick drawled with a satisfied smile that told Delaney rather than stepping into brainiac-land, she’d actually stepped into his trap, “how about we place a little bet?”

NICK LEANED BACK in his chair, ignoring the heat of the camera lights, and grinned. As hot as the lights were, they had nothing on Delaney Madison’s glare. The angry look suited her flame-colored hair, bringing a sweet flush to her porcelain skin. Huge doe eyes dominated a face that was all planes and angles, sharp rather than curved.

A man who prided himself on doing research, he’d been surprised at his misconception about the hot little reviewer. He’d read all her book reviews, and both her Risqué interview and the magazine’s makeover feature.

Apparently he’d missed a few details. Number one, the woman was razor sharp. Number two, and definitely more important, she was sexy as hell. Her “before” shots had been mousy, but that was obviously part of the magazine’s bid to play up the makeover. Ms. Madison was clearly one of those über-sexy ladies who had done the makeover thing to mix things up. He’d known plenty of women like her—easily bored, always looking for change. Their looks, their job, their men.

“What kind of bet did you have in mind?” the slick blond cohost asked. Nick could see the guy’s mind working, trying to find a way to turn this into a ratings-buster event. Fine by him, the more people watching his triumph, the easier job Gary would have telling editorial to ditch the push for emotional crap in his books.

“I’m of the opinion that despite her obvious appeal, Ms. Madison doesn’t speak for the average viewer,” Nick restated. He didn’t understand the surprise in her gaze, but her furrowed brow made it clear she disagreed with something he’d said.

“Over the past few weeks we’ve polled viewers on Wake Up California’s fabulous interactive Web site, www.wakeupca.com, and I’m sorry to say they don’t seem to agree with your assessment. Delaney has a growing fan base,” the cohost, Sean Something-or-other, challenged with a gleeful smirk.

Nick gave the host a long, dark look that had the guy visibly swallowing. Reminding himself why he was there, he barely managed to rein in his impatience. The last thing he’d planned was to give the hottie reviewer from hell any further ammunition to support her claims about his work.

“That’s all well and good, for what it’s worth,” Nick said in a tone that made it clear how worthless he considered their little poll.

“I can understand your disquiet with my comments about your book,” Delaney mused, her lips in a contemplative moue that reflected the bright lights. His gaze traced her lower lip, the full cushion of it inviting small, nibbling bites. “Nobody likes to have their intimacy issues brought to public attention. Then again, you don’t seem like an insecure kind of guy who’d worry about that.”

She shifted in her chair, her body language screaming challenge. The sweet curve of her breasts pressed against her silk blouse, showing the lace outline of her bra. But it was the expression in her eyes, that look of intelligent curiosity, that was the major turn-on. Nick’s body reacted in tried-and-true fashion, desire spiking through his system.

Wait…Intimacy issues?

“I don’t have intimacy issues.”

“No? You’re in an emotionally mature, committed relationship?”

The glint in those dark eyes made it clear she thought she’d cornered him.

“Is that how you equate intimacy? Commitment? I define it a little differently.”

She ran her tongue, just the tip of it, over her bottom lip. His eyes followed the movement, even as he wondered if she’d accept his challenge. She gave an infinitesimal sigh. Obviously she knew she had to take up the gauntlet, but she wasn’t thrilled.

“The dictionary’s definition of intimacy is ‘a close personal relationship, or knowledge resulting from a close relationship or study of a subject’,” she asserted.

“The dictionary also defines intimacy as a sexual act,” Nick said, shutting her down with a wicked grin.

Her grimace, so slight the cameras probably didn’t pick it up, showed she’d figured he’d use that response. Damn, he wasn’t sure what was more appealing. Her curvy body and sexy lower lip, or her intelligence. He wanted nothing more than to debate semantics with her. While naked, of course.

“You’re claiming, then, that sexual relationships without emotion are on the same level as emotionally committed sexual relationships?”

“Apples and oranges,” he declared with a shrug. “But notice both are fruit.”

“And you’re only shopping for apples, apparently. Which is clear in your books. The singular focus on lust over love only seems to highlight a one-dimensional aspect of intimacy.”

“I don’t claim to write about intimacy,” Nick defended. “I write erotic suspense. Heart-pounding excitement, both in plot and, yes, in the explicitly detailed sex scenes. Hardly one-dimensional.”

She tugged the corner of her lower lip between pearly white teeth, obviously debating how far she wanted to take the conversation. Nick was becoming obsessed with that mouth.

“I hate to disagree with an author whose work I honestly admire a great deal,” she said slowly. Then she gave a one-shouldered shrug that let him know that she was a woman who didn’t back down from things, no matter how much she hated them. “But if you were to analyze your last…oh, let’s say three books just to keep it current, then you’ll find the sex scenes actually are one-dimensional.”

She gave him what could almost be taken for an apologetic look and continued, “Predictable, even.”

If she’d accused him of having a tiny dick, he couldn’t have been more appalled.

“The hell they are.” Nick growled. “I do kick-ass sex. It’s hot, it’s wild. I’ve never had a single complaint.”

“We’re actually talking about writing, not sex. Even though they are apparently similar in your world, I didn’t review your sexual prowess.”

“Anytime you want a shot at that review, you just let me know,” he offered with his most wicked grin. His temper, always quick to flare, fizzled out.

The producer was practically dancing in place, his excitement clear as he mouthed crap like “great sexual tension” to the blond host. Nick ignored them, while Delaney actually seemed to be completely oblivious to the crew—and the charged atmosphere on the set. Or, he thought as his gaze dropped to her white-knuckled grip on the edge of her chair, was she just acting oblivious?

The woman was a mystery. There was something intriguing about the combination of innocence in her eyes and her sophisticated packaging.

The shaky breath she took assured him she wasn’t unaffected. A plan, wicked as hell, formed in the back of Nick’s mind. This doe-eyed hottie had stirred up plenty of trouble for him. Oh, sure, he realized she’d only intended to criticize his writing, not him personally. But really, they were the same thing. And all that emotional crap was off-limits for both.

He tossed the plan around for flaws, but couldn’t find any. Perfect. He could discredit her and have a little fun at the same time. He grinned. Seeing her eyes round nervously, Nick’s smile widened. Oh, yeah. This little adventure was definitely going to pay off.

AS SEAN AND Nick debated off-air the details of some contest to prove her worth as a reviewer, and the weather girl wowed the television audience with her well-endowed cloud banks, Delaney tried to catch her breath.

No matter what direction she’d tried to move the dialogue, Nick Angel, writer extraordinaire, had blocked her attempts and refocused. She’d like to think she’d have been better able to control the conversation if it weren’t for the fact that the sex scenes from his last few books had kept flashing through her mind like a slideshow. Each one featuring Nick himself as the studly hero doing decadently hot, wild things to her body.

It was almost enough to make a woman long for erotica instead of romance. Almost.

Her fingers clenched and unclenched the nubby linen of her skirt. With a sigh, she noticed the roadmap of wrinkles creasing the oatmeal-hued fabric. Between nervously chewing off her lipstick and now mangling her skirt, she obviously wasn’t handling this “new her” thing very well.

Her gaze flashed between the two men. Back and forth, they debated ways to prove their points. Once again, even though she was the actual subject under discussion, she was invisible. Her frustration quieted her nervous fingers. Dammit, this makeover was supposed to give her empowerment, not simply shift her from completely invisible to pretty but ignorable.

Sucking in an irritated breath, Delaney pulled back her shoulders and pressed her hands flat to her thighs. If she wanted to be more like one of Nick Angel’s heroines and snag her promotion, she couldn’t fade into the background. Mindy and a library full of self-help books all advised speaking up. So she’d speak. Even if it meant the possibility of the “old her” coming out.

“Gentlemen, I think you’re complicating this.”

Well, what d’ya know? Her words, quietly spoken but with that underlying edge of authority she used with her students, grabbed the men’s attention.

“Beg your pardon?” Sean asked.

“It’d be a much more encompassing answer if it simply addresses the issue at hand. Mr. Angel questions my ability to speak for the average reader, correct?”

Both men nodded, Sean with a frown, Nick with a gleam in his eyes. Delaney looked away from that laser-blue heat and took another girding breath.

“The easiest answer is for me to review a variety of books and post the reviews on the show’s Web site. Create a poll with safeguards to ensure cheating isn’t allowed, and invite readers to vote. We could add two other reviews, just to ensure anonymity and an unbiased vote. And then we’ll know if the public agrees with my reviews or not.”

“Take it to the public,” Sean mused, his tone contemplative. He rubbed his chin as if he was considering the ramifications, but the fact that he was practically bouncing in his seat let her know she’d hit his happy spot.

“I think this would be a great way to prove the validity—” he cast a glance at Nick “—or lack thereof, of your reviews.”

“Right, like that’s a fair assessment,” Nick scoffed.

“Oh, it would be,” Delaney said sweetly. “As long as you choose the books.”

His eyes narrowed. “I get to choose?”

“Sure. We’d need some solid parameters, of course. You know, books still available in print so viewers can get ahold of them, something like that. But I have no problem with you choosing the subject matter.”

His grin, wickedly satisfied, assured her she’d have plenty of erotic reading coming her way.

“And when I’m done,” she assured him, “I’ll have proven that readers are looking for emotion. They want the thrill of the ride, yes. But they want to read knowing there are real feelings at stake.”

“Quite the contrary,” Nick said, leaning over to offer his hand to seal the deal. “I’m sure you’ll have proved that the readers are savvy enough to take their thrills without a fake sugar coating.”

With a quirk of her brow, Delaney put her hand in his larger one. Engulfed by the hard strength, she wondered if she’d just made a huge mistake. Or if she’d just guaranteed her loss of invisibility.

Either way, things weren’t boring. That was for sure.

“The stakes?” he asked, the gleam in his eye making it clear he already had that worked out.

She tilted her head, indicating he name them.

“If your reviews don’t win, you’ll admit I’m right,” Nick demanded. “And you’ll admit it here on television.”

Ahhh, a publicity stunt. He must be getting a lot of pressure because of her comments. She nodded slowly.

“Deal. And if my reviews do win…?”

“They won’t.”

She cocked a brow. “Good, you’re confident enough that I won’t win, so you shouldn’t have any problem agreeing to write your next book to include a truly intimate relationship for John Savage.”

She didn’t know where it came from, maybe she really was channeling one of his heroines, but she leaned forward and with what she hoped was a wicked smile and a flutter of her lashes, she gave his knee a pat.

“I’ll be happy to help you write those pesky love scenes, of course.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.