Love Between the Pages: 8 Romances for Booklovers Read online

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  Contents

  The Professor’s Secret

  Sadie’s Story

  A Late-Blooming Rose

  California Sunset

  Out of Character

  The Duplicitous Debutante

  Georgie’s Heart

  Jade’s Treasure

  Sneak Peek

  The Professor’s Secret

  Peggy Bird

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2016 by Margaret Bird.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9503-8

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9503-5

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9501-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9501-1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/anilakkus; picsfive/123RF; iStockphoto.com/DKart.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  For Charlotte

  Chapter 1

  Had she been the woman she was pretending to be, Claudia would walk up to the man who’d just strolled into the waiting area at the gate, smile seductively, and say, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” He was so attractive, paying for a drink, a meal, or a trip to wherever he wanted to go would be worth it to have the chance to get to know him.

  Tall and self-assured looking, he wore a tight, black T-shirt that hinted at ripped abs, a leather bomber jacket that emphasized his shoulders, and jeans that caressed a butt that every woman in the place was surely itching to pat. And then there was his rugged, fashionably stubbled face, sapphire blue eyes, and dark, almost black, slightly shaggy hair, which begged to be ruffled.

  If she had the nerve to approach him, Claudia was sure she’d get a response. What she was wearing guaranteed that. Hooker heels, a blouse that barely covered her midriff, and a miniskirt so tight and short she suspected her gynecologist wouldn’t need her in stirrups to do an exam. If it had been a Halloween costume, it would have been labeled “Slutty Romance Writer”—which was exactly the look she was going for. Today she was April Mayes, Queen of Steam, her hot, romance-novel-writing alter ego. She was on her way to her first big romance writers’ conference and had dressed for the part.

  But no matter what her outside looked like at the moment, inside she was still Claudia Manchester, PhD, professor of English literature at Portland State University. In her usual twinsets and midcalf skirts, Claudia was anonymous in any crowd. Not so now. People were staring.

  Which brought her back to Mr. Hot and Handsome. Like several of the other men in the waiting area, who looked like they wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers, as her grandmother used to say, he was surreptitiously watching her. But she was still too much the PhD professor to walk over to him and introduce herself, even though that was what April would have done. Maybe. Probably.

  Oh, hell, what did she know? No matter how many times she reminded herself she was April Mayes now, not Claudia Manchester, she had no idea what she was doing. She had no experience as the flamboyant seductress her alter ego was reputed to be. It was a skill set she had never developed, only written about in books. Not once in the years she’d been writing had she imagined she would want to put into practice in the real world what her heroines did in their fictional ones.

  She sighed and looked down at her iPad. Maybe by the time she got to San Francisco, she’d have gathered up her courage, and there’d be another hot guy she could experiment on.

  Her agent, Mary Lynn Elliot, called what she was wearing “hiding in plain sight.” People would look at her and wonder who she was but never figure it out. Claudia was adamant about keeping her identity as a romance writer secret, at least for now. If—no, when—she got tenure at PSU, she’d come out into the light, so to speak. Maybe. Although, as she tugged at her skirt to make sure it covered her private parts, it seemed possible a great deal of her was already “out.”

  Mary Lynn had orchestrated this makeover in Seattle, where she lived, not Portland, where Claudia lived, to avoid anyone who might recognize the professor. It had made sense. There was always the long-shot chance she’d run into a former student who was particularly observant or a colleague who knew her well. Happily, so far, neither of those circumstances had presented itself. The only people who seemed to have noticed her were men who were more interested in her boobs and her legs than in her face, much less her brain.

  In spite of her inexperience as a blatant seductress—or maybe because of it—it was an oddly pleasant sensation to be the woman men paid attention to. It hadn’t happened much in her thirty-seven years. Oh, she’d had her share of compliments and boyfriends. But she’d never been the center of attention she was at the moment, and she rather liked it.

  However, the game plan she and Mary Lynn had worked out for this trip didn’t include flirting with some random guy. It did include the wardrobe, cosmetic augmentations of blood-red talons where her fingernails used to be, henna-enhanced extensions to her chin-length chestnut hair, and a strategy for getting her on the plane without revealing her real identity. Flying from Seattle to San Francisco meant she had to use her real name—the one on her driver’s license, not her pen name. She’d checked in curbside to avoid people who might be on the way to the same conference, just in case they were to catch a glimpse of her ID or hear a ticket agent use her real name. At the next hurdle, the TSA security gate, she was so nervous, she was sure she’d be pulled out of line for a pat down. She wasn’t, and there, too, no one addressed her by name.

  Now all she had to do was get past the gate agent without him saying, “Welcome aboard, Ms. Manchester,” and she’d be home free. Her luck held. The man merely said, “Have a nice flight,” before returning her boarding pass.

  Settled in business class, Claudia watched everyone else stumble down the aisle, only too aware she was ensconced in a comfortable seat with actual legroom. It was hard not to pity the people sitting in coach. She’d been stuck in a middle seat on too many flights, feeling more like she was a cow being shipped off to a slaughterhouse than someone who’d actually paid for the privilege of being smooshed in between two strangers for too many hours. The urge to extend her sympathies was strong.

  The urge to say something else arose when Mr. Hot and Handsome walked past and smiled
at her. April Mayes would undoubtedly have paid the extra money to get him reseated next to her. Claudia Manchester pretended to fuss with her iPad. Again.

  Besides, with him in the back of the plane, she could enjoy every second of the luxury she’d wangled from her publisher. A business class ticket, she’d argued, was a small price to pay for her agreement to participate on a panel discussing spicy romance at the Romancing the Writer conference. Mary Lynn, who’d had to make the pitch for the upgraded seat to the publisher, had reminded her this trip was not a personal favor she was doing but a long overdue fulfillment of a contract provision that she actively market her work. Claudia hadn’t given in and, in the end, got her way.

  Until now, Claudia had refused to even consider participation in conferences like the one she was now headed for. She wasn’t afraid of public speaking by any means. She’d published, presented, and promoted work relating to her day job at professional conferences all across the country. And her lectures at PSU were known for being interesting as well as full of content. But she didn’t want to be exposed to her colleagues, the ones who would be deciding on tenure for her, as the fraud she felt she was. While she taught Shakespeare, Dickens, and Austen, she read Roberts, Andre, and Gerard. Not only read them but wrote the same genre they did.

  She would never admit it to anyone in the faculty lounge, particularly two specific old fogies in her department who she thought of as Statler and Waldorf, the two guys who sat in the balcony during the Muppets’ TV show and criticized everything they saw. Her Statler and Waldorf thought commercial fiction was the work of the devil and the death of good writing. And they sat, not in the balcony, but on the tenure committee.

  She didn’t even trust her family with her secret. No thought stayed long in her mother’s mind without coming out of her mouth, particularly when she’d had a drink or two. Claudia had learned the hard way not to trust her with any information she didn’t want public—the humiliation of hearing about her middle school crush on a family friend from everyone she knew could still make her shudder.

  Besides, her mother was too worried about the baby of the family—Claudia’s alcoholic brother—to care about yet another of Claudia’s accomplishments. No one except her late father had ever been proud of what she’d done with her talents.

  Even if she’d been foolish enough to tell her, Claudia imagined her mother, like her colleagues and friends, would have found her career as a romance writer surprising. It had surprised her, come to that. She had devoured romance novels when she was in high school, but she’d stopped reading anything contemporary during college, sticking instead to the classic love stories by Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, Tolstoy, and Hardy. Maybe because, as an English literature major, she’d had too much to do to justify reading for entertainment.

  She also doubted that any of her past boyfriends and lovers would describe her as a romantic. She was too practical. Most of the relationships she’d had over the years were pleasant. Several were passionate but not of the hearts-and-flowers type of emotion. More the I-can’t-keep-my-hands-off-you type. They’d all ended after the novelty had worn off or one of them had moved away.

  It had always been just fine both with her and with the men she dated that it never got serious. They were as committed to their careers as she was to hers and understood that, while they were having fun, when it came down to it, work always won.

  That’s why it was unusual when, in the aftermath of a torrid summer love affair five years before, she’d written a steamy, sexy novel, using some of the details of the relationship and adapting one of Shakespeare’s comedies as the plotline. She still wasn’t sure why she’d written it. It just seemed to happen. One day she was working on a journal article about how heroines in literature had changed over the centuries, and the idea occurred to her to turn the Bard’s work into a contemporary romance.

  She’d finished it in a couple months and, on a whim, submitted it for publication. It found an agent, a publisher, and an audience immediately. As did the next books she turned out on weekends, holidays, and over summer vacation, releasing two a year to good reviews, a few awards, and steadily increasing sales.

  Certain her colleagues would never understand what she was writing, she had kept a low profile as an author, never doing book signings, never attending writers’ conferences, and certainly never angling for press coverage when she had a new release. Her agent, who wanted her to do all those things, reminded her about the Columbia University professor who had claimed her “other” life as a mystery writer, and the well-known romance writer who was also a college professor. Claudia pointed out she was pretty sure neither woman had outed herself until after her department had awarded her tenure. She refused to budge on the subject.

  And yet, here she was, on a plane to San Francisco.

  What had made Mary Lynn adamant about this event was pressure from Claudia’s publisher who was sure sales figures would go through the roof if only Claudia would do some promotion other than posting on Facebook and Twitter and keeping up her website. There wasn’t exactly a threat not to contract her for any more books if she refused, but it didn’t take too much imagination to wonder about a possible underlying message.

  When her agent pointed out the two conferences she wanted her to attend took place in cities far enough away from Portland to be safe, that Claudia didn’t have a full-time class schedule this summer, and that she was already months ahead in writing her next book, her fate was more or less sealed.

  The San Francisco conference would get her toe in the water. If she discovered the water was fine, her agent had her booked for the Super Bowl of romance conferences, the huge Romance Writers of America annual event, this year in Denver.

  As the flight attendant handed her a glass of champagne, she wondered if she’d been foolish not to have done this before. Enough bubbly, and she might get used to the life apparently led by the Queen of Steam.

  • • •

  The Westin St. Francis on Union Square was Claudia’s favorite hotel in all of the Bay Area. Its graceful charm and long history in the city spoke to the traditionalist in her, and the convenient location for the sights and sounds of the city appealed to the other side of her, the one that enjoyed a little adventure.

  The line to check in for the conference was shorter than the line to check in for her room so she approached the registration table first. “Hi, I’m one of the speakers for the conference.”

  The young woman behind the table said, “Welcome. What’s your name?”

  “Oh, right, it’s … ah … Cl … it’s April Mayes.” Damn. I’d better get used to using this name.

  As soon as she gave her name, a middle-aged woman standing at the end of the long registration table came forward with all the speed of a gale force wind. She wore a long pink skirt, a flowered vest ballooning out behind her like a spinnaker, and at least three chiffon scarves, and she gushed as she approached.

  “April Mayes? I’ve been waiting for you to arrive, but I didn’t know who to look for. I couldn’t find a photo of you anyplace. But I’m so happy to meet you.” She steered April out of the line and into the middle of the lobby.

  “I do hope another of your wonderful books is coming out soon. I’m a big fan. You have brought a level of literary excellence to our genre few others have.” She clasped Claudia to her ample bosom. “Welcome to the Bay Area. We’re honored to have you make your first conference appearance at our event.”

  Claudia disentangled herself from the woman’s scarves and arms. “Thank you. I always appreciate hearing from a reader.”

  “Let me help you with your check in.” She looked around for a moment as if trying to find something. “Oh, dear, I seem to have left your packet and suite key over at the registration table. I’ll go get them so you don’t have to wait in line.” She began to leave.

  “Ah … sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Claudia said.

  “Silly me. I’m so thrilled at meeting you I didn’t tell yo
u! I’m Alma Price, the president of San Francisco Area Romance Writers of America.”

  Claudia shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I hope I live up to your expectations.”

  Alma laughed. No, she tittered … something Claudia hadn’t known until this point anyone actually did. “Of course you will, my dear. You’re April Mayes.” And she was off to get the registration packet and room key.

  While she waited, Claudia looked around, curious about who would be in her audience when she spoke. What she saw was an eclectic group—women in floaty skirts, a few more with flowing scarves like Alma, others in business attire and sensible pumps, many in jeans and knit tops or Tshirts. There were even a few white-haired, older women in comfortable pants and athletic shoes. Every age, style, and kind of woman seemed represented. What was missing was much evidence of testosterone. She didn’t think there was anyone male in the whole place, other than the hotel staffers.

  As she scanned the lobby, waiting for Alma’s return, she began to feel she was being watched again. She looked around but didn’t see anyone, familiar or otherwise, who seemed inordinately interested in her. You’re being paranoid. No one was staring at her.

  Alma returned with a goody bag full of paperbacks, bookmarks, and assorted promotional materials from other writers, a packet of registration information, and her room key. “I can show you to your room, if you’d like. I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up before the opening reception tonight.”

  “Thank you. It’s very kind of you, but you must have a million things to do and I’m familiar with the hotel. I’m sure I can find the room.” She stuffed the registration materials into her messenger bag as she spoke.

  “I confess I do have a few other speakers to look out for. So thank you. I’ll look forward to introducing you to some of our members at the reception,” Alma said.