Love Between the Pages: 8 Romances for Booklovers Read online

  “Actually, I’m not sure I’ll be able to attend. My agent will be here later this afternoon, and we’re meeting to discuss my next contract. I don’t know what time our meeting is.”

  “Oh, please try to make the reception. We’ve all been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Claudia made her escape to the elevator with a sigh of relief. All she had to do was remember to respond to “April Mayes,” and she’d be fine. Oh, and avoid as many big events as she could where someone might catch on to her masquerade. Beginning with the welcome reception.

  Chapter 2

  Brad Davis couldn’t believe his luck. The first person he noticed when he walked into the crowded lobby of the hotel where he was staying was the woman he’d seen in the airport in Seattle. She was standing across the room, looking like she was patiently waiting for someone or something. Hopefully, it was something, not someone. If ever he’d seen a woman he wanted to get to know, she was it.

  But before he could get close enough to introduce himself, a young-ish looking woman approached him.

  “Professor Davis?”

  “Mr. Davis is fine. Or Brad, actually.”

  She put out her hand. “I’m Lucinda Pennington. I’m in charge of the Romancing the Writer conference. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. You’ve already been checked into your suite, and I have your meeting packet here.”

  “How thoughtful. Thanks.”

  “We wanted you to know how much we appreciate your participation in our conference, and we’re here to make sure you have a good experience.”

  Brad would be giving a speech he’d titled “Writing Historical Romance with No Duke in Sight.” A history teacher at St. Mary’s Academy, an all-girls’ high school in Portland, he wrote novels as Davis Churchill, deciding to use a pen name at first because he wasn’t sure how his colleagues would react to his off-duty activity. But his meticulous research and engaging style had won him fans both in and out of his profession. He was proud of his work and, although he still wrote under his pen name, he didn’t care that everyone knew what he did in his free time.

  “I hope you’ll be joining us at the ‘Welcome to San Francisco’ wine and cheese reception in a couple hours,” Lucinda continued. “It’ll be in the Elizabethan room, and we’ll be serving some of the best Napa Valley wines. And California cheeses, too. It’ll be wonderful.”

  She was so enthusiastic giving her little canned speech he couldn’t have said no even if he had wanted to.

  “There’s a map of all the meeting rooms in your packet,” she said, leaning into him and pulling out the relevant piece of paper. “In case you’re not familiar with the hotel.”

  “I’m not, so it’ll be very helpful. And I’m looking forward to the reception. Some of the best wine and cheese in the country come from not too far away from here.” He glanced at the schedule paper-clipped to the front of his folder. “I assume I can sit in on any of the sessions even if I haven’t registered as a participant in the conference.” He smiled at the young woman, knowing full well the effect it would have on her.

  She blushed on cue. “Of course you can. All our speakers are considered registered for everything. We’d love to have you take part in whatever interests you.”

  “I like to scope out the room where I’ll be speaking and maybe get an idea of who the audience is. Sitting in on some of the other sessions helps.”

  She looked up at him with huge brown eyes. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Anything at all.”

  Brad was accustomed to young women looking at him like that. He taught at an all-girls’ high school, after all. He wasn’t particularly vain, but he knew what he saw in the mirror every morning was attractive enough to make him a target for girlish crushes, especially since he was one of only a handful of men in an all-female environment where the hormone level must be off anyone’s chart. Just ask his colleague in the history department who was wolf whistled at when he crossed the stage at the annual awards ceremony. But like his colleague who ignored the reception he got that day, Brad knew not to respond to the implication in the question he had just been asked.

  “No, thanks. You’ve helped greatly already. I think I’d like to go to my room and read through the meeting materials before the reception.”

  She seemed disappointed. “Of course. I hope I’ll see you later.”

  “Thanks again, Lucinda.” He smiled and she perked up.

  By the time he’d finished with his young admirer, the woman from the airport was gone. He’d have to find another chance to meet her. The odds were good she was part of the conference. Most of the people in the lobby wore nametags and carried the same registration packet as the one he was holding. His best bet was to stalk the conference sessions until he found her.

  She intrigued him for several reasons. The first and most obvious one was she was beautiful. Her long reddish-brown hair, luscious lips, big brown eyes behind her glasses, and killer body were enough to interest most of the men who saw her. Brad was no exception.

  The second reason was the more interesting one, however. She wore the sexy clothes as though they were a costume she wasn’t completely comfortable wearing. She tugged at the skirt a bit too often for someone who habitually wore things so short; she kept adjusting the neckline of the blouse as if uneasy about the cleavage she was showing, and she walked more carefully in those stilettos than someone who wore them every day would.

  And the rhinestone-encrusted cat-eye glasses—she didn’t handle them like someone who needed them. In fact, he’d seen her reading on her iPad and looking at the departures board in the airport with them perched on top of her head.

  She also didn’t return his smiles or his long, lingering looks the way a woman dressed like that usually did. He certainly didn’t assume every woman he saw would be interested in him, but he did know most women, particularly those who dressed for show, would at least be curious about his obvious attentiveness. This one paid more attention to her iPad than she did to his—or anyone else’s—interest in her.

  She was a mystery on several levels. And Brad loved mysteries. Before he left San Francisco, he wanted to solve her.

  But first, he had to finish getting his presentation organized.

  It wouldn’t take long. He’d given the talk in various forms a couple times before. He was a popular speaker, partly, he was sure, because in a field of writing mostly populated by women, his sex made him unusual. Plus, he’d carved out a niche for himself with his stories set in various periods of Oregon history, not in regency England, as many, maybe even most, historicals were set. In addition, his work was accessible and appropriate for everyone, including his students, because the “romance” part of his writing was largely in the mind of the reader. He implied, rather than made overt, what was going on between the hero and heroine.

  Brad had nothing against lust and a hot night between cool sheets—in fact, he was an enthusiastic participant when the occasion presented itself. He didn’t have a difficult time attracting female attention. Hell, he had a whole school full of giggling, teenage girls to confirm that. He’d even had several long relationships with some amazing women. Although none of them had turned into lifelong, happily-ever-after relationships, most had become warm friendships, some of which lasted longer than the romances had. But while sex was part of his life, he didn’t feel the need to write about it.

  Romancing the Writer might not be his first conference, but it was his first in San Francisco. He’d jumped at the chance when his agent had told him he’d been invited to speak. He loved the city and would never turn down a chance to stay in a classy hotel. Besides, his book Mrs. Duniway’s Assistant, the story of a woman involved in the long, arduous struggle to obtain the vote for the women of Oregon and the man she convinces to help her, had recently won the Oregon Book Award for fiction, and the conference was a chance to promote it.

  Now he had added the chance to unravel the mystery of a beau
tiful redhead in completely fake glasses. The next few days were shaping up to be everything a man could want.

  • • •

  “So, how was the trip down?” Claudia asked. She and her agent were settled in the Oak Room Restaurant waiting to order dinner.

  “The usual. Too many people. Not enough legroom. But a couple vodka tonics helped.”

  Claudia laughed, knowing Mary Lynn had probably left more than half of each drink in its plastic glass. She usually did. It was one of her negotiating techniques to appear to consume a great deal of alcohol but not ever actually finish any of the drinks she ordered. “Who were you trying to bamboozle on the plane?”

  “As luck would have it, I was seated next to Dane Black.”

  “Ah, the Lord of Darkness himself. Is he here for the conference, too?”

  “He swore he wasn’t, but what else would a literary agent be doing flying to SF and showing up at the hotel where a big romance conference is going on?”

  “I didn’t see his name in the program.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing. He probably isn’t registered at all. He’ll sit in the bar and wait to suck in whoever his target is, and before she knows it, she’ll have signed a contract with him she’ll grow to hate when he doesn’t do a damn thing for her career but gets her novel placed with some second-rate publishing house that butchers her work but gives him his cut of the advance.”

  “Tell me how you really feel, Mary Lynn.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to run on. His way of doing business makes me angry. Which is a pity. He’s damn handsome.”

  Her explanation of how she felt was interrupted by the arrival of their server. They ordered their dinners, which were brought out in what seemed like record time, and were finishing up when Tom Anthony, the executive editor from Claudia’s publishing house, walked over to their table.

  “Mind if I join you, Mary Lynn? Claudia … sorry, April? And I love the new look, April. Mary Lynn did an excellent job of dressing you up as my Queen of Steam.”

  “Thanks, Tom. I’m still getting used to it, but it seems to be convincing people I am who I write as.”

  Anthony dropped into the chair opposite Claudia and ordered a drink. “I’m glad I ran into you, Mary Lynn,” he said. “I was in a pitch session this afternoon with a promising young writer who has a book I think will be ready to submit soon. It could be either chick lit or romance. I gave her your name. She’s going to need an agent if the whole book is as good as the sample chapters and synopsis I read. I asked for the full manuscript already.”

  “Always happy to get a new client. Thanks,” Mary Lynn said. “And I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk about April’s future.”

  Claudia enjoyed listening to her agent arrange her life, so she was silent for most of the conversation that ensued as the other two people at the table discussed the details of her next contract. She knew she’d have a chance to give her opinion later, when she was alone with Mary Lynn, so she concentrated on her dessert, which was delicious.

  When the two of them got into a gossip session about people they knew in the business, her attention wandered, as did her gaze. To her surprise, over in the corner of the restaurant, at a table with a half dozen women was Mr. Hot and Handsome from the airport. He’d changed from his leather jacket and T-shirt to an Aran sweater and presumably some form of trousers, although because of the table, she couldn’t see what kind. He had a glass of wine in front of him, which he didn’t seem to be paying attention to. He was, however, paying attention to the women at the table. In turn, they smiled, laughed, lowered their eyes, and blushed. It was like watching a group of high school cheerleaders competing for the attention of the star quarterback.

  “Sounds good, don’t you think, April?” Mary Lynn asked.

  “Ah … sure. We’ll talk it over and get back to you.”

  Mary Lynn frowned. “Okay, if that’s what you want.” She turned to Tom. “I guess we’ll get back to you.”

  Tom stood and put his hand out. “Always good to do business with you, Mary Lynn, April. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” They shook hands in turn, and he left.

  Mary Lynn waited until he was out of earshot before saying, “What do you mean, we’ll get back to him? I thought what he offered was great.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were still gossiping about the business. I wasn’t paying attention. If you think it’s good, run with it.”

  Mary Lynn looked around the restaurant. “What exactly was interesting enough to distract you from a discussion of your next contract?”

  Claudia nodded toward the hunk in the Aran sweater. “That guy, the one at the corner table with all those women. I saw him in Seattle at the airport. You don’t happen to know who he is, do you?”

  Mary Lynn craned her neck to get a better view. “You mean Davis Churchill?”

  “The historical romance writer? I’ve read about his books but haven’t read any of them yet.”

  “I think that’s who he is. I can go over and find out for sure if you’d like.”

  “God no. I don’t want to be obvious.”

  Mary Lynn cocked her head and smiled. “I’ve never known you to stare at a strange man before. Want to share anything with me?”

  “There’s nothing to share, believe me. I noticed him in the airport, and then here he is. I had no idea he was another writer.”

  “I’d say you more than just noticed him. You’re as close to drooling as I’ve ever seen you.”

  “I don’t drool over men. He’s attractive, that’s all. In a sort of obvious way.” Claudia dug around in her messenger bag for her wallet. “And now it’s time to end this conversation and get out of here.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to go over and ask him to join us?” Mary Lynn was grinning.

  “Leave it. I only wanted to know who he was. I wasn’t planning a wedding, for God’s sake.” She pulled out a credit card.

  “Too bad. The two of you would have beautiful children, that’s for sure.” She waved off Claudia’s credit card. “Dinner’s on me. And don’t argue about it. If you do, you’ll draw attention to yourself, which, if I recall our past conversations on the subject, you don’t want to do. Although you are quite possibly the only writer who has ever lived who doesn’t want to be known.”

  “My work should speak for itself.”

  “It does. But your readers also want to know you.”

  Claudia stood. “You’re right, we’ve had this discussion before. And like all the other times we’ve argued about it, you’ve yet to convince me.” She glanced over at the corner table. The man looked up as she did and smiled. She quickly turned away. “I’m out of here.” And she made her escape.

  Chapter 3

  The opening day of the conference was in full swing with ten to twelve breakout rooms going at all times plus one major event in the ballroom for breakfast and one for lunch. The subjects ranged from the how-tos of world building to what records to keep for the IRS, from the eternal question of whether to outline or fly by the seat of one’s pants to how to write sex scenes from the male perspective to … well, to just about anything a romance writer could want to know about the craft of writing and the nuts and bolts of the business side of being an author.

  The breakfast panel had been a discussion among the representatives of the publishing houses present on what they were looking for in new manuscripts. Brad had skipped it. He had no intention of switching genres or publishers. Instead, he had a quick cup of coffee and a bagel after which he began his hunt for his mystery woman.

  At least he now knew she was with the conference. He’d recognized the man she was sitting with at the restaurant last night as Tom Anthony—an editor with a big traditional publishing house. So she was either a writer or an agent. Which meant she’d be here for some, if not all, of the next three days. But every time Brad thought he had a chance to meet her, she vanished. He felt like a hunter chasing Bambi.

  He spent the morning sli
pping into the back of several of the breakout rooms to scan the audience. He didn’t find her.

  Discouraged, he joined a table of other historical authors at lunch while they listened to romance writing legend Nora Roberts talk about her long and successful career. Brad had heard her speak before but always enjoyed listening to her because there was usually a line he could pick up from her speeches worth repeating to his students. His all-time favorite was “You can fix anything but a blank page,” which resonated with him because it happened to be his approach to writing as well.

  After lunch, the second panel organized by subgenre was scheduled. The morning panel had featured contemporary romance; the afternoon panel highlighted spicy, or erotic, romance. Historical romance, the panel on which he was included, was scheduled for the afternoon of the second day, following his lunch speech.

  Wanting to see what the acoustics and lighting were like in the room where he’d be on the panel the next day, he decided to drop in on the afternoon discussion. Steamy romance wasn’t his field of interest, but he wouldn’t be listening to the speakers much anyway. As he stood in the back looking around, taking mental notes about the room, the meeting organizer he’d met the day before began to introduce the panel members.

  The room was rather large, with a stage and auditorium-style seating for several hundred people. The place was packed, due to the subject, he assumed. It was a hot topic, thanks to Fifty Shades of Grey and the rapidly growing market for same-sex romances. In fact, the woman now being introduced wrote award winning male/male romance. He was almost finished scoping out the setup he’d be working with the next day when he saw who else was on the stage. In an instant, he forgot about lighting, audio, video, HVAC systems, and anything else he’d observed about the room.

  Seated behind a long table, along with five other women, was Bambi. And she was as stunning as he remembered her.

  The light hit her red hair in a way that made it seem to glow. She was wearing the phony cat-eye glasses, which did little but call attention to her big eyes—brown if he remembered correctly. Even from a distance and somewhat obscured by a table, her knockout body was obvious. Her legs, which were visible, showed no sign of a skirt, although he was sure she had one on. What he could see from the waist up was some kind of drapey blouse barely covering her assets, which were sexy as hell.