JAK: Well, the story with Fabio was what the publishers thought his image would sell books, but most women read them in spite of the cover, not because of the cover. But even earlier covers—the heaving bosom covers—gave us such bad press. The legend was that they were used back in the days when the wholesale market was everything. You had to get your books into drugs stores, grocery stores—everywhere. And in those days the truck drivers were all men, so the argument was that the cover wasn’t for the reader, the cover was for the truck driver to entice him to load it up into the truck, and make sure that the books made it into their stores. We do not know if that really is true or not, but that was the story I got from people who had been in publishing for a long time. All the publishers cared about was getting the books onto the shelves.
LR: And of course, now with Amazon, ebook availability, and online stores in general, you can market books directly to women from a distance, which means more covers, book design and blurbs that are female-centric.
JAK: The whole industry has changed, and it did not necessarily improve the numbers. God bless them, the wholesale markets used to be huge.
LR: I see you were the editor and contributor for Dangerous Men and Adventurous Women: Romance Writers on the Appeal of the Romance. So how did that come about?
JAK: I can’t believe that book is still in print. It was published in the 1990s!
LR: That is an impressive amount of time to still be in print!
JAK: Well, I do know that at the time that we did the book the editor at the University of Pennsylvania Press said academic books are different—they survive for generations or decades. I didn’t believe her, but I grasped the message that if the book was useful in terms of academic research, it hangs around. Apparently, it is still useful.
LR: What is it that makes this book “useful” to students and readers alike?
JAK: Every so often I will take the book down and flick through it. The essays were written by me and eighteen of my friends, and everyone had the same title, which was “What do you think the appeal of romance is?” We each took on one sub-topic and wrote on that. We wound up with nineteen very different essays, but they all come together to make the same point, which is this: women’s fiction empowers women, because ultimately the heroine always wins.
In what other genre is that the case? Romance was the only genre—there might be others one day—in which you could guarantee the hero was always the woman. It would be her story.
LR: That is such an empowering message about the romance genre, and another reason we should be proud of our authors. Is there anything about yourself that you think your readers don’t know but is intrinsic to you?
JAK: I think if my readers and I meet, if they respond to my books, we probably have a lot in common, then we usually become friends right off the bat. I also think they will already know all the central stuff about me because my sense of humor, world views, and sense of right and wrong are infused into my books.
LR: I find it fascinating that some authors write very differently to their personal views.
JAK: Well, I certainly write bad guys, but I always think the essence of the storytelling is through the hero and heroine’s point of view.
LR: Indeed. Which brings us to our last question.... What did you want to tell your readers about your new book?
JAK: Promise Not to Tell is the second book in a romantic suspense trilogy set in Seattle, involving three foster sons who were saved from a cult. Each of them will have their own story; I am writing the third book now. *laughs* It is kind of an in-joke with my readers. I have started a fair number of connected storylines in the past and I have had to drop them for one reason or another. I just want to assure them that this one is getting written. This trilogy will be finished! So, to those who know me, don’t worry, there is a third book coming!
LR: *laughs* Okay, I will make sure that statement (declaration?) makes the interview!
JAK: Okay! *laughs* Sometimes—you know how it goes—it sounded great at the time, then all of a sudden the market changes, the publishers change, or you change....
LR: Exactly! Such is the nature of the publishing business.
I thank you so very much for your time, Jayne; I know it’s precious. We need to make sure you finish your third book!
JAK: *laughs* It was my pleasure! Stay in touch!
Copyright © 2018 by Lezli Robyn.
EXCERPT FROM
PROMISE NOT TO TELL
by Jayne Ann Krentz
Most men wouldn’t know how to handle a woman like Virginia Troy. Sure, some would be damned interested at first, maybe even see her as a challenge. But he figured that, in the end, the average guy would run for the hills.
A short time ago, when she had walked into the room, she had taken a moment to size up everything in sight, including him. He had been relieved when he and the expensive new furniture appeared to have passed inspection.
Although his name was on the door, technically speaking he was the office manager, receptionist, researcher and general gofer. Max and Cabot were the licensed investigators in the firm. Both had complained mightily about the stiff rent on the newly leased office space as well as the money spent on furnishing the place, but Anson had refused to lower his newfound standards of interior design.
Before embarking on his career in office management, he had never paid any attention to the art of interior design. But after hiring a decorator and immersing himself in the finer points of the field, he had become convinced that the premises of the firm had to send the right message to potential clients. That meant leasing space in an upscale building and investing in quality furniture.
The result, however, was that Cutler, Sutter & Salinas now had to start making some serious money.
Virginia crossed her legs and gripped the arms of the chair. Anson knew that she was ready to tell him why she had come looking for him.
“I own a gallery in Pioneer Square,” she said. “One of the artists who occasionally exhibits her work with me died a few days ago. The authorities have ruled the death a suicide.”
“But you don’t believe it,” Anson said.
“I’m not sure what to believe. That’s why I’d like to hire you to investigate the circumstances.”
The door opened before Anson could ask any more questions. Cabot walked into the room carrying two cups of coffee—one balanced on top of the other—and a small paper sack emblazoned with the logo of a nearby bakery. He was slightly turned away from the desk because he was using the toe of his low boot to close the door. He did not immediately notice Virginia.
“The Coffee Goddess said to tell you she’s got a new tattoo that she might be willing to show you if you’ll let her surprise you with one of her own custom lattes,” he said. “Evidently she’s tired of you ordering regular coffee instead of one of her specialties. Says you need to be more adventurous.”
Anson felt himself flushing. He cleared his throat but before he could warn Cabot that there was a client in the room, the client spoke.
“Some things are best appreciated in their purest, most essential forms,” Virginia said.
Cabot turned very quickly to confront her. Anson stifled a sigh. Confront was the operative word when it came to Cabot. Not that he was confrontational in the sense that he was always looking for a fight. If anything, he usually came across as unnaturally aloof and unemotional. It took a lot to make him lose his temper and, on the rare occasions when that happened, you didn’t want to be standing in his vicinity.
The issue was that he regarded anything or anyone new, unknown or outside his normal routine, as a potential problem at best and, at worst, a threat until proven otherwise. The result was that he confronted situations and people until he could decide what to do about them.
He also had a bad habit of being attracted to women who thought they needed a man to rescue them. Unfortunately, that type of woman was attracted to him—but never for long. Anson had observed that needy women were hap
py enough to use Cabot for as long as he was useful, but sooner or later they found themselves dealing with the whole man, not just the rescuer part. And Cabot was nothing if not complicated. His relationships, such as they were, usually ended badly.
The swift, sure way he moved to deal with Virginia said a lot about the man, Anson thought. Most people would have lost the top cup of coffee with such a sudden turn, but Cabot had excellent reflexes and an innate sense of balance. He’d had those talents from childhood and had honed them over the years. Some men ran or lifted weights to stay in shape. Cabot had a black belt in an obscure form of martial arts.
He contemplated Virginia now with a cool, calculating gaze. People often got nervous when Cabot fixed his attention on them. It was the primary reason why Anson or Max usually took on the task of dealing with new clients. Those seeking the services of an investigation agency were already uneasy when they came through the door. There was a general consensus that Cabot might scare off new business.
Virginia seemed unaffected by the infamous Cabot Stare. If anything, she appeared amused.
“Sorry,” Cabot said. “Didn’t know we had a visitor.” He held out one of the paper cups. “Want Anson’s coffee? It’s straight. No sugar, no mocha, no foamy milk, no chocolate sprinkles, no caramel.”
Anson winced. Some people might have assumed that Cabot was trying to make a small joke. They would have been wrong. Cabot was inclined to take things literally. He often spoke the same way. He possessed a sense of humor but you had to know him really well before you could tell when he was joking and when he wasn’t.
Virginia glanced at the cup Cabot was offering and then looked at the other cup.
“Out of curiosity, what are my options?” she said.
Cabot’s brows rose. “Options?”
“You’ve got two cups of coffee,” Virginia said with an air of grave patience. “You just told me that one is straight. I am inquiring about the status of the second cup.”
“That would be mine,” Cabot said. “It’s straight, too. Anson’s the one who taught me how to drink coffee.”
“I see,” Virginia said. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.”
Cabot nodded once, as if she had just confirmed some conclusion that he had made. He placed one of the cups down on the desk in front of Anson. Every move was fluid and precise. There was no wasted motion.
“You’re the fully-loaded-latte type,” he said.
“Actually, no,” Virginia said smoothly, “I’m not.”
She did not elaborate.
Cabot’s eyes tightened a little at the corners. He did not take his attention off Virginia. Anson recognized the expression and suppressed a small groan. Cabot’s curiosity had been aroused. It was a fine trait in an investigator but it could also cause problems.
Posted by arrangement with Berkley, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, A Penguin Random House Company.
Copyright © 2018 by Jayne Ann Krentz.
L. Penelope has been writing since she could hold a pen and loves getting lost in the worlds in her head. She is an award-winning fantasy and paranormal romance author. She lives in Maryland with her husband and their furry dependents. Sign up for new release information, updates, and giveaways on her website: http://www.lpenelope.com.
BEFORE I GO
by L. Penelope
CHAPTER ONE
If Mom was alive, she never would have let me get on that plane. She would have yelled, cried, bribed and begged me to stay home. In that order. But she’s gone, my credit card is that much closer to being maxed out, and I’m here.
Standing on one of those iconic San Francisco streets, at the top of a hill, the city ripples out around me. I’ve always wanted to come here. There’s a buzz in the air you can sense through the pictures. I feel it now, though it might just be anger pulsing though my bloodstream.
Behind me, the automatic door clicks shut. I take a deep breath to clear my lungs of the cloying scents of death and antiseptic. Instead, I get a lungful of exhaust fumes from the ambulance idling at the curb. Do they just sit out here waiting for people to die?
Of course, that’s the pot calling the kettle black. Isn’t that what I’m doing?
I walk back to the Hotel Montagne. These two blocks are the only part of the city I’ve seen since I arrived two days ago. A well-to-do couple emerges from the building; the man holds the door for me. His wife is sleek and sparkly—diamond studs, necklace, bracelet, rings. I shrink inside the door, pulling my battered department store coat closer around me.
The gleaming lobby is a gallery of mirrors, marble and chrome, with strangely shaped furniture dotting the space. I keep my arms close to my body, so I don’t sully anything with my fingerprints. I imagine a squadron of maids must lurk in the shadows, scampering out to dust and polish an object as soon as it’s been touched. This is definitely the poshest place I’ve ever been.
The same day I received The Phone Call, the one that upset my quiet, meandering life and turned it into this exercise in futility, a gold and purple envelope covered in glitter arrived in the mail bearing a coupon for The Montagne. A very generous coupon for a very expensive boutique hotel two thousand miles away. Once I looked it up and found the place was two blocks from the nursing home, I thought the coincidence was just too much. For better or worse, my decision was made.
Mom’s voice rang in my head as I paid for a mind bogglingly expensive plane ticket for the next day. She screeched at me all the way to the airport, quieting down once I’d actually boarded. She’d always been afraid to fly. Her voice has also been silent the entire time I’ve been here. Maybe the silence is a punishment from beyond.
Growing up, we only ever visited roadside motels. Mom would leave a husband or a boyfriend and we’d move in for what she said would be “just a couple of days,” but inevitably turned into months. As funds dwindled, the quality of the places would deteriorate. But they were usually a welcome reprieve from wherever we’d just left.
Mom would get a kick out of this place.
“Welcome back to the Montagne,” the desk clerk greets me with a smile. I smile back; everyone is so friendly. It’s like they don’t know I don’t belong here. The paltry amount I’m paying doesn’t even come close to what my stay must cost. But it’s nice, for once, to not feel like the rich kids are looking down their nose at me. I even go so far as to wave at the clerk.
The click of my heels echoes in the empty lobby. I’m headed to the elevators, but the idea of being cooped up in another tiny room, albeit a gorgeously decorated one, does not appeal. The clerk is young and apple-cheeked and looks like he stepped out of a J. Crew catalog.
“Hi, is the bar still open?”
“Yes, it closes at one-thirty, ma’am.”
I check my phone for the time, stunned that it’s so late. The nurses never enforce the visiting hours in the hospice wing, and that place is like a casino—curtains drawn tight, no clocks on the walls. Maybe they don’t want to rub it in to the dying people that life is going on without them.
I thank the clerk and change direction towards the small bar. It’s more muted and comfortable looking than the lobby—less chrome, more leather. It’s also currently empty, no patrons and no bartender. I settle in on a barstool and take off my coat. The hotel is pretty small. I figure the bartender will be back soon.
To pass the time, I scroll through my phone looking at the pictures I took today. An old man in a bed, tubes attached to his arms. He looks so harmless. The giant hands I remember from childhood are now shrunken and shriveled, like the rest of him. I click the phone off. Nothing about that man is harmless.
The anger creeps back and I’m eager for a drink to whittle away the tension in my neck and shoulders. I turn at the sound of footsteps behind me.
“You’re not the bartender.” It comes out more harshly than I mean it to.
The man in the entrance looks down at himself and then back at me, cracking a half-smile. “No, I don’t think I am.”
&nbs
p; He’s the picture of a modern rake. Tallish with a medium build, black jacket over a white shirt, top buttons undone, grin set to mischief. Dark eyes flash as they appraise me. Lean, sexy, dangerous.
I swallow as the energy in the room changes. This man is an electrical storm; I could swear the lights short out as he enters. He sits one barstool down from me and I stifle the urge to adjust my skirt where it’s ridden up, exposing a tiny sliver of thigh. Though as he assesses me, I’m not sure whether I really want to pull the skirt down or slide it up and feel the heat of his gaze sizzle over my skin. The place between my thighs hums to life, and with a mouthwatering whiff of his cologne, a furnace switches on inside me.
Can you have a hot flash at twenty-six?
“So, this bar is missing one important element,” he says, scanning the empty room. My heater cranks up another notch when his gaze comes back to me along with a high voltage smile.
He gets points for not staring at my chest, which is covered in a very modest V-neck sweater. His focus stays on my face with the intensity of a spotlight. I’m caught in the beam, hoping someone else comes in to divert his attention and spare me the scrutiny. But my skin tingles, and I may actually be starting to sweat.
I break our eye contact. Clear my throat. “Should we, um, alert the hotel staff? Perhaps the poor guy has met with foul play.” I shift in my seat and re-cross my legs, tugging my skirt down in the process. Subtly swiping at my brow, I’m convinced I’m dripping like a hog, but my fingers come away dry.
“Maybe we should start a search.” His eyes twinkle devilishly and he stands and leans over the bar. “He’s not down there.”
“Hmm,” I say, swiveling on my stool, glad the focus is off me. I bend at the waist and look around. “Don’t see him hiding under any tables.”
He moves to the wall and peers behind the oversized flat-screen TV mounted there. “Not here either.”
I shrug. “I think we’ve mounted a pretty exhaustive search, don’t you?”
Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7 Page 2
