Risqué Business. Tawny Weber

      “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