Risqué Business. Tawny Weber

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