Chapter 18

A burst of laughter from Perry broke my rumination. “Who designs these covers? Do women really pant over guys with beehive hair? This dude looks like a girl with muscles. If a guy like this came into the gym, we would laugh him out of the place.”

The book cover had a painting of a muscular olive complexion man with long flowing black hair bending over a woman with long curly auburn hair and huge magnificent breasts that had cleavage so deep that a person could drown in them. She was barely covered by an emerald gown. His position held domination, while the heroine’s body language capitulated to his overpowering masculinity. To keep with the title of the book, a broken pocket watch had been trampled under his sure-footed boot, the second hand missing.

I laughed, “Oh you can believe it. I do fight regularly with the publisher over the covers of my novels. Our battles are famous in the art department of the publishing house. This cover is actually mild compared to some of them. You should have seen the ones that Banning House would insist that I use as my book covers. They were actually embarrassing. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get more control over the development of my book covers eventually. First I have to have a few more books making the number one on the NYC best-selling book list.”

He flipped through the pages, randomly picking one to read an excerpt from. He spoke in a very theatrical voice. I muffled giggles.

“Audra ran down the corridor, holding up her blue satin gown and exposing her slender ankles clad in white silk stockings. Captain John Lex was on her heels in three strides. Grey eyes glinting with steel, he caught her by her arm and spun her around.

He exclaimed, ‘Curses you vixen, why do I love you so, when all you do is drive me insane?’
Before she could speak, he claimed her soft red lips with his firm ones. She melted into the kiss, her body a traitor of her heart.”

Perry noticed my notes in the margin. “Kerrie, did you write this?” He pointed to the writing.

“Yes, that book is my biggest best seller and my readers are clamoring for a sequel. So I’m reading it and making notes.”

“Why write bodice-ripping romance novels?”

Laughing, I defended my books, “Hey, the bodices don’t get ripped in every novel. I make sure they happen in one out of a three.”

“Then how do you explain the illusion that they’re falling off on the covers?”

“The mutiny of feminine wiles?”

He grinned, “Man, I would love to experience that in real life. But seriously woman, why do you write these? Don’t you realize the pressure you’re putting on us guys? Our eyes can’t ‘glint steel.’”

“You’re making me laugh, Perry. Shall I give you the standard polished answer to that question?” I laughed, because it was one of the same questions that fans all over and reports asked me time and time again.

“I think the real reason would be a treat.” He placed the book down beside him and gave me his undivided attention. I toyed with a loose thread on my shorts.

“My parents were over forty-five when I accidentally came along. It wasn’t that they didn’t want me. Mother would call me the miracle baby. But I never felt as if I fit into their world. The love they shared was so strong, so powerful that I couldn’t be apart of it. It was an entity of its own.

Father died in an automobile accident ten years ago. Mother died a month later of a broken heart. I tried to comfort her, but she was beyond condolence. When she went, I was there. The doctors called it a stroke, but I don’t think that’s what happened. She let go of life and in that instant she died, I witnessed a look of relief like none I’ve ever witnessed. The funny part of this is that I felt more alone when they were alive than I do now that they’re gone.

All my life, I’ve been driven to find that kind of love and I’m discovering it doesn’t exist. I joke about my parents being aliens, because I’ve never witnessed that type of love in other married people. That’s why I write romance novels, Perry, so I can live vicariously through my characters, experiencing the love that I am a product of.”

I surprised myself, because I had never told anyone the real motivation for my writing. Nervously, I plucked at the thread, not looking at Perry. Wishing I could run to the bedroom and throw myself onto the pillows, so I could sob away the memories of my exclusion from my parents’ inner circle.

Perry’s hand suddenly covered mine. “Kerrie, I’m sure they loved you more than you realized. You sound as if you’ve given up on finding love outside of these pages.” He held up my novel. “Writing about love isn’t the same as knowing love. One day, you’ll find it.”

He stood up, stretching. “It’s late. I’ve got some web designing to do for a client and some…heavy reading to do before bed.”

I didn’t smile at his attempt to be humorous. Part of me was appalled that I told him something so personal that no one, not even David knew. “Have pleasant dreams, Perry. Good night.” I said in a trembling voice.

Maybe it was the vulnerability that was laced in my goodnight, or the high drama of the whole evening’s events, I didn’t know the reason. And I didn’t care. As I turned away from Perry, he grabbed my arm, spinning me around so that I melted against him. As he lowered his lips to mine, I got lost in the color of huckleberry blue.

Every kissing scene that I had ever written paled in comparison to the potency of the kiss that Perry and I vanished into, for it continued and grew deeper, as our exploring tongues touched creating a blended taste of us. He pulled me tightly against his strong body and I felt the hard stone of his masculinity. As abruptly as he pulled me to him, he released me. Dazed from the passion, I stood, breathless and flushed, as he smiled and said, “Sweet dreams, Rose Kerrigan,” before night cloaked him in shadows, as he left.