How To Host A Seduction

“Oh, thank goodness!” Stephanie covered her eyes with a shaky hand. “I thought I was the only one having this problem. The rewrites on this book have been so extensive that I’m completely off schedule with my other projects. And if I miss my deadline, I’ll never sell another book.”

“Try not to let revisions undermine your confidence,” Susanna suggested pragmatically. “Revisions are just part of the process. Right, Ellen?”

Ellen stared at the three tipsy faces, recognized high drama at its finest, and knew this scene had been staged, rehearsed and fortified with alcohol.

“Okay, ladies.” She steepled her fingers before her and assumed a professional mien. “What’s on your minds?”

“Heroes,” Susanna said.

Not surprised that Susanna had been appointed the spokesperson of the group, Ellen asked, “What about them?”

“Our normally brilliant and insightful editor doesn’t seem to like them anymore.”

The woman didn’t pull any punches, but it wasn’t her delivery that blew Ellen away, but her allegation. “What on earth makes you think I dislike heroes?”

The trio stared at her, but they suddenly didn’t seem so tipsy.

“The fact that you hated my last one,” Susanna said.

Tracy nodded. “And mine.”

“And mine, too,” Stephanie added.

Ellen stared, expression carefully schooled as her mind raced to assess the accuracy of this accusation.

Susanna’s last hero…the medieval bastard—no, baron—who kept abandoning the heroine to run off to battle.

Hmm, Ellen remembered him well and Susanna was right, he’d required some serious revision. She wouldn’t say exactly half a book’s worth, but abandoning the heroine was not a quality she or the romance readers considered heroic.

Who wanted a man who would leave at the drop of a hat, a man who wouldn’t hang around long enough to fight for his heroine when the going got tough?

Tracy’s last hero…the Elizabethan nobleman who’d gone to court as a spy and made love to the heroine without revealing his true identity.

Lying to any woman suggested a character flaw that was tough to tackle successfully in any commercial book-length novel. But lying was especially dastardly when it involved an affair of the heart. It was never easy for a woman to let her guard down, to trust a man enough to become vulnerable, especially knowing she might wind up heartbroken.

Stephanie’s last hero…the Scottish lord whose heroine had been kidnapped by a rebel clan. His lame attempts to rescue her had spanned several chapters.

If Ellen had been Stephanie’s heroine she’d have been disappointed in a hero who couldn’t manage a decent rescue in a timely fashion. Any hero who left the heroine alone for so long was lucky his woman didn’t run off with the villain. A true hero would have pursued his heroine at all costs, quickly….

Okay, so she’d had some problems with their heroes. Valid problems? Ellen had thought so. But writing was a subjective business, a creative business. Even at their most professional, her authors were still artists, emotionally attached to their work. Editing often required performing a delicate balancing act of compliment and critique, to get the job done.

Okay, she saw where they were coming from, knew they wouldn’t have approached her unless sure their concerns were valid.

She glanced at Lennon, who’d risen, hightailing it toward the bar. The coward. She’d known this conversation would invariably circle around to her latest hero.

…The Regency smuggler who was more interested in his wants and needs than his heroine’s.

A true hero would have found a way to satisfy both. And even all those scrumptious orgasms in some very steamy cave scenes didn’t make up for the lack.

Uh-oh.

Ellen stared into the trio of worried faces whose careers were currently riding on her ability to be as brilliant and insightful, and reasonable, as they believed her to be.

And they must have seen something encouraging in her expression because Susanna threw a hand across her forehead in true Sarah Bernhardt fashion and sighed breathlessly.

“Woe is me, I’ve forgotten how to write a hero and now my publishing house will stop buying my books. My agent will have to hit the streets, scrambling for new offers—”

“At least you’ll get offers.” Tracy shot her a dubious look. “You’re a New York Times bestselling author. Publishing houses will be fighting over you. Even with all my promotional efforts, I’m still only in the mid-list with seven books.”

“But at least you’ve got numbers.” Then Stephanie met Ellen’s gaze with a look of entreaty. “My third book isn’t even out yet. I’m completely at your mercy.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Ellen tried to smile at their theatrics, but not so surprisingly, the smile that had seemed etched on her face had done a disappearing act, because a terrible, terrible thought had just occurred to her.

If these ladies were right about her lack of objectivity—and Ellen had the sinking suspicion they might be—there could only be one explanation….

He was interfering with her work, too.

Félicie Allée—three days later

THOUGH THE PLANTATION wasn’t quite an hour south of New Orleans, Félicie Allée might have been on a deserted island. The shady oak-lined alley leading to the circle drive and majestic front entrance transported Ellen from the reality of well-traveled highways baking beneath the sun to a shadowy fantasy place cooled by the bayou breeze.

Sunlight streamed through the leaves overhead to play shadow-and-lace games along the columns and metalwork enclosing the double-tiered balconies around the plantation.

She’d first visited Félicie Allée after Lennon’s wedding. Perhaps her second visit was even more breathtaking, because this time Ellen knew what to expect. Her awe was tempered with simple appreciation for the way the plantation had been built to bring a touch of elegance and civilization to the wildly lush setting. Crepe myrtles, azaleas and camellias all burst in bright bloom on the grounds, and to a woman like Ellen, reared beneath the often leaden skies of Manhattan and Long Island, the scene resembled a living oil painting.

“Leave it to your great-aunt to turn boring old corporate training into a game,” Ellen said, as Lennon steered her sport utility vehicle down the oak-lined drive leading to the plantation. “Corporate training and murder-mystery events. Who’d ever have thought of combining the two?”

Lennon shot her a sidelong glance. “No one has ever accused Auntie Q of lacking imagination.”

Ellen couldn’t help but smile. Lennon’s great-aunt believed in having a good time and didn’t make apologies, an odd attitude to Ellen, whose family operated in such a different manner. Chatting with Miss Q always proved refreshing, very different from the in-depth business strategy sessions she had with various relations during family functions.

“So who’s my partner?” she asked Lennon, who slowed her SUV in front of the entrance. “Did you put a bug in your great-aunt’s ear to give me Susanna? Nothing against Tracy but she doesn’t travel light. I won’t stand a chance if I have to room with her. And you know how weird I am about sharing my space.”

“I know, but Auntie Q had already made the arrangements. She promised you’d be comfortable, though.” Lennon paused with her hand above the door handle. “You okay?”

Okay? No, she wouldn’t go straight to okay. Not when the first few days of her vacation had gone bust because all she could think about was him. The man had a power over her that was nothing short of scary. Whether involved with him or not, he consumed her thoughts, influenced her actions, sneaked right past the barriers she worked so hard to maintain in her life.

But all was not lost yet. She still had almost a week of vacation to let the fantasy of murder and mayhem clear her head so she could return to reality with some brilliant idea about how to put all thoughts of him firmly behind her.

“I’ve just spent the last three days listening to you preach about how I don’t make enough time to have fun,” Ellen said. “May I enjoy the rest of my vacation, please? Without any mention of work, or him.”

“You got it.” Lennon shoved her door wide and climbed out. “No more reality, as long as you promise to turn off your stinking cell phone. You can survive a few days without it. We’ll do fantasy this weekend and— Oh, how timely. Here comes the queen of make-believe herself. You can ask her who you’re rooming with.”

Miss Q strode across the gallery toward them, looking as if she’d stepped off the pages of a historic costume book in an oversize plaid dress with leg-o’-mutton puffed sleeves.

“Welcome to Félicie Allée, my dears.” She captured each by an arm when they reached the top of the steps and maneuvered them around toward the door. “I’m so pleased you’re a part of our opening event.”

After kissing Lennon on the cheek, she clasped Ellen’s hands in a paper-thin grasp. “Thank you for accepting my invitation. I wanted Southern Charm Mysteries’ grand opening to be a special event among friends.”

“Everything coming together?” Lennon asked.

“All the clues have been placed. The red herrings planted,” Miss Q said. “The cast is in character, and you’re all going to have a grand time playing the detectives to solve the mystery.”

“I’m sure we will, Auntie.”

“Of course,” Ellen said, distracted by their entrance into the grand hall.

The octagonal rotunda extended three stories of sheer visual majesty with curving staircases and intricately carved balustrades. Evidence of the plantation’s new ownership could be seen in woodwork that had been refinished to a gleaming luster and plank flooring so highly polished that light from the cut-crystal chandelier sparkled off it.

“It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” she said, recalling her first visit after Lennon and Josh’s wedding.

Miss Q beamed. “Just wait until you see everything we’ve done with the place.”

“We?”

“Quite a few of us have been involved in pulling together Southern Charm Mysteries.”

“Is Josh here yet?” Lennon asked.

Miss Q nodded. “I’ve installed him in the sky suite. I thought he’d be more comfortable with a floor all to himself, even if you did have to hoof it up three flights.”

“Who am I rooming with, Miss Q?” Ellen asked.

“Your roommate is a surprise, dear, but I will tell you this—you’re staying in the garden suite, the loveliest of all our accommodations. And you won’t have to hike up any stairs because it’s right here on the ground floor. So come along.”

A surprise? The thought of a Miss Q surprise was enough to make the bravest soul quake in her sandals. She exchanged a curious glance with Lennon, but was cut off from further questions when Miss Q motioned them through the hall.

“You’re the last to arrive and everyone is getting into their costumes. We’ll meet for cocktails on the lower gallery at seven, before heading into the parlor for the introduction. Dinner will be served afterward and you’ll have a chance to meet the other guests and begin your investigations. I believe I’ve given you time to unpack, meet your partners and get settled. Oh, and your wardrobes have been filled with the appropriate costumes and everything you’ll need to get into character.”

Without pausing to inhale, Miss Q drew a chain from her bodice and peered down at the gold timepiece attached. “Now I’ve got to run. The cast is assembling in the library so I can make last-minute addresses. Lennon, up to the third floor. Ellen, you head down the west wing.” She pointed to a nearby hallway. “The suites have nameplates so you’ll know which is yours. Ta-ta, dears.”

Lennon rolled her eyes. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Before Ellen had a chance to reply, Miss Q shooed them off. “Go. I want you to see your suites.” Then, with a swish of her huge plaid skirts, she hurried off in the opposite direction.

Easily locating the garden suite, Ellen knocked tentatively, reluctant to meet whoever was inside. Lennon had explained that this grand opening training session hosted Josh’s company, Eastman Investigations, where two of his investigators were in serious need of teamwork training. Knowing Miss Q, Ellen might very well wind up rooming with a total stranger.

After receiving no response, she tried the handle, and found the room unlocked and her luggage already in the entry.

“Hello, anyone home?”

No answer.

From the doorway, she could see a sitting room with two sets of French doors opening onto a garden. Through the windowpanes, wisteria bloomed, lush against the backdrop of an ivy-covered wall that enclosed the garden to a courtyard.

The sitting room was simply furnished with several antique pieces in a deep gold upholstery, a sofa, a small dining table, a desk and a set of artfully arranged chairs in front of the fireplace. A spacious area that made her feel a little better about sharing her space.

The suite passed muster. Would the surprise roommate? “Hello?”

Still no answer.

Smooth strains of a familiar jazz piece emitted from within the bedroom, and while Ellen silently complimented her new roommate’s musical tastes, she recognized the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. Great. Should she call out to let her roommate know she wasn’t alone? Or close the door?

Ellen hated awkward situations almost as much as she hated surprises. She’d just decided on the closed door, when a pair of Top-Siders beside the bed caught her eye.

Top-Siders?

What woman wore Top-Siders? The thought stopped Ellen cold. The last time she’d accepted Miss Q’s hospitality after Lennon’s wedding, she’d been set up….

Heading into the bedroom, she took in the toiletries on the dresser and the garment bag hanging from the closet door in one glance. She stopped in front of the shoes.

My, what big feet you have, my dear.

Ellen knelt to inspect them, staring at the well-worn shoes as if they might actually launch into dialogue to explain who they belonged to. But in keeping with the theme of solving mysteries, Ellen had already divined two telling clues.

One, that slightly gamey aroma suggested their owner wore them frequently without socks, and two, her new roommate was a man.

Why on earth would Miss Q ensconce her in a one-bed suite with a…

An awful, awful thought struck her when she remembered Mr. Muscle-Butt from the convention. Surely Lennon wouldn’t have colluded with Miss Q when she’d known Ellen wasn’t interested.

I want you to have fun while you’re visiting.

Staring at those shoes, Ellen wished they could talk, because she needed to know if she’d been set up again.

The shower spray shut off, and a quick glance revealed the bathroom door wide open. Whoever was in there—and she desperately hoped it wasn’t who she thought it was—would step out of the shower—naked—and see her.

Ellen had this wild urge to drop the shoes and race out of Félicie Allée, not stopping until she hit the highway. But she just knelt there, shoes in hand, panicked, like a squirrel staring down a two-ton SUV.

The shower door skidded across the track and a hand—definitely male—reached out to grab a towel from a nearby rack.

Then her roommate stepped from the shower.

One gorgeously muscular leg appeared at a time, silky dark hairs shimmering with water, dripping onto the mat. He unwittingly flashed her glimpses of flexing thighs, toned abs and strong biceps as he wrapped the towel around his waist to cover a very nice butt.

He shook his jet-black hair—not waist-length hair that needed more cream rinse than her own, but neatly short hair—sent more droplets flying and turned toward her….

Ellen’s breath and her heartbeat collided.

It wasn’t Mr. Muscle-Butt.

It was him.

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