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 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
