CHAPTER TWO
Mystery writers got together to solve fake murders. Science fiction writers went to Star Trek/Star Wars/Star Everything Conventions, planetariums, and toured NASA. Literary writers went to graduate school. And romance writers? Romance writers held giant conventions with half-naked men parading down runways, while women screamed themselves hoarse and vied to buy the chaps off the models’ bodies. And then complained that no one in the publishing industry took them seriously.
Marie Hhermann, a.k.a. the eternally dour Jessica C. LeFleur, watched the pandemonium, and could only shake her head. A few of the men on the runway had modeled for some of her books, but she had never gone for the overly-muscular, blond, long-haired type.
“Maybe it’s just me,” she told Joe Hall, her best friend and, occasionally, worst enemy, “but I could never date someone prettier than I was.”
Watching the show with avid curiosity, Joe didn’t look at her as he replied. “Maybe, but you have to admit, it’s hard to resist a man wearing assless chaps.”
She had to smile at that. She and Joe had been best friends since high school. They did everything together...she couldn’t remember the last book signing she’d had to do solo. He was always at her elbow, joking with her fans, fetching her water, reading her books, flirting with the bookstore clerks. She and Joe had lost their virginity together, and had been lovers right up to the day Joe had come out of the closet (which was seventy-four hours after he’d lost his virginity).
Fool that she was, his being gay hadn’t changed her feelings for him. Now here he was, drooling over the cover models, and if just once he’d ever looked at her that way, just one time...
Abruptly, Joe whooped. “Passion’s Warrior! Yeah!”
“Will you shut up? You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I can’t help it. Buff, gorgeous men as far as the eye can see. This is gay Graceland.”
The announcer boomed, “You’ve seen him on the cover of Savage Bliss . You swooned when he carried his virgin bride over the threshold of his manor house, Cresthaven. A big hand, ladies, for...Blanco!”
The hall absolutely erupted with cheers and feminine shrieks. Marie could see a tall, muscular man with shoulder-length brunette curls prowling the runway. He was classically handsome, the de rigueur romance novel hero. As he approached the end of the catwalk he turned slowly...and, to Marie’s surprise, zeroed in on Joe in the throng.
She and Joe looked at each other, then up at Blanco, whose gaze was riveted on Joe.
“Blanco?” she asked. “That’s Spanish for white. What the hell kind of name is that?” Joe, she was irritated to note, was staring helplessly. And Blanco, she was doubly irritated to note, was blowing her ex-boyfriend a kiss. “These women are making fools of themselves. And so are you.”
Instead of being chastised, her friend only sighed. “I love romance conventions.”