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  ***

  “Remind me why we can’t take my truck?” Wilson asked.

  I flinched and kept a safe distance while he pushed, shoved, and yanked his golf clubs into what passes for the back seat of my Carrera. “Adelé Nightingale must arrive in her golden chariot,” I said.

  He stood up. “Say what?”

  “I said I can’t be seen in that jalopy you call a vehicle, Wilson. Think about my reputation. Think about my image.”

  “Think about space.” He worked on jamming our suitcases into what passes for the trunk and slammed the lid shut. “Hop in,” he told me. “I’ll drive the first leg.”

  One of the golf clubs bonked him on the head before we left the parking lot, and he mumbled a four-letter word.

  I cleared my throat. “A three-day weekend in Georgia,” I said brightly. “The weather should be perfect this time of year, and Fable is such a charming town.”

  “Peachy.”

  “No, really,” I soldiered on. “Mykal Kerriker assures me the golf course is first-rate. So while I’m busy at the conference, you two can shoot some balls. Won’t that be fun?”

  “You shoot bullets, Jessie. You hit golf balls.”

  “You can hit some balls with Mykal and bond. Won’t that be fun?”

  He stopped at a light and caught my eye. “Which of the Hall of Famers is Mike married to?”

  “He’s partners with Gavin McClure. But he is definitely not a Mike. He’s Mykal,” I said, and literally spelled it out.

  “He’s gay?” The light changed, and Wilson hit the gas. “You want me to hit balls and bond with a gay guy?”

  “Why not?” I asked. “You two have a lot in common. You’re both involved with a romance novelist, and you both like to golf. Does it matter that he’s gay?”

  “I guess not.” He merged onto the interstate. “But we’ve been talking about this conference for weeks, Jessie. Why couldn’t you tell me this before? Why do you hide things from me?”

  “I didn’t hide it. It just slipped my mind.”

  “Yeah, right. Why am I wondering what else has slipped your mind?”

  ***

  “Will there be any other men at this thing?” Wilson asked once we were racing down the highway. “Besides me and the gay guys?”

  “Roberto Santiago.”

  “Your publisher, right?”

  Correct. Roberto, the senior publisher of Perpetual Pleasures Press is a fixture at Happily Ever After every year. “You’ll like Roberto,” I said.

  “I doubt it. Didn’t he almost terminate your book contract last spring?”

  Well, yes. I admitted Roberto had been a bit concerned when I hit a roadblock while writing Seduction in the Shadows. “But once I got over my plot plight, he came around.”

  I reminded Wilson how Geez Louise had renegotiated my contract with Perpetual Pleasures Press, and had even convinced Roberto to raise my royalty rate by half a percentage point.

  “The guy sounds pretty shrewd.”

  “Yes, but he’s also very nice.” I frowned. “Unlike Roger Hollingsworth. He’s the other man willing to brave Happily Ever After.”

  “Why’s he going?”

  “Because he’s married to Faith, and Faith’s another Hall of Fame inductee.” I counted off the names. “Faith Hollingsworth, Gavin McClure, Penelope Shay, Zelda Bell, and me—Adelé Nightingale.” I smiled. “This decade’s five lucky winners.”

  “Not luck. Talent.” Wilson downshifted to pass an eighteen-wheeler. “This thing really only happens every ten years?”

  I explained that the Happily Ever After conference was an annual event, with the Hall of Fame inductions happening only once per decade.

  “It’s like the Academy Awards, but harder,” Wilson said. He asked what Roger Hollingsworth was like, and I had to admit he’s quite unpleasant.

  “Roger doesn’t approve of my stories,” I said.

  “Huh? Doesn’t Faith write romances?”

  I said there are romances, and then there are romances. “They’re called categories. For instance, I write steamy historicals—”

  “Bodice rippers.”

  “—Gavin writes in the LGBT category, Penelope Shay writes humorous contemporaries, Zelda Bell does paranormals, and Faith writes sweet romances.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means no sex.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  I giggled and told my husband he’d read far too many Adelé Nightingale novels.

  “I only read the good parts,” he said. Which of course explains why the man couldn’t comprehend the no sex thing.

  I tried again. “All romance novels must have a happy ending—that’s the genre standard. But in a sweet romance, all the good parts, as you call them, are left to the reader’s imagination.” I waved a hand. “An impassioned testimonial, a chaste kiss, and then the heroine and her man go off stage—or rather, off page—to consummate their burning desires.”

  “In other words, no good parts.”

  ***

  We switched drivers and moved on to the women who’d be attending Happily Ever After.

  “Louise,” I said, and Wilson groaned. I shot him a sideways glance. “We had fun together in Hawaii,” I suggested.

  “Someone got killed.”

  “Well, yes. But Louise adores you, Wilson.” I slowed to let an impatient driver pass. “She calls you my perfect paramour.”

  “I hate that word,” he muttered. “Who else?”

  “Roslynn Mayweather,” I said, referring to another author from Clarence. “We like Roslynn.”

  “No, Jessie. You like Roslynn. I don’t trust her.”

  I sighed dramatically and tried to think of someone who had not once lied to my husband the cop during a murder investigation. “I know!” I said. “How about Maxine Carlisle? I’ll introduce you.”

  “The sex scene lady?” He didn’t even try to hide his delight.

  Maxine Carlisle’s tome, Sensual and Scintillating: The Sex Scene Sourcebook for Today’s Romance Writer, resides on my nightstand next to my retinol cream. Wilson picks it up on a regular basis “to browse,” as he puts it.

  “If you tell anyone I read that book, I’ll arrest you.”

  “You don’t just read that book, Dearheart. You study it.”

  Okay, so Wilson finally admitted he might enjoy Happily Ever After, after all.

  “I know you will!” I said. “It’s the most prestigious romance conference, and we both know how much you believe in all that happily ever after nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense. Adelé Nightingale believes in happily ever after.”

  “Adelé Nightingale is a silly idealist,” I said. “But Jessica Hewitt is a realist. I do not believe in fairy tales.”

  “Happily ever after happens, dammit.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned onto the exit ramp.

  ***

  “Okay, Adelé Nightingale, silly idealist,” Wilson said. “What’s happening with Slippery Silk?”

  “Shimmering Silk,” I corrected.

  “Have Skipper and Conrad gotten between the slippery sheets yet?”

  “Slipper,” I said. “And the answer is no. Slipper’s mad at Conrad. The man is altogether infuriating.”

  “What’s he done this time?”

  “He’s gotten them lost is what. In the Sahara Desert of all places.”

  “Did you just say, Sahara Desert?”

  “They’re lost.”

  “No kidding. The Sahara’s nowhere near jolly old England.”

  I nodded. “Indeed. And to think this mishap happened right after Slipper finally found the courage to hop on top of Maurice.”

  “Whoa!” Wilson sat up straight. “I know Adelé Nightingale writes some steamy stuff. But two guys, Jessie? Did you really write a threesome?”

  “No!” I shook my head and slowed down for a stop sign. “Maurice is a camel. Slipper was a bit reluctant to climb on board, even before he spit at her�
�”

  Wilson mumbled something about this ought to be good.

  “No, really,” I said as I made the next turn. “Camels spit. I did some research.”

  “Adelé Nightingale never does research.”

  “Perhaps, but Slipper’s father, Dr. Wesley Vervette, was a world-renowned zoologist. It seemed only fitting I learn a little.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Wilson told the dashboard. “So you and Conrad finally got Skipper onto the camel. Then what?”

  “Slipper. Then they got lost.” I drove past the golf course. “It’s a most harrowing situation, what with their water supply running low. A predicament the altogether evil Barney Splawn is about to take full advantage of.”

  “In the Sahara.” Wilson pointed to the sign for the Goodnight Inn. “What are all these Brits doing in Africa?”

  “Sweating, mostly.” I admitted I had no idea why everyone was in Africa but reminded my husband of Adelé Nightingale’s recent mood. “Adelé has grown tired of all those ho hum-hum drum lords and dukes of sixteenth century Europe. She will simply scream if she has to describe one more dreary and damp castle.”

  “Sweat’s damp,” Wilson said helpfully.

  Chapter 3

  “Brace yourself,” I said as we pulled up to the Goodnight Inn. I fluttered a few fingertips at the two middle-aged women waiting on the curb. “It’s the Glee Club.”

  “Do they sing?” Wilson asked.

  “Everything but,” I said and reminded him I’d be Adelé Nightingale all weekend.

  “Got it.”

  We came to a stop, and the Glee sisters sprang into action.

  “Adelé!” Batsy Glee reached down and pulled me from the car.

  “And her paramour!” Patsy Glee did the same with Wilson.

  “In their golden chariot!” Batsy added.

  Hearty hugs followed, but eventually I regained my balance and made the introductions. “Patsy Glee.” I presented the older, taller sister. “And Batsy.” I smiled at the younger, shorter, and plumper sister. “Two thirds of the Glee Club,” I said and assured Wilson he’d meet their cousin Hatsy Glee at any moment.

  “You ladies authors?” he asked as he struggled to pry our luggage from the Porsche.

  “Just fans.” Batsy jumped forward to help, and both sisters wrestled him for the luggage. The women won the battle, although they did leave the golf clubs to Wilson.

  Unencumbered, I held the lobby door as everyone paraded past. “There wouldn’t be a Happily Ever After without the Glee sisters,” I said. “They organize the event every year.”

  “It’s nothing.” Patsy dropped her burdens and pointed to the pink Happily Ever After banner hanging from the ceiling, the pink balloons bobbling about, and the pink flower arrangements scattered here, there, and everywhere. “The decorations are the hardest part. And Hatsy takes care of those.”

  “Where is she?” I glanced around the expansive lobby. “And where’s Adam?”

  “He’s the bellhop,” Batsy told Wilson and then caught my eye. “Adam’s helping Tori Fister. She’s been looking for you.”

  “Is Tori an author?” Wilson asked, and we all laughed at that ridiculous notion.

  “Trust me,” I told my uninitiated husband. “Writing is far too sedate an occupation for Roaring Tori.”

  “That’s her nickname,” Patsy said, and Batsy went on to explain that Tori Fister, better known as Roaring Tori, is the literary agent who recruits authors for Daydream Desires Publishers, better known as Double D.

  “And you must already know Adelé’s agent, Louise Urko?” Patsy asked. “Geez Louise recruits for Perpetual Pleasures Press.”

  “Better known as 3P,” Wilson said. “They competitors?”

  “An understatement,” Batsy said. “3P and Double D are the most prestigious romance publishers in the whole wide world.”

  “Which means Louise and Tori are the most prestigious agents,” I added.

  “Which means they spend every waking hour trying to outdo each other,” Patsy chimed in. “Roaring Tori tries to lure 3P authors over to Double D, and Geez Louise tries to get Double D authors for 3P.”

  Wilson grimaced. “Sounds pretty cutthroat.”

  “It’s all in fun,” I said, and the Glee sisters guffawed.

  ***

  Batsy grabbed my car keys. “Check in,” she said. “And I’ll park the golden chariot.”

  She disappeared out the door, and Wilson barely had time to wonder about the “golden chariot” before the desk clerk called me over.

  “Declare your loyalty,” she said.

  “Come on, Judy,” I scolded. “You know I’m with Perpetual Pleasures Press. I’ve been attending Happily Ever After for years.”

  “Then you should know I try to forget you pink people as soon as you leave each year.” She tapped at her computer keyboard. “3P’s in the A wing this time.”

  Patsy stepped forward. “And Adelé Nightingale gets a suite this time, Judy. She’s one of our new Hall of Famers.”

  “Whoopee.” Judy handed me two key cards and told me Adam would be down to help with the luggage.

  Wilson said we could manage, but by then Batsy had returned and would hear of no such thing. While they wrestled for control of a luggage cart, Patsy pulled me aside.

  “This way,” she said and guided me through the lobby, past the bar and pool table, and into the room designated as Happily Ever After conference headquarters each year.

  I admired yet another vase of flowers on the desk as Patsy sorted through a pile of pink canvas bags to find mine. “Your conference packet.” She smiled and handed it to me. “With plenty of keepsakes and mementos!”

  I noted the hot pink sequined Happily Ever After logo. “It’s lovely,” I lied.

  “Hatsy was up all night with her glue gun.”

  Wilson had won the battle for the luggage cart by the time we returned to the lobby, and I held up my pink bag for him to admire.

  “What the—”

  “It’s Adelé’s mementos bag,” Patsy said. “Don’t you just love it?” Fortunately, she didn’t wait for an answer, but unfortunately, she told him he’d find something very interesting at the bottom of my bag.

  “I will?” He stepped forward to peek inside.

  “The conference packet.” She winked. “Page thirty.”

  Bless her heart, Hatsy Glee swept into the lobby just in the nick of time, saving us from further discussion of the dreaded page thirty. She handed off a roll of pink streamers to Batsy and immediately commenced scolding yours truly.

  “Where have you been?” she asked as we gave each other the requisite hug. “The banquet starts at seven o’clock sharp.”

  I would have protested that we had plenty of time, but Hatsy had already moved on to scolding Wilson.

  “And you!” she said. “The new husband, I presume? What have you to say for yourself?”

  “Umm. Hello?”

  “How could you do it?” Hatsy asked. “Everyone says you’ve inspired her. You’ve inspired her to leave Europe!”

  Wilson blinked twice. “Excuse me?”

  “Until she met you, all Adelé’s stories were set in Europe. As they very well should be.” She stomped her foot. “Don’t argue!”

  Dare I say, Wilson had no intention of doing so?

  The Glee Club, however, was quite passionate about the topic. Patsy spoke up and insisted that branching out is a good thing. “Adelé Nightingale is far too creative to stick to just one place.”

  “It was inevitable she’d leave Europe for greener pastures,” Batsy agreed.

  Hatsy simply shook her head. “There are no greener pastures than Europe. All Adelé’s masterpieces are set in Europe.”

  “Masterpieces?” Wilson asked me, but I ignored him to hear more about my masterpieces.

  Batsy enlightened me that My South Pacific Paramour was her favorite, while Patsy enthused over Seduction in the Shadows. “So intriguing!”

  �
�Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Hatsy said. “That one’s set in the Wild West of all places.”

  “What’s your favorite?” Wilson asked her.

  “An Everlasting Encounter of course. Or maybe Temptation at Twilight. Both firmly planted in Europe.”

  “But what about the love scenes in Seduction?” Patsy asked and pretended to fan herself. “Willow LaSwann and Kipp Jupiter in that haystack?”

  “Gave new meaning to the phrase ‘a roll in the hay,’ didn’t it?” Wilson asked, and Patsy fanned herself with renewed vigor.

  “Haystacks?” Hatsy remained unconvinced. “Do you people not remember the lavender field in Everlasting? Sarina Bliss and Trey Barineau? Now that was a love scene.” She turned to me. “Please tell me your next masterpiece will be in Europe.”

  “Umm. Shimmering Silk begins in Europe.”

  Her face dropped. “What do you mean—begins?”

  “Skipper’s in Africa,” Wilson said.

  “Slipper,” I corrected. “Slipper Vervette and Conrad Montjoy are in the Sahara Desert.”

  “Doesn’t that sound exotic!” Patsy clapped, but Hatsy only rolled her eyes.

  “What possible reason does Slipper have for traveling to Africa?” she asked me.

  Okay, so I admitted I had no idea. “But the desert will make for some terrific love scenes, no?”

  “No! They’ll be all sweaty. What’s sexy about sweat?”

  “It’s slippery,” Wilson said helpfully.

  ***

  “Would you look at these flowers!” I said brightly and waved effusively at the various arrangements adorning the lobby. For a woman who didn’t like change, Hatsy had outdone herself—nary a rose or carnation in sight. “What are all these?”

  “Mostly natives,” she said. “I tried to shake things up this year.”

  “She’s branching out,” Batsy said.

  “Branching out.” I smiled at Hatsy. “That’s what we creative people do, isn’t it? We like to experiment—”