Coming Soon…Book #1 in the Jane Dough RULES OF series
RULES OF LYING
It started with one little lie . . .
Thirty-year-old Jane Dough was a bestselling romance writer until she got her heart stomped on and decided men were scum. Now she can’t write a romantic hero to save her career. So with cynical heart and depleting bank account, she returns home to Florida, where she’s welcomed by her mother and sisters with open arms—and daily advice on how Jane should fix her life. No one’s above a bit of well-intentioned lying, especially when it’s for someone’s own good. Except Jane. Or so she says.
When a disastrous situation with her homeowners’ association threatens Jane’s newfound security, and her family pumps up the pressure for her to sell, Jane finds herself reverting to family misbehavior. She blurts out a lie that she’s advertising for a husband to help her out of her jam. It’s just one little lie to get everyone off her back, so no harm done, right?
Wrong! Someone runs a Husband Wanted ad in Jane’s name, and now she’s stuck with the consequences of her lie, even though she has no intention of getting married. Meanwhile, there’s that little business of losing her property if she doesn’t bring it into conformance before the deadline, and with every step forward, she seems to take two back. And one is a misstep that leads her smack into the middle of a murder.
Either Jane is the unluckiest girl in the world or bad luck is getting good help. Surely not from Mark and Sue, her two best friends, or from the drop-dead gorgeous doctor who comes bearing gifts. And that sexy new neighbor, a hunk of a Texan cowboy, is definitely on her side . . . isn’t he? Of course, it’s a shame she can’t tell the truth about what’s really going on, but that doesn’t give everyone else the right to lie too, does it?
Well, maybe it does. Or maybe not. Or just maybe Jane doesn’t really know the rules . . . of lying.
Excerpt:
It was no surprise that I yearned for a good historical romance that night, and so I pulled out my dog-eared copy of DARK SCOUNDREL and read it straight through. Again.
The next morning I forced myself out of bed after too little sleep. I’d been thinking about an idea for a romance novel. Well, mostly I’d been thinking about the hero. I’ll admit that my new neighbor, Hank Tyler, might have had something to do with my train of thought. There were certain parts of him that were very intriguing. I won’t say which parts.
I hadn’t heard from my agent in a couple of months, so we were due to hook up. We stayed in touch just in case I managed to turn in a saleable manuscript. It wasn’t that I couldn’t write. I could write just fine—as well as I ever could, anyway—but Rose couldn’t sell it. She said I’d lost the romance. Not a good thing to hear when you’re a romance writer.
“Jane,” came Rose’s raspy voice from my speaker after my line connected with hers. I heard the inevitable click of her cigarette lighter. “I was just thinking about you,” she said.
“Really?” I asked. Gee, how nice. She was thinking about me.
There was a beat of silence, then, “No, not really. I always say that when I hear from someone out of the blue. Makes them think we’re on the same wavelength. Like anybody’s ever on the same wavelength. They don’t usually call me on it, but since you asked . . . I know how you feel about being lied to.”
Everyone knew how I felt about being lied to. I had ranted about it for weeks after learning the extent of Pete’s deceit. Fortunately, Rose had seemed to take it in stride, telling me it was fodder for writing. In my case that hadn’t proved true—so far.
I decided to get straight to it. “I’ve got a great idea for a new romance. A great idea for a new hero, anyway.”
There was silence but for a whoosh as Rose exhaled.
“A duke?”
“Of course,” I said. “What’s a hero if not a duke? But this one is really special. He’s got a great character arc and a fantastic sense of humor.” I waited while Rose sucked in all the air between New York and Florida along with her nicotine fix.
“Does he still have a penis at the end of the book?” she croaked out.
I huffed. Mentally, of course. You make one little mistake in this business and they never forget it. Not that castrating the hero had been a mistake, at least not the way I’d written it.
“I told you it proved their love transcended the physical.”
“And I told you that no one wants a hero without a penis, duke or not.”
My hackles rose. I’d put a lot of thought into that hero. “Someone might have, if you’d sent the manuscript out to more than one editor.”
“Jane, I didn’t need to send it to more than one editor. Thirty seconds after that one finished reading it, the entire publishing world knew about it. They’re still laughing. You’re lucky everyone likes you. Otherwise your name would be mud.”
“Everyone likes me?” I was pleased enough that it soothed my hurt feelings. A little.
“As a writer, not a person. But no one’s gonna buy a hero without a penis, no matter what.”
“Okay, I get it.” Honestly. How many times did I have to apologize?
“Do you? Do you really? Because the next hero you wrote was impotent and no one wants a hero that can’t get it up, either.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “He wasn’t impotent with the heroine—just with everyone else. It proved that she was the only one who turned him on, that they were clearly meant for each other. It was romantic.”
“It was gross. Just write a regular hero. One with a penis that works the way it’s supposed to.”
“You don’t have to worry. This new hero’s penis works just fine. Really fine. Really, really, very fine.”
“And he and the heroine live happily ever after?”
I opened my mouth and then shut it. “Uhm, not exactly. I mean, he dies right after the wedding party, but she inherits everything, so she lives happily ever after.”
Rose made a hummph sound. “Do you ever read your contracts?” she asked.
“That’s what I pay you for.”
“Well, here’s a news flash. When you write a romance, the hero and heroine have to live happily ever after—together.”
I mumbled something; I wasn’t sure what. I was wishing I hadn’t called.
“Jane, this conversation tells me you’re still not ready to write romance. Go get laid.”
“I don’t need to get laid.”
Okay, maybe I did, but it wouldn’t change my mind about men. Men were scum, but if I had to write them like they were Prince Charmings, I could. It was fiction, wasn’t it? And I was a professional.
