“Figures,” Cheryl sighed, sucking down half her Mai Tai in one gulp. She’d gelled her short, brown hair so it stood up in spikes. Anyone else would have looked like a rabid squirrel. On Cheryl, the look was cute. “Not that I’m complaining. Sales have been good this year, but really...Why do the nasty ones always get the world handed to them on a silver platter?” She glanced around for a waiter, empty wineglass dangling from one hand.
It was a good question. I mean, Natasha Winters was nice enough, all things considered, but she was a major diva, a drunk, and a total cougar. The kind of woman who made everyone cringe. It was sort of embarrassing, actually, the way she carried on. I was of the opinion that a certain decorum was required of professional writers. A decorum Natasha was sadly lacking. She also happened to be the number-one best-selling romance writer. The woman was raking in money hand over fist. I couldn’t help a small pang of jealousy, which I ruthlessly squashed. I was of the mind that when it came to writing, there were plenty of readers for everyone, and while it would have been nice to have the kind of seven-figure income writers like Natasha Winters commanded, I was perfectly happy with my very comfortable, although less impressive, income.
“Viola Roberts, how lovely to finally meet you.” A deep voice interrupted my train of thought, jerking my attention from Natasha and her gyrating boy toy to the man who’d suddenly appeared next to me.
He was tall, over six feet, and gorgeous in a distinguished older man sort of way. Not that much older, I reminded myself. My forty-second birthday was just around the corner and Mr. Gorgeous looked no more than late forties. Possibly very early fifties. He had a slight accent that could have been British...or maybe something else. It was hard to tell. His piercing gray eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, the laugh lines sexy rather than aging. Be still my heart.
Beside me, Cheryl went dead still, zeroing in on the newcomer. She looked ready to burst with excitement, practically bouncing in her nude-colored heels. Obviously she knew who the gentleman was, which left me at a distinct disadvantage.
I quirked an eyebrow, giving him the once-over. He was very elegantly dressed in a black suit and matching shirt and tie. “And you are?” It probably came out a little snottier than I meant it. Cheryl nearly choked before gesturing wildly to the waiter.
“Lucas Salvatore.” He gave an elegant little bow that on anyone else would have been ridiculous. On him it was...sexy. Very European. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”
The waiter moved just close enough for Cheryl to snag another glass of wine off his tray. She clutched it like a lifeline, eyes darting between me and Salvatore like she was watching a tennis match.
My other eyebrow went up. “Oh, really? Which work in particular?” I seriously doubted this Lucas Salvatore person had read anything of mine. He wasn’t exactly in my demographic.
His smile widened, pearly whites bright against darkly tanned skin. “The Cowboy’s Lost Mistress was an enjoyable tale. I read it on the plane.”
“Uh huh.” I wrote historical romance novels. The kind that involved a great deal of heaving bosoms and ripping bodices and cowboys who were overly fond of tearing their shirts off. I had a hard time picturing Salvatore as being into that sort of thing. And why did his name sound so familiar? I racked my brain but came up empty.
“Honestly,” he said, “it was a lot of fun.”
“Thank you.” What else to say? I’d learned to take compliments about my writing, no matter how bizarre, with as much grace as humanly possible. “And what do you write, Mr. Salvatore?” I asked with mild interest. I guessed he was a writer since he was at a writer’s conference.
Cheryl flailed, face going an interesting shade of purple. I could only assume she was familiar with his work, but his name still wasn’t ringing any bells.
His smile was genuine with perhaps a trace of self-mockery. Obviously he didn’t take himself too seriously. Good. There were plenty of that sort already. Like the aforementioned Natasha Winters. Writers as a whole tended to be rather full of themselves.
“Call me Lucas. I dabble in thrillers mostly,” he said, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. He was drinking an Old Fashioned. Whiskey, from the look of it. Not really my cup of tea, so to speak.
“Ah.” Color me not surprised. He looked the sort for thrillers. Heck, eighty percent of the men attending NWA wrote thrillers. I’d bet he was an ex-cop or something.
A particularly loud and obnoxious laugh from the dance floor drew our attention back to Natasha Winters. Her top was a bit askew, showing an alarming amount of bosom, and she could have used a hairbrush. The boy toy had a smear of hot-pink lipstick down his cheek.
“You know her?” Lucas asked, glancing at Natasha with some curiosity.
“Not really. We’re casual acquaintances. We both write romances, so we run in the same circles.” Sort of. Natasha breathed much more rarified air than I. She considered me far beneath her.
“Hmmm. Interesting woman.” He was still watching her closely. It was hard to say if it was because he was into her, or because it was like watching a train wreck.
“If you say so,” I said dryly. I stared down at my own glass. Empty, darn it.
“I recognize the kid. Kyle something. One of the bartenders here at the resort. Who’s the man staring at her like he’d be happy to wring her neck?” Lucas asked.
I glanced across the room where a short, balding man glared at Natasha and her shenanigans. He did, indeed, look like wringing her neck was a real possibility. His raspberry and cream striped shirt clashed with the angry red of his face. “That’s
