Unforgettable. Rhonda Nelson
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woods scared the living daylights out of her, made her stomach twist with an oh-hell kind of dread.
Trudy negotiated a hairpin turn. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about this, Faith,” she chided gently. “It’s not like you don’t know what you’re doing. Hell, you know the character—you’ve been writing the Zoe Wilder books for years—and you wrote the mini-mystery for this weekend. Why are you so freaked?”
Faith summoned a droll smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess the idea of making a complete fool of myself is a little intimidating.”
Trudy huffed an exasperated sigh. “You’re not going to make a fool of yourself. First of all, no one but you will know if you screw up. And secondly, the fans are going to be so excited about being a part of this that nothing else will matter.”
Faith had her doubts about that. She knew her readers expected her to be every bit as bold and brash, as hot and sexy as the heroine—Zoe Wilder—in her wildly popular romantic adventure books. Faith resisted the urge to snort. She and Zoe were polar opposites, couldn’t be any more different. Faith had purposely given Zoe every trait she’d like to possess but, sadly, didn’t.
Instead, she lived out her dreams vicariously through her audacious, chic, savvy gun-toting heroine. Through her books, she was beautiful, she was brave and fearless, charming, witty and sexy. She wore too-tight too-short skirts, a push-up bra and red lipstick. And, when taking care of the bad guys hadn’t been enough—when Faith had found herself miserably lonely—she’d given Zoe Nash—a badass to end all badasses, a to-die-for heartthrob whose melting smile was so hot it could make an orchid bloom in an arctic frost.
She’d also made him the best lover in the northern hemisphere and she couldn’t write a love scene between the two during which she didn’t have an overwhelming orgasm. She repressed a delicate shiver.
In fact, though she’d never risk the psych ward by admitting this to anyone, Faith feared that the fictitious Nash Austin—a total figment of her imagination—had ruined her for any living male. Now how pathetic was that? She’d fallen in love with a character, a person who existed only on paper and in her mind.
Furthermore, she’d made him so damn good that no real guy could ever compare. Or at least if one did, Faith had yet to find him. If someday hell froze over and he did happen along her path, Faith knew he wouldn’t be the type to be interested in her.
Men like that—or any man, for that matter—rarely gave her a second glance.
Regrettably, she seemed to blend in, like a part of the scenery.
Most of the time, Faith preferred being unremarkable. She liked order—her childhood had provided enough chaos, thank you very much—and moved through her daily routine without any glitches. She got up every morning, ran a couple of miles, came home, showered, ate breakfast, then sat down at her computer and worked on her work-in-progress until her belly rumbled. She’d eat lunch, then work until another hunger pain struck, heralding the end of that day in front of the computer.
Occasionally the routine would vary—she’d go wild and use her laptop—but for the most part, one day looked the same as another. She liked it that way. She really did. There was a strange sort of comfort in the monotony.
Until a new book came out—then things went to hell in a handbasket.
Faith had a new release every September, spent that entire month as well as the two following on tour to promote the book. She enjoyed meeting her readers, hearing their thoughts about her books, and she liked seeing new cities—but she hated the interviews and she hated when perceptive readers realized that her whole I’m-just-like-Zoe act was just that—an act. She swallowed, felt a smile tug at her lips as she watched a couple of squirrels argue over an acorn. No amount of success, no amount of money made up for those momentary feelings of inadequacy.
This year, she’d decided to offer something a little different—a To Catch a Thief contest—in which ten lucky fans got to spend the weekend with her and solve a mystery. Faith had run the idea past the powers that be at her publishing house, and they’d loved it. Once she’d gotten the official go-ahead, she and Trudy had designed a whodunit mystery and assigned each winner a specific character. Dossiers with instructions and a list of suspects had been sent to each guest. They would all arrive in character, ready to play.
Faith would play the part of Zoe, of course. One of the perks of being the author, she thought. Trudy was right on one score—Faith knew Zoe Wilder better than she knew herself, and to be brutally honest, she’d been equally thrilled and intimidated by the idea. A rogue wave of excitement bubbled through her, then was washed away by a monsoon of dread.
She was literally going to step into the spiked heels of her kick-ass heroine.
And if she could get over the fear of making a complete and total fool of herself, she’d think it was cool.
“Okay,” Trudy said, and from the brisk tone of her voice, she was gearing up for another verbal checklist. “Let’s run over things once more, just to make sure that we’re covered.”
Faith suppressed a small smile. “Okay.”
“Do you have a copy of the character dossiers?”
“Check.”
“The winners list and accompanying information?”
“Check.”
“A master copy of the mystery?”
Faith nodded. “Check.”
“Your ‘Zoe’ wardrobe?”
“Check,” Faith told her.
In fact, she’d shocked the crap out of her personal shopper at the local mall. Faith’s tastes tended to lean toward soft neutrals and earth tones—her closet was a sad sea of beiges, browns and rusts. Adding Zoe’s bright, slinky wardrobe had been like adding a tie-dyed T-shirt to a rack of tan turtlenecks. She’d undoubtedly look ridiculous, Faith thought—she’d gotten a wee bit carried away with sequins—but then who wouldn’t? All the characters had been exaggerated, so she wouldn’t be the only one who looked as if she’d just stepped out of a mental hospital.
She’d even gone by a local spy shop and picked up a few handy little gadgets, as well as a convincing-looking piece, though the only way she could defend herself with that gun would be to conk someone over the head with it.
“And John will be here Friday?”
“Right, and he’s outfitted as well for his part.”
Trudy chuckled. “I can’t wait to see that.”
“Me either,” Faith replied with a reluctant smile. Her editor, John Wallace, would play the part of Nash. Faith’s lips quirked. He resembled her hunky Nash about as much as she resembled Zoe, so they were even on that score. Faith heaved a small sigh.
Bears, bobcats and big scary teeth aside, she didn’t doubt for a moment that the whole experience would be exciting. Though she was anxious, she still looked forward to stepping into her alter ego’s shoes, at least for a little while. Of course, she would look forward to it more if she could shake this curious sense of foreboding. For reasons that escaped her, she felt…weird. Braced. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Which was ridiculous, when she had Type-A Trudy along. Faith cast her good friend and assistant a covert sidelong glance.
Trudy—while she had to be one of the most melodramatic people Faith had ever known—was profoundly efficient. Trudy wouldn’t stand for any sort of chaos, any flaw, any wrinkle. She was a short, spunky dynamo in pumps, and could bark orders better than a drill sergeant when the need arose.
She was worrying needlessly, Faith decided, forcing the tension from her limbs. Everything would be fine.
“Well, I think that covers everything,” Trudy finally said, having deemed them suitably prepared. “This is going to be fantastic. You’ll be fantastic.” Her lips