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Begin your story at a moment of crisis, a point in time when your character’s life is about to change forever.

— Mollie Blake’s Writing Workshop Notes

Tom Garrick couldn’t believe he was doing this. He wrote bestselling thrillers for men. His readers didn’t want emotional guff polluting the action. Women were included for the sole purpose of providing sex and sympathy while they fixed up his hero’s wounds. And to bump up the body count. He almost smiled. Almost.

"The books are still selling really well — " his publisher had told him " — but you seem to have lost that wonderful humanity the women readers loved. Get back in touch with your feminine side, Tom." The man hadn’t been making a suggestion. He’d meant it. "Women buy a lot of books."

Tom didn’t have a feminine side. Not anymore. As for spending his weekend being lectured on how to raise the "sigh" factor in his books... He said something rude, his mood deteriorating as he maneuvered his sports car toward the gothic pile that was the venue for a weekend workshop with bestselling romance novelist Mollie Blake.

He repeated his curse, stocking up against his entry into a sugar pink, expletive-free zone.

Mollie Blake was not happy as she shifted gears, grinding the motor slightly. She didn’t do signings, or talk shows, and she sure as heck didn’t do workshops. But when your sweetheart of a publisher had promised a friend, had gone down on his knees, had been desperate enough to offer the loan of his precious car because it had a phone and she’d never be out of touch...

Late, she put her foot down on the accelerator.

Tom cruised the packed car park. The venue, at least, was a bonus. The hotel had once been used as the set for low-budget horror movies and the weekend might be considerably enlivened by devising grisly literary ends for other members of the workshop. He grinned. He’d think up something really special for Ms. Mollie Blake.

Mollie’s car phone rang and her heart gave a little lift as she pressed the hands-off button to answer it. "Hi, sweetheart ... " Then, "Can you hold on a minute, darling? I need to park."

Spotting a space, Tom shifted into reverse. Maybe he could get a book out of this workshop and his grin deepened as he considered a title. A Shroud in Pink Lace?

"What the — " He was jolted out of pleasurable thoughts of mayhem and murder by an ominous thunk and the sound of breaking glass. The positive thoughts evaporated; he’d gotten it right the first time. This was going to be the weekend from hell.

His old Aston Martin was built like a tank and had scarcely sustained a scratch. But he’d hit a hundred thousand pounds worth of black Porsche and he let slip a phrase that he usually confined between the covers of his books.

"Ditto." The woman who’d been at the wheel of the Porsche didn’t look up from her examination of the damage, but her voice gave him a moment of hope. Soft, slightly husky, the sound settled low in his vitals, stirring something that his mind reached for, but just slipped past the edge of memory...

He shrugged, let it go. And fought to contain a smile. It wasn’t all bad news. Bent over the buckled rear of the car in a short, close-fitting skirt, the lady displayed a physical framework to match all that classy German engineering. Her face was hidden by a pale curtain of silver-blond hair that shimmered in the light spilling from the entrance to the hotel, but the rest of her was a feast to behold.

Her legs alone were enough to give a man straight-to-hell ideas — if a man was in the market for that kind of thing. But she was the kind of woman that any one of his heroes would be glad to have hanging off his left arm and maybe, in the interests of research....

"Tell me," she asked, pre-empting him, without bothering to look up. "Just what kind of idiot are you?" The softness had been illusory. Not that she had raised her voice. Simply endowed it with an edge of sarcasm that would have cut through steel. Well, in her place, he guessed he’d be feeling a little touchy.

"I don’t know," he said. "How many kinds are there?"

Mollie groaned inwardly. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d done untold damage to poor Jerry’s precious car, the man was a relic from some cliché-ridden romance. Ignoring the pick-chat up line, she straightened, unimpressed with Mr. Cute.

But she couldn’t escape the clichés. Even in the darkness of the car park she could see that he was tall, with mile-wide shoulders. A car door opened nearby and in the brief burst of light she saw that he was grinning, his mouth lifting at one corner in a way that left her momentarily floundering ...

"Didn’t you see me?" she snapped, irritably and diverted her gaze to his car, pushing away disturbing memories. "Doesn’t that heap of junk have a rear view mirror?"

"Heap of junk?" Now Tom was offended. "My car, madam, is a hand-built '60s classic. The finest — "

"Classic? That's another word for old, right?" Then she seemed to forget about insulting his pride and joy and reached into her car to pick up the squawking handset. "Harry, sweetheart, I'll call you in the morning. Miss you..." Kissy, kissy.

The lady was spoken for, it seemed, and for once Tom found himself wishing it were otherwise. Which didn’t improve his mood. "And what do you use your rearview mirror for, sweetheart?" he inquired softly, as she switched off the phone and gave her attention to the more immediate problem of the car. "Fixing your hair — "

"Oh, please!" Then, "But what can you expect from a man who drives an outdated car except old-fashioned, chauvinistic ideas to match?"

"Fixing your hair while you’re on the phone chatting to your boyfriend?" he concluded. "You won’t be his best girl when he sees the damage to his car."

She ignored the taunt. "Just give me your insurance details and shift that superannuated heap out of the way so that I can park," she said. "I’m going to be late for my weekend workshop."

"Workshop? You’re going to the Mollie Blake thing? Me too."

"Really?"

She sounded skceptical. He didn’t blame her.

"Absolutely. Can’t wait," he said, making a virtue out of a necessity. "So, why don’t we go inside and trade dents in comfort? I’m sure we can sort this out amicably over a drink."

"Can’t wait," she echoed, faintly.

Tom parked, grabbed his bag from the boot and they reached the hotel doorway at the same time. As he pushed the door open and held it for her, she turned on automatic to thank him, and the light caught her face.

That’s when he remembered where he’d heard the voice before. Younger... Sweeter... She’d changed, changed beyond recognition, but a man wasn’t likely to forget the voice of the woman he’d married. Even if the marriage had lasted barely long enough for the Registrar’s signature to dry on the certificate.

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