Harlequin Instant Seduction Competition
I've been trying to crack the editor at Harlequin for a while now. My persistence must have worked, as she's sent me a letter inivting me to participate in a competition only open to "writers who have submitted promising chapters to us."
They ask for a synopsis and one chapter. The only real rule: "seduce us."
Winning means a publishing contract. Therefore, I must win, so any comments from those who've read Harlequin novels or anything similar (e.g chick lit) are appreciated! x
Chapter One
“Okay, this is war. Mug thief, your ass is mine.” Scowling, Claire Valentine pushed back from her desk and began to pace her office, arms folded across her chest. For the third time in as many weeks, her mug, the one she’d purchased for her own use, had been swiped. From her own desk, in her own office.
In a password protected file on her Apple Mac, she had a list of suspects. She’d first wondered if it had been a mistake by the cleaners - washing the mug and then returning it to the communal cupboard? - but after quizzing them like the attorney she was, and quite possibly terrifying them in the process, she’d discovered nothing.
She pursed her lips she as she considered her current loss. After the first time, she’d resolved not to buy a mug she actually liked. But damn it, she’d liked this one. It had been large, almost pint size, and candy-pink and white striped. Superimposed on the colours was her name, printed in big black letters. It wasn’t a mug you’d mistake for your own, unless your name was Claire.
Claire Valentine was the only Claire in the building. Her list of suspects said so.
She sank back into her chair, and pulled the drawer of her desk open, scrabbling for some aspirin. As if working as an attorney for a top New York legal firm wasn’t stressful enough without working up a temper about a missing piece of crockery. She rested back against the chair’s ample headrest and rubbed her temples. She wasn’t sure how many options she had left.
Last month, she’d tried locking her mug in the top drawer of her desk. But then she’d lost the key. It had taken her a week to find it.
Briefly, she debated carrying her mug to and from work. But that was stupid. She shouldn’t have to do that. And she didn’t always have time to wash her mug and let it dry before she left the office for the day.
Her phone buzzed, and she all but growled into the handset as she snatched it up. “Claire Valentine.”
The office secretary, Julie, suppressed a chuckle. “Well, aren’t you in a good mood today?”
Claire had a feeling the aspirin she’d taken might not be strong enough. “What is it?”
“Herman White is here to see you. Can I send him in?”
Perfect. No coffee, and Herman White. Claire glanced at the window. If only she wasn’t two floors up, she’d consider shimmying out of it and taking off. But there would be no escape route right now. The reception, and therefore Herman, blocked her only exit to the outside world. “Julie, I don’t have time for this. I’ve given him all the information he needs.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Julie said, “He says it’s very important.”
“Yeah. It always is.” Claire bit down on her temper, and the annoyances of the morning. “Send him in, then.”
She spent - or, rather, wasted - the next hour showing Herman the letters she’d sent him detailing what he needed to do regarding a case about an accident he’d had in his car. She’d written to him five times. Each time, he’d called into the office and asked her to explain the letter in simpler language. Each time, she’d write him a new letter, in increasingly simple terms. She wasn’t sure she could make it any simpler without having to give up and buy him a dictionary. In all honesty, she was surprised he’d survived this long. It was almost as bad as a woman who’d come into her office wanting to sue the wind because a freak gust had made a car door close on her hand.
Herman left, and Claire sat up in her chair, thanking whatever higher power had made him leave earlier than usual. She rummaged in her handbag and plucked out a small hand mirror and a tube of raspberry flavoured lip gloss.
She looked tired. The fact irked Claire as she smoothed gloss over her lips. Tiredness was no stranger to those who worked in the law profession. It hadn’t helped that the conversation she’d had with her on and off boyfriend last night would likely be the last time she ever spoke to him, because “people don’t settle down in New York, Claire. It’s a place to have fun. And I don’t think we’re having that right now.”
Claire drew in a deep breath, considered more aspirin, and rejected it. She had the feeling Mark would have had the same response wherever they lived. But a part of her was glad. The relationship had been withering, like a thirsty plant not watered often enough.
A frank study in the mirror told her she wasn’t in need of anything but perhaps a short holiday, and a lie-in or two. Her blue eyes were still bright and alert, and her long, caramel-brown hair, recently washed, curved gently around her heart-shaped face. Another thing to feel good about was her recent splurge on the new suit she wore. It was Armani. So what if it had come from a discount store? It felt silky and soft, and the pinstripe made her feel important.
Snapping the mirror away, she felt better. The mug thief would be found.
Her phone buzzed again, and Claire answered Julie in a slightly more upbeat tone. “Yes?”
“Claire, I’ve got a woman on the phone - Mel Saunders? Says she’s your cousin. Calling from Baxter and Wit Literary Services in London?”
Claire mentally flipped through files in her head until she came to the one labelled Mel Saunders. Tall, pretty, blonde. Around thirty. Daughter of Claire’s mother’s sister, who had moved to England to marry a man she’d met on holiday. But she hadn’t spoken to Mel for at least a year. What could her cousin want?
“Put her through, Julie,” she instructed. What could be worse than Herman White?
“Hello, Claire,” Mel’s London accent floated up the receiver.
“Hi, Mel.” Claire couldn’t help but smile at her cousin’s voice. She was such a sucker for foreign accents. “How’re things with you?” she asked, deliberately curbing her curiosity about why the other woman was calling.
“Oh, good, good. I’ve been at Baxter and Wit for around a year now. Mum’s fine - she says to tell your family hi, and send her love.”
“I will do, and right back at you.” Claire opened her email inbox and began to scroll through new arrivals as she talked to Mel. Finally, when there was a long silence, she gave in. “What can I do for you? If you just called to chat, this is going to be one expensive gossip session.”
“While I do love gossip…” Claire heard the rustle of papers, and then Mel cleared her throat. “Listen, Claire, you’re an attorney, aren’t you? Family law, am I right?”
“Mainly family.” But she had been known to dip her fingers in other pies when it was required of her by the firm. “Do you need some legal advice? Because, last time I checked, they did have lawyers in England.”
Mel laughed. “You’re a hoot. Not legal advice for me. But let’s say someone was writing about New York, and wanted their main character to be a lawyer, a female one, obviously attractive-”
“Mel, you’re babbling. Lay your cards on the table already.”
Mel drew a breath. Claire heard the brief drum of fingers on a hard surface. “I always was a babbler. All right. The thing is…” Another pause. “Don’t be mad.”
In Claire’s experience, the words don’t be mad never prefaced anything good. She wished for coffee. Coffee in her own mug. “I can’t promise to not be mad.” The aspirin had worn off. “Tell me what you need.”
“Okay.” The sound of drumming fingers commenced for a moment. Claire surmised that it must be a nervous tic of Mel’s. “There’s a writer - have you heard of him? His name is Will Campbell. He writes fiction - of the suspense and adventure genre.”
Claire took a moment to search her memory files again. Will Campbell. She’d read a few of his books, one of which had caused her an uneasy night’s sleep. He was a good writer - Claire liked to read when she wasn’t working - maybe one of the best suspense writers of the past few decades.
“I’m familiar with him,” she told Mel. “But what does an English suspense writer have to do with me?”
“Well, the thing is…”
“Mel, I charge a fee for every seven minutes of my time. You are coming close to racking up a hefty bill, and I have cases to work on.” Like the one involving my damned mug. “Spit it out or hang up.”
“Well.” Her cousin blew out a breath. “You must be a good lawyer. Will came to me last week - I’m his agent.”
“You work for a literary agency. I’d gathered that much.” Claire looked around on her desk for something to play with. She liked her keep her hands busy when she talked. She finally settled on rubbing a red stress ball between her palms. She’d gotten it at a college fair when she’d volunteered to advise students who were looking to sign up to the legal career path.
“Well, quit interrupting me and I will spit it out!” Mel heaved out a sigh, but there was a smile in it. “He was all excited about setting a book in New York - he always travels around, sets each one in a different, fun, exotic location. And he dreamt up this character. A female lawyer, one that gets drawn into a murder case. Full of intrigue and romantic tension, he said. He’s brilliant at drawing you in, setting the scene.”
Claire dropped her head on the cool surface of the desk for a moment. When Mel started to speak again, she interrupted. “Mel, I can figure out the rest for myself. You sent him here, to talk to me. So he’d have someone to bounce law theories and ideas off.”
Mel seemed surprised. “Yes. Wow. You don’t sound mad. That’s good.”
Deep breaths, Claire told herself, resigned. There was no point in getting mad. Mel had obviously already promised Will Campbell her advice. The damage had been done. “I just wish you’d asked me first. Please tell me he has somewhere to stay?”
“He does,” Mel assured her. “The Tribeca Grand.”
Claire’s eyebrows shot up into her hair. She had no idea tapping away at a keyboard paid so well. “And how long do I have the pleasure of his company for?”
“Probably two weeks - though the hotel is letting him keep an option open for a third week. Once he gets the city, the plot, and the main characters in his head, he can write the rest back here.”
Two weeks. Okay. Claire relaxed. He wouldn’t be bothering her every day. Writers must spend more time at their computers than out and about, she thought. He’d probably only need bare bones from her.
“Fine,” Claire said after a long pause, reigning her thoughts in. “Fine. So, I don’t suppose I can schedule an appointment with him through you? I’ve not really got a significant amount of free-”
“Claire,” Mel interrupted, her voice bold. “There’s a reason why I was so keen to get hold of you. Will is… well, what time is it in New York?”
“Just coming up to eleven in the morning,” Claire answered. The feeling that she was about to be interrupted crept up the back of her neck.
“Well, then, he should be with you-”
Her phone buzzed twice, the signal that she had a call waiting. “Bang on time,” she murmured. “Seems you were right, Mel. He’s here.” When there was no response, she sighed, and pictured her cousin cowering over in London. “It’s fine. I’m sure I can handle whatever it is he wants. But send chocolate. And it better be the biggest box available.”
“It will be.” The relief in Mel’s voice was almost tangible. “Thanks, Claire. Thanks a lot. Bye!” And she hung up, presumably before Claire could demand anymore payment for her uninvited guest.
She accepted the other call. “Yes, Julie?”
The secretary’s voice sounded a little strange - almost dreamy. “Yes, Claire… There’s a man here to see you. I think he’s from England.” A girlish giggle escaped her, and then, as if remembering where she was, Julie subdued it. Her normal businesslike manner returned as she added, “Can I send him in?”
Claire checked the clock to remind herself of the time. It was eleven. In an hour she could cry off on an early lunch. But he likely wouldn’t stay for an hour. When talking, an hour was a long time. He’d want to explore before then, or sleep. England was, what - five hours behind New York? He’d need time to recover from the inevitable jet lag.
She pushed back from her desk and cracked open the window at the rear of her office, then ran her fingers through those few waves of her hair that always refused to bow to the power of her GHDs. As a final nod to presentation, she spritzed a small cloud of perfume and walked through it.
A moment after she set the rose quartz coloured bottle down, there was a knock at her door.
“Come in.”
She saw the doorknob turn before the door itself opened. And then her first impression was: Pirate.
His jacket was leather, and the colour of her favourite brand of dark chocolate, and the hem of it hit him mid-thigh. Underneath, she could see a crisp white shirt, apparently uncrumpled by travelling. It was open a few buttons to reveal his collarbone, and an inch of chest. The shirt was untucked, and a deep contrast to the black jeans he wore. Worn brown boots took her gaze the final inch to the floor.
She met his gaze. He was tall.
His dark hair was a little longer than most men wore theirs, pulled back into a small, stubby tail at the nape of his neck. His eyes were dark amber brown, the colour the leaves turned in Autumn, just before they fell toward ground. His mouth was closed, a thin slash in his face, the expression currently unreadable.
“Claire Valentine?”
She’d expected his accent to be James Bond crisp, so sharp the end of his sentences would be able to slice through glass. It wasn’t. His voice held a wonderfully deep baritone - but with softened edges.
“Yeah. Yes.” She walked around her desk and offered her hand. Will Campbell’s books didn’t offer an author picture on the inside back cover, so she hadn’t known what to expect.
She hadn’t expected this.
He shook her hand. His own had a wide, warm palm. Long fingers. Short, clean nails. He held her hand a fraction longer than was polite. When he let go, Claire felt an odd sensation run up her arm.
“You’re Will Campbell.” It wasn’t a question. She had no other appointments with men from England today. She stepped back behind her desk, and gestured to the two chairs that stood opposite her own. She waited for him to sit before she did. “Something to drink?” God help her, she needed coffee. Mankind shouldn’t have to suffer a working day without caffeine.
“Coffee, black. No sugar.”
She smiled at him. “It seems you read my mind.” Well, she might still waste an hour, but at least they agreed on something already. She dialled Julie. When her secretary answered with a chipper, “Yup?” she replied, “Jules, be a doll and run across to Starbucks on the corner? I need two black coffees and-” Screw it. She was hungry. Woman could not exist on coffee alone, as amazing as it was. “And a pecan Danish.” She lifted her eyebrows as Will, a silent pastry question. He lifted his hand in a universal “I’ll pass” gesture. “That’s all, Jules. Thanks.”
Claire replaced the receiver, glancing at Will beneath her lashes as she did so. For a writer, he was incredibly attractive. She bit back on the thought, surprised at herself, but it was true - writing was a sedentary position. It couldn’t involve much working out, and yet Will Campbell looked as if he was good friend with daily exercise. That, or he had a really mean metabolism.
“So.” Claire crossed her legs, joined her hands and cupped them over her knee. “You have impeccable timing, Mr. Campbell. I’d barely got off the phone with your agent when you arrived.”
He chuckled. “I believe that would indicate that she has impeccable timing. I’m sorry you weren’t prepared for my arrival.” He shifted in his seat. “Is now not a good time? I can come back.”