It was one of those things: a chance encounter filled with intrigue and temptation. He had intense, dark eyes with a powerful passion smoldering just below the surface. I was drawn to him. Next thing I knew, we were standing face-to-face, and he was saying things to me in French that made me swoon. Of course I kept my cool. I didn’t want Mr. Tall, Dark and Dangerous to know that he’d gotten under my skin.
Then, in his incredibly sexy Middle-Eastern accent, he said something to me. It was lyrical and captivating and it rhymed. “You’re the author K. S. Brooks. May I ask you a question about my books?”
“Of course,” I breathed, all sultry-like, seductively brushing my forefinger along my lower lip. Just between you and me, I was checking to make sure I hadn’t drooled on myself. Ha! My lip was dry. While he told me about his book, I imagined him riding across the desert on a fine Arab charger (thank you for that, Mick Jagger) and then when he said “I’m going to get an agent and a publisher,” I snapped back to reality. Then came the glare off his wedding ring, blinding me like a spotlight from a police car during a “routine” stop. Nice buzz-kill. Thanks a lot.
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