I adore rags to riches romance. You know, poor girl meets rich guy, and after some shenanigans, misunderstandings, hot sex and a few puppy dog tails thrown in for good measure, wa la! HEA.
There’s just something so appealing about a rich and powerful man who wants to spend all his lovely cash on some hard up but worthy heroine. Destitute aristocrat meets tech zillionaire, former high school princess fallen on hard times meets boy next door made good, any variation therein, and I’m sold.
My latest book is that kind of romance. Only heroine Sophie was once rich herself. She became poor quite by accident. How I ain’t gonna tell ya. Ya got to read it if you wanna know the deets. But I do have this here snippet to whet your appetite.
The Siege of Sophie is out now.
She’d sent a zillion emails looking for freelance jobs this morning, applied to every job she was even sort of qualified for and reminded all of her agency contacts that she was available for temp work. Apparently so was everyone else.
She should open the mail. But why rush? Those bitchy white envelopes with their slim plastic windows held bills not checks. Bills she couldn’t afford to pay.
She should eat. It was breakfast time. When was the last time she’d eaten? Yesterday, maybe? No wonder she was feeling so hopeless. Being hungry always made her feel like the world had turned against her.
She padded to the kitchen and put water on to boil for oatmeal. Look, a bit of luck. There was just enough left for one bowl. She sliced a banana and the last few strawberries, got out a sadly depleted sack of brown sugar, a bowl and a spoon. She was just stirring her food when the doorbell rang.
Probably a delivery for Patty. But when she peeked out she saw a white man. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. There was no clipboard and no package. He looked affluent and familiar…wait a minute. Red hair… It was Lado Marick, senior partner at a downtown law firm she’d written about recently. Her mouth went tight. Really?
She snorted. This motherfucker had a lot of nerve to show up at her crib like this. Apparently it didn’t sink in that when she stopped answering his emails, that meant she no longer wanted to be bothered.
Arrogant asshole. He was pissed at how she’d “misrepresented” his firm, and he wanted her to write a new, more accurate – or flattering – piece. She’d answered his first email nicely but firmly, explaining that members of his organization had canceled not one, not two but three in-person interviews. After that, her repeated requests for email answers to her interview questions had been at first delayed and then ignored. As had her second and third email attempts with a shorter list of requests for data points that should have been relatively easy to access had they given a shit.
His next three emails she ignored. Turnabout was fair play, after all, and what more was there to say? You had your chance, and now you’re fucked? Beat it loser, I already got paid? Each would have been honest, but Sophie held her tongue. She was a professional, if nothing else.
Now he was outside her house? Motherfucker did not know how to take no for an answer. How did he even know where she lived?
She opened the door, one brow raised.
“Hi! Sophie Clark? I’m Lado Marick. We’ve been email-”
“I know who you are. What are you doing here?”
He looked shocked by her greeting, and even though he deserved to be treated a lot worse Sophie immediately felt churlish. She opened her mouth to apologize, but then he laughed, and her jaw snapped closed.
Her eyes narrowed. She’d never had such an instant, visceral response to anyone in her life. She wanted to slap the smile off his face, then slam the door shut, preferably with his foot in the way. But before she did that, maybe she’d dot one of those big, crystal green eyes sparkling like he hadn’t a care in the world. But then, he probably didn’t. He was tall, handsome, rich and gainfully employed.
But, before she could do anything, he breezed in without waiting to be invited.
“Please excuse the intrusion. I should have called, but I wanted to talk to you in person about the article, and to ask you, to beg you, to please give us another chance.”
Smart, she thought, watching him look around. His sweet appeal and royal we, as though she wasn’t just hurting him, but others, set just the right hopeful, persuasive tone. Too bad for him she’d been manipulated by the best and was now completely immune to even high quality bullshit.
“Come in to the kitchen and sit down,” she said reluctantly. If he thought he was too good for the kitchen he could take his uninvited ass right back out the front door. “I was just making breakfast. Would you -?”
She was about to say, would you like a drink, but he plopped his ass down in front of her oatmeal.
“Oh, bloody marvelous,” he said, spooning up a large bite. “Thank you so much. I’m literally on E,” he told her, grinning as he continued to eat her food.
Sophie’s eyes almost popped out of her head.
“Right decent of you. This is just what I needed. I haven’t even had tea! I left the house at the crack to play racquetball. I won, but it was a struggle. This is heavenly.” He spooned up another large bite. “Ummm,” he groaned.
She gaped at him, at first not believing what she was seeing. Then she wilted. Great, she thought, and her stomach gave a sympathy rumble as she sat down tiredly to watch him eat.